Another Idiot with a Stupid Running Blog

California International Marathon (2011)

2011-12-15T08:47:00.000-08:00

I ran the 2011 California International Marathon (CIM), on December 4th, and figure that's as good a reason as any to finally post an update to this nearly stale blog (if, at this point, it can even be said to pass as a "blog"). I'm reasonably excited, because I believe I have, now, a pretty good baseline for a marathon performance, from which to build on and gauge future performance. In past performances, either the course was very difficult, or I wasn't feeling all that well, or my training had taken a nose-dive--it always seemed like something drastic went wrong to prevent me from turning-in an optimal performance. And--yes, I know--that's part of it. Part of running a marathon is keeping yourself prepared and fit, and learning how to deal with the variables. I'm not making excuses, just saying that I'm happy to finally have had an experience where everything came together pretty well.

The CIM is a point-to-point course extending from Folsom, CA, to the State Capitol building in downtown Sacramento. It's not just a fast course, it's a great course, in every possible way: it takes place on big, wide lanes, all the way from start to finish, there is a fairly major net elevation loss, and there are no tight turns or out-and-back legs. Beyond that, it's extremely well-organized, and seems to attract experienced marathoners, such that most runners know which pace groups in which to position themselves. There are aid stations every mile, and wonderful, enthusiastic supporters along most of the route.

I'd been signed-up for the 2010 CIM, but was not able to run it due to a non-trivial, car-induced injury (i.e., I got hit by a car). After a painful recovery, and training hard for the second half of 2011, I felt pretty sure that I was going to put-down a personal record by a fairly wide margin. My minimum goal was to finish anywhere in the 3:30s, my hope was to break 3:30, and my pie-in-the-sky fantasy was to get close to 3:15.

I might've been on-track to duck under 3:20, but the final 6 to 8 weeks of my training became a bit of a hodge-podge, unfortunately. I started fighting some sort of nasty bug toward the end of October, and my motivation on my long weekend runs really started waning. I started having a difficult time getting into my usual rhythm, and had a number of efforts wherein it just never happened--I was fighting it the whole way. So as race day got closer, I put any thought of beating 3:20 out of my mind and lined-up at the start just in front of the 3:25 pacer.

The day of the event was just glorious, weather-wise. A runner couldn't ask for more: clear blue skies, almost no hint of wind, just a bit chilly in the morning, but then it warmed-up to the low 50s for most of the race, and temperature was touching 60 degrees by the time I finished. Perfect. At the start, I was surprised at how fast I found my stride. By the end of the first mile I was feeling totally in my element and right on pace. I'd been fearful that I might have to stop for an early bathroom break, but that didn't happen and I just kept a nice, steady rhythm through mile 10. And at that point I was still feeling about as fresh as I'd been at the starting line, and was well ahead of schedule to easily break 3:30. The 3:25 pacer was still behind me.
I went through the halfway point at something like 1:41, still feeling great. Not long after that, though--maybe mile 15 or so--I started feeling the very first minor indications of muscle fatigue. Nothing major, just some initial signs that I was working.

Nothing really changed for the next 6 or 7 miles. The slight muscle fatigue continued, but was totally manageable. At mile 18, seeing that I was still comfortably in front of a 3:30 pace, I slowed the pace just a tiny bit. I ran through mile 20 still feeling more or less fine.

At mile 22, however, I had to admit to myself that things were starting to become more difficult. My movements were stiffer and less rhythmic, and the pain in my quads was no longer simply ignorable. My pace was slowing, involuntarily. I struggled to keep it up, but couldn't manage it--my efforts to maintain speed threw my rhythm off too much, and the work was too exhausting. The 3:25 pacer finally passed me. I had been expecting that to happen. I momentarily made an effort to see if I could keep pace, but the pain was just too much. I knew that, short of breaking a leg, I was going to easily meet my minimum goal of a 3:30s finish, and also had a very good shot at breaking 3:30--all I had to do was not let that 3:25 pacer get 5 minutes ahead of me.

The last couple miles were a very real struggle. The pain in my quads became rather severe at around mile 24--the pain was all I could think about, and it took all my concentration to manage it and maintain some semblance of a pace. My mile splits had started falling-off rather alarmingly, and it was tempting to look back over my shoulder to see if the 3:30 pacer was right on my heels. I passed the mile 26 marker at just under 3:26, and realized I was going to make it. I crossed the finish and had enough time to catch my breath, get a medal hung on me, wrap-up in a space blanket, and grab a bottle of water before I heard the finish-line announcer call-out the 3:30 pace group coming-in. 3:28:14 is my official time, and I'm pretty happy with it...

...for now...

I absolutely, positively know that I can do much better. I never, ever "hit the wall," in the sense that I was out of glycogen reserves, or feeling taxed in terms of energy level or "wind." I'd have had more than enough speed, if not for the crippling pain. That's what slowed me down, at the end. I just couldn't deal with it. My working theory is that it is simply a function of needing more sheer strength. I need to build more lean muscle in my legs, in order for them to more efficiently do the work that I'm asking them to do. In terms of the distance and speed, I've got it, at this point. Running 26.2 miles is no longer the immensely daunting task that it once seemed. My body needed little recovery, after the race, to feel fine again. The race was on Sunday and I ran again by Tuesday.

With additional strength in my legs, I'm pretty sure that I can get my time down to the low 3:20s, and probably break 3:20 within 6 months. 3:15 might be an achievable goal as well, but beyond that, it would be entirely new territory for me. To begin to get close to the 3-hour barrier would require--I think--an entirely new approach and level of commitment.

For the time-being, I'm happy to have run my fastest marathon yet, and to have done it feeling fairly comfortable the whole time. Here's a run-down of what I think led me to a much better marathon experience:

Less emphasis strictly on weekly and long-run mileage; more emphasis on high-quality "mid-distance" work-outs. In other words, rather than forcing myself to "go through the motions" of a 20-mile run, even when I didn't feel up to it, I instead focused on putting-in better, smarter efforts on my mid-week runs, and bumping-up the distance on some of those, to 8 or 10 miles.
And for many of those mid-distance work-outs, rather than just running the whole distance at a typical "fast tempo" pace, I did a lot of interval work (including Yasso 800s), and also did at least one "slow" run per week.
On my longer runs, I simply took speed out of the equation. I focused on just getting more comfortable with the distances, and being out on the course for long periods of time.
I did several mid-distance runs on which I attempted to "simulate" the way I feel toward the end of a marathon. My favorite way to do this is as follows: 1 one-mile warm-up, followed-on immediately by a very fast 5k. A 5k run at, say, close to 90% effort. At the end of the 5k, I would then try to hang on and run an additional 5 miles at a pace just a bit below "tempo," or a bit faster than marathon pace.
I added-in much more strength training: squats and lunges by the hundred.

For the near future, my intention is to simply keep-on doing what I've been doing, adding-in even more strength training, and probably some much more serious speed work. I think that will help me get down to around 3:15.

For the curious, I put-together a little graph of my CIM mile splits:

I'd been wanting to put something like this together for quite some time. I'm a very visual learner, and wanted to see exactly what my pacing looked like, in black and white. The graph illustrates the drop-off rather dramatically. It also shows, I think, what it really takes to be a consistent marathon runner. It's all about those last miles. It's not terribly difficult, really, to get good at putting-down 18 or 20 miles at a reasonably fast pace. Keeping that up for another 6 or 8 miles, though, is another story, and it's why I think the marathon distance is so great. It is a real test of a runner's grit and determination. The body begins to want to "shut down" after 18 to 20 miles of fast running. It's having that extra bit of mental and physical stamina that really separates the best marathoners from the weekend hacks (like me) :-)

My First "Ultra"

2011-05-29T19:13:00.000-07:00

They say that any foot race longer than a standard marathon (26.2 miles) is an "ultramarathon." By that definition, then, as of this past Sunday afternoon, I'm officially an ultramarathoner. I ran the Portland Forest Park 50 kilometer race, which is part of the Pacific Coast Trail Runs series. I say that I "ran" it, but "suffered through it" is probably a more apt description of what actually happened.

Hopefully without completely overstating the matter, I'll go on-record as saying that (in my opinion) the condition of the course itself was simply terrible. It's a given that one does, or should, expect some mud on the trails of Forest Park. This is Portland, after all, and it does tend to rain a bit, here. This Spring, in particular, has been rather wet, and the past week has seen some major precipitation. Of all the countless miles I've run out there, though, I can honestly say that I have not encountered quite so much deep, slick mud over such an extent of the trails.

Also, I must confess that I was not anticipating the route selection itself to be quite as difficult as it seemed to me at the time. The total elevation gained is (I believe) only a bit over three thousand feet. The Devil is in the details, apparently: much of that climbing is up through "trails" that, on this occasion, required a bit of hand-over-fist climbing. There was also a rather lengthy downhill section of the course that I can only describe as "harrowing." It was so steep, and the mud so slick and deep, that the only way down was to sort-of side-step down while clinging to ferns and grass. Toward the bottom of that hill (cliff?), in fact, I simply had to just skid the rest of the way on my butt.

Suffice it to say that the route, combined with the conditions of the day, served to make the race no mere "trail run." I would describe it more aptly as an "ultra endurance event." At any rate, however, I'll do my best to divulge the "lessons learned" from my very first ultramarathon.

First, and foremost, I'd simply been imagining 50k as "a regular marathon plus 5," and that turned-out to be just simply wrong. My plan had been to just run a wee bit slower than my typical marathon pace--i.e., to have just enough gas left in the tank to eke-out that last 5 miles after doing a four-ish hour marathon. Verdict: nope. That's not the right way. Not for me, anyway. My usual race-day tendency, you see, is to head off the line a little fast, then pull-back to cruise-control, and then, finally, to attempt a surge toward the end. I "bookend" my races with speed, in other words. Sort-of a "modified negative split."

At the finish-line.

Those strategies did not really work-out very well for me. I realize, now, I'd have been far better-served by the opposite approach: a very slow, leisurely start, a bit of a push in the middle, and then an easy cruise to the finish. Putting on too much speed at the start simply left me without a sufficient reserve of strength to get through the very difficult conditions of those "middle" miles with enough mental resolve to kick through the final stretch. If the event had simply been a 31-mile road race, my approach may have worked for me. But with the rough conditions of the trails, and the climbing involved, I believe I've learned that the best "strategy" is--to a large extent--simply to throw the concept of strategy out the window and adjust as conditions and your body demand.

Which brings me to lesson number two: that the "enemy," in an "ultra" event is not necessarily the sheer distance involved. Rather, it's the time spent on the course. My theory is that in a "regular" marathon, wherein (depending on your ability) you are only out on the course for 3 or 4 hours, you are not expending effort for a long enough period of time for the body to truly begin to rebel and enter (what I'll call) "crisis mode." And, in my opinion, this mode is quite different and distinct from the traditional hitting of the proverbial mile 20 "wall" of the 26.2 mile road race. After a certain period of relentless, continued effort, the muscles themselves just simply begin to demand rest. It's not a caloric deficit problem, as near as I can tell. It is, rather, a function of how efficient your given muscle mass can work over such-and-such period of time, given such-and-such type of effort.

And that is my third lesson-learned: my overall "endurance" level seems to be fine; it's my sheer strength that's lacking. I never felt, in other words, as if I was too weary, overall, to continue. In terms of baseline cardio-vascular fitness, I had energy to spare. But in terms of muscle strength: not so much. At around 35 or 40 kilometers, my legs just simply decided (without my consent) that they'd had quite enough, and started to cramp-up. And muscle cramps are an extremely atypical problem for me--I don't recall ever having that particular problem in any previous events or in training. My belief is that I simply need to spend more time with strength training and build those leg muscles.

Last, but not least, I will admit the following: this event humbled me. I've had to cut my own opinion of how tough I really am roughly in half. I just didn't have the mental stamina to push when I really needed or wanted to. I let down my resolve and walked it up far more hills than I'd have liked. In short, all those hard training miles out on the cold, muddy, miserable trails have yet to put the thick rhino-skin I need to get through something like a "real" ultra-endurance event like a 50-miler or 100k (which is my goal).

The Merrell Trail Glove

On another note, I wanted to comment on my choice of footwear: the Merrell Trail Glove. I reviewed these shoes in a previous post, and must add at this point that my enthusiasm for them has only increased after wearing them tough 50k trail race. I never had to think about my feet--not once--over the entire distance. Not a single moment of discomfort, no awkward rubbing sensations, no "hot spots," or even the slightest hint of blister formation. In other words: absolutely perfect. Not only in terms of comfort, but also in terms of handling the conditions of the trail. The "balance" between foot protection, shoe flexibility, toe-box room, and traction is absolutely ideal. There were many points along the course at which the trail was extremely technical: very narrow and steep, with a combination of slick, exposed rocks; sharp and protruding small stumps; and thick, heavy mud. More than once, I my footing begin to slip in these areas. The flexibility and toe-room of the Trail Gloves, however, allow the foot to respond very quickly, thus allowing corrections that prevent a slight misstep from turning into harrowing stumble and/or fall.

For the curious, this stomp through the wilds of Forest Park took me just about exactly six hours to finish. I'm not even remotely proud of that time, but I also don't really care all that much. By my watch, I spent well over half an hour luxuriating at the four excellent aid stations. I also probably spent a good 10 or 15 minutes to stop and stretch along the way. It's my first ultra--I'm not sweating my finish time. Like I said: I have been humbled, and am just glad to have finished.

A huge shout-out, BTW, to the organizers of this event! The course was extremely well-marked, and the aid stations were simply superb.

Merrell Trail Glove: The Perfect "Barefoot" Running Shoe?

2011-05-16T18:54:00.000-07:00

I've been wanting to post my impressions of a shoe that seems to be on my feet, these days, for the majority of my running: the Merrell Trail Glove. My progression toward "minimalist" running has occurred over the course of a couple years, and has looked something like this:

Gradual move from stability-control to "neutral" trainers
Transition to the Nike Free 5.0
Eventual move to the Nike Free 3.0
Occasional runs in the Vibram FiveFinger KSO
Most short- to mid-distance (up to 15 mile) runs in the FiveFingers; longer runs in the Free 3.0s

That progression worked well for me, and has definitely served to make me a better, stronger, faster runner. My "pose" is vastly improved, my leg motion is quicker and far more efficient, and my feet feel like they're made of cast iron. I've enjoyed the overall feel of running in the FiveFingers--there is definitely something to the notion of allowing the feet (and especially the toes) freedom to move as they naturally "want" to, letting your body do the work of forming a correct stride, rather than relying on fancy shoe technology do it for you.

On rough trails, however, it can be a little tough-going in the FiveFingers. It's not an issue of support or traction; simply that with nothing but an outsole between your bare foot and the ground, there just isn't quite enough protection against things like sharp rocks. And this is truly an issue where I do a lot of my long mileage: the rough, technical trails of Portland's Forest Park. I know that the "true," hardcore minimalists out there might say that I'm just doin' it wrong or that I just need to give myself more time to better learn to step lightly and with more agility, but I have to disagree. There are long stretches of trail where it is simply not possible to avoid stepping down with full weight onto the edges of sharp rocks. To my mind, it's one of those circumstances wherein some sort of more "shoe-like" foot protection actually makes a lot of sense.

My solution for a long while had been to run my long trail miles in the Nike Free 3.0. That worked fine, but there are actually a lot of things about the whole Free series that I've come to rather dislike. Of particular note, the toe-box is just to darn narrow. It's very much like a "traditional" trainer, in that regard, and thus does not allow for the natural "splaying" of the toes. Additionally, I feel (after many miles in them) that the Free series just gets it wrong in terms of where the support and cushioning is placed--there's too much arch support and heel cushioning, to be specific. I'd much rather just have a nice, firm, uniformly-thick, protective outsole, with a very lightly-padded, minimal insole--just enough to dampen the effects of stepping on those darn rocks.

The shoe I just described is (ta-da!) the Merrell Trail Glove. I will say, without hesitation, that it is, to date, the best running shoe I've ever had the pleasure to wear. It delivers precisely the experience I am looking for: the ability to run with a natural, "barefoot" stride, without having to think or worry about hurting my foot on the rough stuff. It's perfect: nice, wide toe box, comfortable "glove like" fit (they got the name right), and just enough padding to very effectively protect the foot without throwing unnatural support under the arch or heel. The shoe just feels great on the foot, too. I wear it as intended, without socks, and have absolutely no issues with "hot spots," blisters, or any sort of discomfort due to odd placement of seams and what-not. They are the first running shoe I've worn wherein I can honestly say that I "forget" they are on my feet at all.

I've put about 500 miles on my Trail Gloves, at this point, including two consecutive half marathon PRs. They have become my footwear of choice for all my running, at this point, and I see no sign of that changing. I am planning to run the Forest Park 50km trail run (part of the Pacific Coast Trail Runs series) in these shoes, on May 29th. My hope is to turn-in a time of around 5 hours... We'll see how that goes...

The "Tringle"

2011-05-09T18:48:00.000-07:00

As an avid bike "hacker," I've had a particular project rolling-around in the back of my mind for quite some time: a three speed all-around rig based on a triple crank and single cog. Sounds a little strange, I know, but to me it just seemed like a natural thing to try, if for nothing else, just to see if it would work. My main rationale for it was to try to get as large a gear range as possible (say, 22 teeth difference) out of a minimal set of actual steps.

I've based the set-up on a Surly "Cross-Check" frame, but swapped-out the stock fork for the one that is meant for their "Long Haul Trucker" frame. The LHT fork provides the "lowrider" accessory mounts and slightly more rake. While the bike is built-up from a diversity of components, I seem to have (in an unplanned manner) ended-up adopting quite a number of items from the Paul Components line-up of excellent products.

Of particular note, the Paul "Melvin" chain tensioner. While rather pricey, I must say that this is a spectacular little gadget. It is the only currently manufactured and available dual pulley chain tensioner that I know of. Short of putting an actual derailleur to purpose as the chain tensioner (and what's the fun in that?!?), the Melvin was my only option. I love it, because it allows for fine adjustment to a very accurate chain-line. Also, it wraps a whole helluva lot of chain. The Paul website says it will handle up to a 20 tooth difference. I've got a 22 tooth difference on this bike, and it's handling that just fine. I suspect I could go 23 or even 24. But that would be silly. Also of note, due to the dual-pulley design, the response of the unit is quick enough to allow for very smooth shifting.

I've also used the Paul "WORD" rear hub and "Fhub" front hub for the wheels. The WORD rear hub is worth specific mention because of its ultra-wide flange-spacing (which makes for an exceptionally strong wheel). The hubs are great quality, and a bargain, in my opinion. The Tektro cantilever brakes are actuated with Paul "Love" levers and--yes--I do love them. Once you use them, nothing else will do, it's as simple as that. All other brake levers look hideous by comparison, in my humble opinion. Finally, I've also got a couple Paul "Gino" light mounts. These work great, allowing the positioning of "standard" handle-bar mounted lights in better locations. I've got my headlight, for example, mounted down on one of the lowrider rack mounts on the fork.

The porteur-style front rack is from Velo-Orange, as are the seatpost and bottle cage. The stem and handlebar are Nitto. The cranks are a classic old Sakae SX (110mm bolt-circle) set that I polished-up to a mirror finish. The saddle is a Brooks B-17.

Three speeds, with the range I have on this bike, seems to be the perfect set-up for so many different riding conditions. I've got a low enough gear that I can get up steep hills or over rough terrain with a load, and a high enough gear that I can get up past 20 miles-per-hour on the flats at a comfortable cadence. The middle gear is for cruising-along at low speed, trails, and easy hills. It works great. I love this bike.

There are a few more photos of the bike available in my Flickr photo set.

(Belated) Portland Marathon Report

2010-12-13T18:38:00.000-08:00

I don’t know if the date makes it somehow auspicious, but the Portland Marathon was run, this year, on “10-10-10” (i.e., October 10, 2010). I’d had to make a tough decision and not run in 2009 due to some fairly minor foot issues I was having at the time. This year I signed-up a bit at the last minute, and as the date drew closer I was slightly regretful of having done so. I had run San Francisco in late July, kept training pretty hard on the trails of Forest Park, and was started to feel a sense of “training fatigue.” In addition, I think I had been starting to fight-off some sort of cold-like bug that I just couldn’t shake. So with all that, as the race date approached, I was feeling less then enthused.

The day of the Portland Marathon was (in typical Portland fashion) rainy, albeit calm and perfectly fine temperature-wise. I honestly don’t mind running in the rain at all (and in some ways actually prefer it), so that was not a factor. But for some reason, I just didn’t feel myself, and just could not get myself “psyched” for the event. While standing there, in the rain, in my corral, I had the distinct sensation that I was merely “going through the motion.” And, interestingly-enough, within about the first mile after the start I could just sense (somehow) that I was going to have a very, very tough go of it that day.

On a run of that length, usually by about 10k or so my body has warmed-up, I’ve hit my stride, and things are clicking-along well and I’m enjoying myself. Instead, however, I just couldn’t find my pace—my splits were all over the place, and I alternately felt either breathless or awkwardly slow. Still, though, I seemed to remain positioned about right to hit my desired time of 3:35. By roughly the halfway mark I my mood actually picked-up a bit and I started to think that perhaps I would finish reasonably well, after all. So I simply focused on keeping my pace and dug-in to just repeat my performance for the remaining 13.1 miles.

And that strategy more or less worked-out until I hit the approach to the Saint John’s Bridge. Living in north Portland, I have run that approach countless times, so I know exactly what it’s about and how to do it. For some reason, though, on the day of the Marathon, the Bridge approach just felt somehow “different.” I think I probably attacked it too aggressively, or something. And that, combined with the succession of little dips, rises, twists, and turns in the course that immediately follow the Bridge crossing, somehow really altered my ability to stay on pace. I was still feeling relatively decent up until about mile 18 or so, but then everything started to go wrong all at once.

Of particular note, I started having rather serious stomach issues. I suddenly felt very “crampy” and nauseous, and just simply rather “drained” and hollow. Additionally, the usual leg stiffness and full-body pain hit me very, very hard quite suddenly. Combine that with an already low-level of resolve to push through, and it all added-up to a severe decline in my pace. I felt that I was dealing, on top of everything, with a major fuel deficit, so attempted to pound-down a “GU” pack at around mile 20. That turned-out to be the wrong medicine, as by mile 21, or so, I had to duck into a port-o-let because that GU wanted to come right back up (and did). Standing there in that stall feeling cold, wet, weak, sick, and spent, I don’t think I’ve ever had a stronger compulsion to drop-out of a race. (The course lay-out is such, BTW, that mile 21 is no more than a couple miles from where I live). Somehow, though, I reached the conclusion that I’d never forgive myself for dropping-out of a marathon with only 5 miles left to go.

So I gathered whatever strength I had left and kept going. I knew I was well behind my 3:35 pace at that point, but was still ahead of the 3:40 pacer. Some small glimmer of hope still flickered inside my head as I took off running again. But within another mile, I realized that my body just didn’t have any reserve left, and my pace just slid downhill at an alarming rate. And as it dropped, the pain levels soared. I watched the 3:40 pacer pass me just before mile 23 as if I was standing-still. There was just nothing I could do to respond—there was just no possible way I could increase my pace to keep up. My legs just felt like lead blocks, and my stomach was threatening to empty the remainder of its content. My pace continued to drop agonizingly off, and the easy little ramp up to the Broadway Bridge (at mile 24+) felt to me like climbing Mount Everest. The 3:45 pacer went flying by me just after mile 25, and I basically “walk-jogged” the last half mile of the race, for a dismally-depressing finish of about 3:48. I’ve never been happier to cross a finish line and have a race over-with.

Now, in retrospect, I feel that while I had a terrible day, 10-10-10 taught me a number of valuable lessons, so I am glad to have had the experience. Among those lessons learned, the most important include:

1. The pre-marathon “taper” is actually kinda important. I’d run a full Lief Ericksson Drive out-and-back (about 22.5 miles) the weekend before the race, and that just wasn’t a good idea. By that time I had already been feeling totally drained and gutted from too much hard training, and I’d have been far better served by resting and—instead—doing a nice, easy little 10-15k tempo trot. I realize, now, that to run a marathon at your best possible pace, you need about two weeks of scaled-back mileage and training-level before the event.

2. If you want to turn-in a decent performance, your mental state is rather important (duh). You can’t just “go through the motions.” Until the day of the Race Expo, I’d hardly given the Portland Marathon a moment of thought. I just sort-of ignored it and assumed I’d just go out and run it and have a decent day out. But that is, apparently, not the way it works. It is important to devote a little time to think about the race—to prepare mentally and emotionally, and assume the mindset of being determined to tackle a challenge. Anything less, and it’s very difficult to retain the resolve to push through the pain of miles 18 to 26.

3. Every mile counts. If you are aiming for a particular time, you need to be very aware of your pacing over the entire distance of the event, paying very keen attention to the first and last miles. My pace for the first 10k was slightly erratic, but then I felt relatively decent so went fast over the “middle” miles (roughly 7 to 17). That was a very bad idea, as it meant that the problems I had toward the end of the race were compounded by being totally spent. I’d have been far better served by watching my pace more closely at the beginning of the race, then keeping something in reserve for the middle stretch, perhaps even dropping-back a bit behind the 3:35 pace, and then kicking it into higher gear for the last 10k.

In terms of the Portland Marathon itself, I have somewhat mixed feelings. As my “hometown” marathon, I feel obligated to say good things about it. And, truly, it is one of the most well-organized, well-attended, and fun running events in which I’ve participated. The course, however, is not good. This just has to be said, because there exists, in Portland, the potential to create an absolutely fabulous running course. The existing route, however, takes runners through some of the (arguably) more lackluster and ugly parts of town, including a demoralizing out-and-back straightaway through the not-exactly-lovely northwest rail & industrial district. The route actually crosses railway lines that are operational during the race—I personally was stopped at a crossing and was forced to wait for nearly three minutes for a train to go by(!).

It’s my opinion that the Portland Marathon route is far too heavily focused on two things: 1) making it a “closed loop” course; 2) crossing the “landmark” Saint John’s Bridge. On the first point, Portland is small enough, and getting-around convenient enough that the course does not absolutely need to be a loop. The route should, instead be an end-to-end race, with start and finish lines set-up, perhaps, around public transportation hubs. On the second point: yes, the Saint John’s bridge is lovely and, yes, it’s a landmark. But it is flung so far off to the north end of the city that to include it in a closed-loop course means that so much of the city has to be ignored. And Portland is a city that I think is, in character, somewhat like Chicago, in that it’s a town with an identity focused on neighborhoods, rather than landmarks. Portland has dozens of wonderful neighborhoods, each with a distinctive falvor, on both sides of the river, and the Marathon route pays nearly no mind at all to this fact. I would rather see a route that cuts through sections of all the major “anchor” neighborhood areas: Downtown, Chinatown, The Pearl, Park Blocks, Sellwood, Ladd’s, Brooklyn, Woodstock, Sunnyside, Alberta, Mississippi, Overlook, Saint John’s, etc. I cannot see any reason why the course couldn’t pass through ALL these areas and STILL cross the Saint John’s Bridge, if it were to be an point-to-point race rather than a closed loop.

Side note: as a fun little "exercise" for myself, I put my background in cartography to work and quickly tried to come-up with an alternate Portland Marathon route. If anyone is interested in seeing what I came-up with, you can view my (Fantasy) Portland Marathon Route on MapMyRun.com. I spent perhaps 15 minutes on the effort, and my course covers all the major Portland neighborhood areas, and includes a Saint John's Bridge crossing.

Running a Marathon in the Nike Free 3.0

2010-08-02T09:14:00.000-07:00

If you've read any of my past dispatches about running, you know that for a while (close to a year) now I have been attempting to transition from a "traditional" cushioned and motion-controlling running shoe to much more minimal footwear. I began the progression by opting for a stability-neutral and (relatively) lightly-cushioned shoe (the Brooks Glycerin) for most of my running. After becoming more or less accustomed to the feel of that shoe, I decided to give the Nike "Free" series a try.

The Free is touted as a shoe that provides minimal cushioning and support, allowing the foot to flex naturally, thereby "simulating" near barefoot running. The underlying concept is Nike's "shoe scale" numbering scheme, with a "0" being equivalent to barefoot, and "10" equivalent to a fully-supportive and cushioned shoe. I began running with the Free "5.0" one day per week, at first, and gradually moved toward doing all my shorter runs in the 5.0. And, right from the get-go, I definitely liked the feel of the shoe. It really does feel much different than a "normal" running shoe. The effort of running, in the Free, involves more muscles (particularly the calves) and you definitely feel your foot getting stronger and more resilient. Side-note: if I had not already been running in the Brooks Glycerin, I'd have opted for the Nike Free 7.0. But in looking at that shoe, it seems very much like a more traditional trainer, so I opted to head right into the 5.0.

Over the course of about 6 weeks I transitioned more or less full-time to the Free 5.0 while, at the same time, bringing a more true "barefoot" experience into the mix with the Vibram FiveFinger KSO shoe/sandal/foot glove (or what-have-you). In other words, I continued the gradual push toward working ever more minimal footwear into my training mix. Once I was completely comfortable in the 5.0, I started doing one short run per week in the FiveFingers, while staying in the 5.0 the rest of the time.

About six weeks ago I decided to purchase a pair of the Nike Free 3.0 shoes, and started working those into the mix. Within a very short period of time (all of a couple weeks), I completely ditched the 5.0 in favor of the 3.0 for my longer runs. The FiveFingers, at that point, were on my feet for nearly all my shorter runs. At first I wasn't sure that I liked the 3.0. It has a much different feel--particularly at foot-strike--than does the 5.0. The 3.0 not only has very little heel cushion, the cushioning actually tapers in reverse, if you will, toward the back of the heel. This turns-out to be very good medicine, indeed, for a heel-striker like me. No shoe has gone further toward getting me to be more of a mid-strike runner, and the effect is great--my stride is definitely becoming more efficient and light.

Still, though, because the shoe was so new to me, I had my doubts as to whether I ought to actually run my first marathon (San Francisco, last weekend) in the 3.0. By that point I had something like 100 to 200 miles in the 3.0, which is substantial but obviously not a huge base of experience. So I had thought that I would probably stick with the 5.0. At the last minute, however, I made a rash decision and wrapped the timing band onto the 3.0, ready to go for broke and put my money where my mouth is...

The result? A non-issue. I don't think I ever even began to pay attention to my feet at any point during the event. My feet never felt noticeably tired, and I never felt like the shoe was innappropriate for the terrain, or my pace. If the shoe slowed me down at all it could not have been by much, as my rookie time of 3:44:54 is likely about as good as I had any right to expect, given my training (and let's face it: age).

With that experience behind me, what I am beginning to realize is that my transition to minimalist running is very nearly complete (or, rather, nearly as complete as I want it to be). My intent is to do the majority of my running in the Vibram FiveFingers, while remaining in the Free 3.0 for my long (>15 miles) training runs and events. I am scheduled to run the Portland Marathon in early October, and not sure whether I will attempt it in the FiveFingers. At this point I doubt I will--but who knows? Perhaps I will make another rash, last-minute decision...

San Francisco Marathon

2010-07-30T14:01:00.000-07:00

Well, okay, I've done it. Twenty-six miles and two-hundred-eighty-five yards of non-stop running (except for that 3 minute potty break on the north side of the of the Golden Gate Bridge). I ran my first "real" marathon event on Sunday, July 25th: The San Francisco Marathon. I've been building up to it for what seems like forever, and it's been an interesting odyssey of struggles with injury and a commitment to minimalist footwear. Over the past several months, having overcome the injury issue (hip bursitis), everything has started to "click" for me, in terms of running. I've been feeling strong, and all the benefits of minimalist/barefoot running have really started to come home for me. I have become quite comfortable with longer distances, and was becoming increasingly optimistic about my prospects to put-up a decent rookie time.

Even so, however, I was feeling daunted by the distance and the difficulty of the San Francisco course, going into the event. I really did not know what to expect. On recent, longer training runs I have been feeling anywhere from perfectly fine to totally wiped at 20 miles. So I knew that anything was possible. I might've finished in perfectly respectable form, or I might've self-destructed at mile 21. So I was nervous. Unnecessarily so, as it turned out, I am pleased to report.

The San Francisco Marathon starts runners in staggered "waves," based on self-predicted finish times. I assigned myself a fairly conservative estimate of under 4:15 (wave 5), which gave me a start time of 6:02 AM. I passed the 4:15 pacer almost immediately after the gun, and never saw him again. I was able to hold a very steady pace of about 8:35/mile for the event, and can honestly say that I felt very comfortable through the entire distance. Even at mile 20, where one is supposed to hit the proverbial "wall," I felt okay. If anything, I'd have to say that I felt a bit of a lift at that point. I finished the race in just under my wished-for time of 3:45, with an official time of 3:44:54.

I thought that just about everything about the San Francisco Marathon was fantastic. It is a very well-organized event with a great course that, while very challenging, is nowhere nearly as difficult as it could be, given the hills throughout town. The aid stations were all very well stocked and staffed with enthusiastic, helpful volunteers. Getting to run the very road-bed of the Golden Gate bridge is, obviously, a huge highlight, and I am thrilled to have been part of that spectacle! Opportunities like that don't present themselves every day. The wonderful meanders through Golden Gate Park are relaxing and lovely, and it's also a pretty neat experience to go flying down the streets of the Haight-Ashbury district.

I think that San Francisco is a fantastic destination as a first-time marathon. Yes, the course is challenging, but if you have trained properly for the distance, the challenges are not going to present any insurmountable difficulties. You may be a tad slower than you would be on flat course, but look at it this way: the improvement you'll show on your second marathon will be that much greater, not just for running a faster course but also for having challenged and beaten San Francisco! (I'm not even sure that makes any sense, but I'm going with it anyway).

A special shout-out is definitely in order to the SF Police, and volunteers, for keeping the event moving smoothly through town. It can't be easy to keep everything organized and sane in a city as busy and crowded as San Francisco.

Barefoot Backpacking?

2010-07-21T09:28:00.000-07:00

I happened across a fairly interesting article about Vibram FiveFingers in Backpacker Magazine:

http://www.backpacker.com/gear-zone-vibram-five-fingers-kso-trek-/gear/14198

The reason I found the article interesting is that I have been considering the possibility of embarking on my next backpacking trip in naught but my pair of Vibram FiveFinger KSOs for footwear. I have been steadily heading toward footwear minimalism in running, hiking, and backpacking for a while now. For backpacking I rarely now wear anything heavier than a sturdy trail-running shoe. I'm not quite sure, however, about the prospect of carrying a pack over potentially difficult, rugged terrain. I'd sure hate to get myself into a situation where it would be impossible to move on due to lack of adequate foot protection.

At this point that's the extent of my thoughts on the matter, but it does sort-of drive to the heart of some further opinions I have about the whole barefoot/minimalism debate (if that's what it is). My prevailing opinion, in a nutshell is basically: while I believe whole-heartedly in the concept of going as minimal as absolutely possible, there are at the same time legitimate reasons to want additional protection and support, and these reasons aren't necessarily just the "unnatural" result of weak feet and legs. I'll post something more about this opinion in the future, but for right now I just wanted to re-post the article...

Barefoot Update

2010-07-16T09:35:00.000-07:00

With the San Francisco Marathon about a week away, I thought I'd throw out one more pre-race update on how the transition to barefoot/minimal footwear running is proceeding. In a word: great!

To re-cap things a bit, it isn't my goal to become a true "barefoot" runner. I don't want the support or cushion of a traditional shoe, but at the same time I do prefer to have a bit of protection on my feet. And to that end I have taken to wearing the Vibram FiveFingers. I started wearing them about 8 months ago, initially just once per week, on a shorter, slower training run. At the same time I began moving to much more minimal shoes for my longer, regular training runs. That progression went from a neutral (but cushioned) shoe from Brooks, to the Nike Free 5.0, and now--most recently--to the Nike Free 3.0 (which is one of the most minimal running shoes on the market). At present, I am doing all my running, save for the longest (18+ miles) training runs, in the Vibram FiveFingers. Longer runs are done in the Nike 3.0.

In general, training-wise: I feel like I am continuing to see the benefits in terms of better overall training. My calves, in particular, are stronger than they've ever been, and I feel a very real, tangible difference in my ankles and feet. It is hard to put into precise language just exactly what I mean by that "difference," so I'll label it as an increase in confidence, and a generally better "awareness" of my pose and stride. Without waxing too metaphysical about it, I feel like there is a much better connection between my mind and what my body is doing. When I place my foot I feel as if there is a much more nuanced response from my whole body, as it now automatically makes micro-adjustments to maintain the most efficient pose and stride. And my horrendous tendancy to strike hard at the heel is most definitely slacking.

Speed-wise: when I first started the transition, I did notice that my pace took a bit of a dip. I am not at all sure how to explain this. In the last few months, I've steadily increased my speed to the point where I can now run in the FiveFingers at roughly the same pace that I was running in cushioned shoes 6 to 8 months ago. In the Nike 3.0 I believe I'm now just a bit faster than I was at that point--but that's more likely a result of having trained pretty hard over the last six months, rather than the shoe.

Pain-/injury-wise: right around the time I began the transition, I had a recurrence of severe pain in my right hip and upper quad area. An MRI revealed the problem to be a bad bursitis of the soas muscle. A couple visits to a physical therapist, and subsequent patient dedication to some prescribed strengthening exercises, and the problem has completely cleared, to the point where I cannot even recall what the pain felt like. It's really wonderful to be free of it. I have absolutely no idea as to whether the minimalist transition had anything at all to do with the healing process--my hunch is that it likely did not. But I think it is reasonable to assume (and my physical therapist entirely agrees) that at the very least, the transition process isn't responsible for causing the issue or keeping it from healing. What I am sure about is that several other minor pain complaints--in the knees, hips, back, and toes--have all begun to wane as I've run more miles in the FiveFingers. In particular, a very bad pain "hot spot" that I had under my second toe on the left foot has entirely disappeared.

In terms of negatives: not too many to report. My main complaint is in regards to the FiveFingers, in which I still have some problems with blisters developing. I've started using a foot-specific variant of the Body Glide product, and this seems to help, but I still end-up with some blister formation on the balls of my feet. I don't know if there's any solution to this or not. The only complaint I have about the Nike Free is that the deep "split" in the reverse waffle-patterning on the sole is really adept at collecting small bits of gravel. I've had to stop, on a run, to remove bits.

It seems to me that the whole "barefoot running craze" is beginning to hit critical mass, with a lot of runners now calling it out as a "fad." All I can say in response to that is I am going to continue to evaluate things based on my own experience. And that, to date, has been overwhelmingly positive. I've never felt better about running, and really do feel comitted to the barefoot/minimal way--and that is coming from someone who is very fad-averse and resistant to change. I do think that there will always be a place for supportive, cushioned shoes for running. There are plenty of legitimate reasons as to why a person might need them. In general, though, I think that over the long haul the running shoe industry will change, such that people are directed toward the most minimal option they can handle; products like the FiveFingers will be pervasive.

Three is All You Need

2010-06-28T15:11:00.000-07:00

This post is a follow-up to my earlier dispatch regarding:

minimalism in fitness and active pursuits.

I will preface this entire post with the caveat that every last one of my observations, here, are based solely on my own experience, and are mere reflections of the cursory opinions I've developed through that experience. Nothing, here, is based on anything like actual, scientific evidence or even the experience of others. But I've had this particular distillation of ideas rolling around inside my head for a while, so for whatever it's worth, I wanted to throw it out there for others to contemplate. That said, here we go...

I think that many people would agree that there are three essential components that comprise overall physical fitness--at least as it relates to athleticism. These three components are:

aerobic & cardio-vascular capacity;
muscle strength (& endurance);
flexibility (& balance).

Some appropriate combination of these three components seems to be vital in achieving any sort of advanced state of overall fitness and well-being. No one of these components seem (to me) to be any more important than the others. Rather, they seem to work together in such a way that they compliment each-other. And it's only when they are in balance, it seems, that the benefits of any one area are fully realized. There is a sort of "synergy" achieved with that balance.

In thinking about the ways in which I, personally, strive to keep that balance in my own life, it struck me that for all intents and purposes, my efforts are focused around exactly three exercises. What's really struck me as sort of a revelation is that all three exercises can be done without a single piece of equipment; they are sort-of "primal" in that regard, being activities/actions that seem almost intuitive in their simplicity. If I were forced to select three--and only three--exercises that I would be allowed to do for the rest of my life, these are the ones that I would choose. It is my opinion that a person could keep themselves in a very high level of overall physical fitness and well-being by performing nothing but these three exercises. And here they are:

Running. Perhaps this is the most primal of any sort of "athletic" human activity. It seems fundamental to our nature, almost, with the ability to do it hard-wired into our instincts. Some might say that swimming provides a better full-body workout, and it's possible that is true. For my money, though, I don't believe running can be beat for the pure efficiency of building aerobic & cardio-vascular capacity, adding general endurance, and simply attuning the mind & body for perseverance in the face of hardship. I have engaged in other primarily aerobic/cardio activities (swimming, cycling) at reasonably high levels of athleticism, and in my experience nothing compares to running for being able to "re-engineer" the body. There is something about training for running long distances that really operates to create that ellusive mind/body connection. For me, no exercise has proven to be quite as "addictive" as running, and I believe that to be a telling aspect of the experience. My body seems to crave it, now; to require it in order to remain poised and ready for life.

Push-ups. Done properly, with mindfulness directed toward good form, the basic "mil-spec" push-up is arguably the "perfect" overall strength-training exercise. And it isn't just arm/chest strength that I am talking about. It only takes about thirty seconds of simply holding the basic starting position to experience first-hand just how many muscles are involved in executing a proper push-up. There are more "direct" means for achieving results in muscle building and definition. Resistance- and weight-training exercises, however, are usually very focused on targeting a specific muscle group. Push-ups can put nearly every major muscle group to work, and provide the added benefit of making them work together, at once, to achieve good form, balance, and graceful, fluid movement. No equipment is needed to execute a push-up, and there are literally dozens upon dozens of variations that can be added to one's repertoire.

Deep forward bend. Otherwise known as the "uttanasana" pose in Yoga, with the "oot" (ut) part of the word translating as (basically) "intense." What, indeed, could be more intense--from a flexibility standpoint--as bending yourself directly in half? I learned this stretch while studying traditional Chinese martial arts and can say, without reservation, that training myself to do it properly (with knees nearly locked, maintaining a straight spine, and pulling the top of the head nearly to the feet) changed my life. The training process is long, painful, and difficult, and it is an enormous mental challenge to remain focused and relaxed while doing it, with the body in correct alignment. I know dozens of other Yoga poses and stretches; to me, though, this one is the king of them all. The challenge of this pose may diminsh once you achieve the flexibility in your back, calves, and hamstrings necessary to easily assume the position. The benefits, however, never seem to fade. There is something about this pose that seems to have an almost otherworldly capacity to re-invigorate the body and dispel negative thoughts and emotions. There seems to be some manner of very profound "inward turning" of the mind that is achieved from really learning to relax and breath in this position, and the overall health benefits are amazing.

And that's it. Again, it is my strong belief that a person could maintain not just good health but an exceptionally high level of athleticism by performing nothing but the above three exercises. Which isn't to suggest that as an actual prescription. My analysis, here, is intended only to underline that well-being and fitness is something that can (and should) start from "the inside out." It does not require sophisticated (or expensive) equipment, nor are advanced programs and training regimens needed. Taking care of our bodies can be boiled-down to an incredibly streamlined level of simplicity and absolute minimalism--at least at its core.

From there, of course, we should be pleased to have a vast array of other wonderful activities and techniques open to us. And I would be one of the first to encourage one to include activities such as swimming, cycling, team sports, some manner of (mutually-beneficial) martial activity, rowing/paddling, backpacking, etc. For me, however, it is simply nice to know how easy and simple it is to "take ownership" of my own well-being--that I have everything I need to hold on to my well-being and fitness under almost any circumstance I could ever face.

A Balanced Load: Lightweight Backpacking Done Right

2010-06-24T08:09:00.000-07:00

This post is a follow-up to my earlier dispatch regarding:
minimalism in fitness and active pursuits.

Multi-day, primitive, back-country foot travel—otherwise known as backpacking—is likely my favorite of all active, outdoor pursuits. It satisfies so many desires at once, pleasing the mind, body, and spirit on so many levels. It is a physical and mental challenge—one that presents wonderfully subtle rewards for the effort. Much of my reason for wanting to remain in reasonably decent athletic condition is simply to retain the physical capacity to travel to remote, rugged places in the wilderness. While I love the comforts and complexity of modern, urban life, I have come to rely upon occasional retreats into the wild as a reminder that I am a part of nature, as opposed to an independent entity somehow removed from it. It feels very important, to me, to (re)introduce a small element of risk (for lack of a better term) into our existence by shedding some of the technological components that shield us from a direct interface with the wild expanse of nature.

I have no illusions, however, that backpacking is about leaving behind absolutely everything. We are, inextricably, creatures of our particular environmental niche, and (many anthropologists would agree that) the human niche is technology and social complexity. We are habituated to a certain level of reliance on technology, and thus need a few things to comfortably survive. The activity would seem pointless, after all, if we failed to take those things needed to be comfortable enough to actually appreciate the amazing places we've taken the trouble to get to—as opposed to simply being intimidated by them. So to my mind, the trick is to find the simplest, and most minimal compliment of gear that, on the one hand, allows for a very close appreciation of the direct experience of the wilderness, while at the same time providing enough comfort and security to blissfully enjoy that experience.

With that said, I've observed that backpacking is the sort of activity wherein a participant will either love it or hate it. If you can manage to cheerfully put-up with the loss of some of the customary comforts and convenience of modern life, you'll love it. If you can't manage that mindset, you'll almost certainly hate it. The "proper" mindset, however, is not necessarily something that you happen to have on your first trip out. I cannot say that I unequivocally loved my very first backpacking trip. I saw the potential in it, but early-on made the same mistakes that probably most beginners make. Of particular note, I just packed way too many things; not only too many things, but all the wrong things. I bought into the misinformation that tends to be generated by the combination of marketing hype and the cacophony of (usually well-intentioned) advice offered to beginners (e.g., you simply "must" take this and that, and have these latest advances in tent technology, etc.).

It's only been over the course of time, and many trips, that I've developed a relatively sophisticated understanding of what truly works—and what does not—in terms of what to take into the back-country for an enjoyable, comfortable, uncomplicated wilderness travel experience. The end result is that I have steadily moved toward the "less is more" philosophy and become a "minimalist" or "ultralight" backpacker. For any trip into the wilderness, my total equipment compliment is rarely over 30(ish) pounds, including food, carry-water, and the clothes on my back. And I can say with certainty that paring my load down to that level has truly made much of the difference in terms of my enjoyment level in the activity.

To be sure, there are some "ultralight" backpackers that would consider my 30+ pounds to be rather on the heavy side. There is an entire subculture of extreme ultralight backpackers that wouldn't think of heading into the wilderness with more than 15 to 20 total pounds of equipment. And in many ways I am in awe of these elite corps, and am fascinated by the techniques they use to sustain themselves with such a minimal compliment of gear and supply. At the same time, however, I have found that attempting to go much lighter than 30 pounds (of total carry weight) means adopting methods that—in my humble opinion—require extreme efforts for very minimal pay-offs. And in the process, one must rely heavily upon technology, and/or abandon some customary human comforts. In other words, the effort becomes more about simply reducing carry-weight, rather than increasing enjoyment of the activity. Here are a couple examples of what I mean:

The pack itself. I typically use Granite Gear's Vapor Trail backpack for anything from a one-nighter to a 5- or 6-night outing. At around two pounds, the Vapor Trail is one of the lightest conventional packs available that still offers adequate padding, support, and durability, and does not cost a small fortune. Many ultralight backpackers, however, use packs that are anywhere from 8 to 18 ounces lighter than my Vapor Trail. The weight is saved by (for example) completely eliminating padding and/or frame suspension, or by using materials and construction methods that almost assure the pack will self-destruct after a couple uses if it is not handled with the utmost care. These packs, to my mind, serve as great examples of what can be accomplished through ingenious design and construction techniques, and by using the latest and greatest in ultralight materials. They just don't work very well as convenient, comfortable, and reliable backcountry gear.

Shelters: Otherwise known as "tents" by most backpackers, ultralight packers tend to refer to them as "shelters," because most ultralight packers don't actually deploy anything like a conventional, free-standing, fully-enclosed tent. I use a shelter from a very small outfit called "Tarptent," and the model I have is, indeed, a fully-enclosed unit that weighs-in at all of 24 ounces (total). It is not a traditional double-walled, free-standing tent, but it does provide true, full protection from rain and (much more importantly) bugs. The unit is less than half the weight of most similar shelters by virtue of the fact that it is single-walled, relies (in part) on my hiking poles for set-up, and is vented by a clever "wind tunnel" design. For the weight I save (at least a couple pounds) over a conventional double-walled tent, the very minor inconveniences imposed by the Tarptent seem like a bargain. (Those inconveniences, for the record, include some condensation issues, and occasional site-selection/set-up problems). I might be able to shave a couple more ounces by opting for the route taken by many ultralight backpackers--i.e., nothing more than a single thin piece of tarp to deploy in case of rain. For those few grams, however, I'd be giving-up shelter from bugs, and true rain protection (anyone who's spent an evening out in a windy downpour knows that a simple overhead tarp does not provide real protection from getting soaked).

The point of the above two examples is that weight-savings, while critically important to comfort on the trail, approaches a point at which the real-world benefits drop-off rather dramatically. The comforts sacrificed for the sake of shaving another couple ounces just don't make sense at a certain point, and the only thing achieved is bragging-rights for the absolute lightest pack. Once you get your load down to a comfortable all-day carry weight, the marginal benefit of going ever-lighter begins to decrease very rapidly. The noticeable difference between a 40 pound pack and a 30 pound pack is huge. The noticeable difference, however, between (say) 25 pounds and 15 pounds is much smaller. I honestly have no idea why the weight-savings benefit would decline like that, but my personal experience confirms it to be so. This isn't to say that there is some magical, exact number that is the "correct" weight. Rather, that there is a point at which the effort to further minimize stops paying-off, and that there is a sensible way to approach the balance between comfort versus weight-savings.

It's my opinion that the reasonable way to save weight is by simply paying close attention to the activity itself, and in so doing, learning what to take and what to leave behind. I.e., to learn what really works and makes a difference, as opposed to those things that are essentially just gimmicks. This is the key, and it is deceptively difficult to tell the difference—it takes a few trips into the wilderness to "get it," in my opinion. When you're shopping at REI, the array of super high-tech gizmos and gadgets can often seem appealing. The various marketing pitches seem to make sense, and it's easy to become convinced that you truly need this or that latest thing. Additionally, it's often very tempting to over-prepare for the activity by trying to plan for every possible contingency, or to think that expensive, advanced technology will somehow enhance the experience.

As a remedy, I recommend always staying focused on the bare basics in terms of the eventualities for which you really need to be planning. If you take the time to break it down, it's a very simple formula. You need to keep yourself: 1) safe and found (not lost); 2) fed and hydrated; 3) warm and dry. People tend to bring all sorts of things that add tremendous weight to their pack (and complexity to their experience), yet do very little to assist in any truly meaningful way with any of those basic needs. I will spend some time, now, breaking down some specifics in the areas where I think the most glaring examples exist:

I. Too Much Clothing.
Assuming we are not talking about Winter backpacking or travel into truly extreme/high-altitude (>12,000 feet) environments, you just don't need much in the way of warm and protective clothing. Most people head into the wilderness severely over-dressed and over-prepared in that regard. While on the trail, your body will warm itself naturally, due to the exertion of hiking. While in camp, you can build a fire (where legal and possible) or get into your sleeping bag. So there are, in fact, very few occasions for which you really need warm clothing. For three-season backpacking in moderate environments such as the Sierra Nevada or Cascade mountains, I take the following:

set of lightweight long underwear;
pair of convertible wind- & water-resistant cargo pants;
lightweight/quick-dry t-shirt;
lightweight fleece sweater;
lightweight wind- & water-proof shell jacket;
warm cap;
sun hat;
lightweight fleece gloves;
2 or 3 pairs of hiking socks.

With that compliment I have never been uncomfortably cold or wet for any extended period of time. None of my equipment is super high-tech or the latest thing in boutique-label expedition apparel. The total replacement cost of everything listed above is probably around three hundred bucks. And I firmly believe that anything more, for the circumstances I described, is absolutely overkill.

You don't need to bring "extra" clothes for that "just in case" circumstance, or to have on-hand when your originals get dirty. If you are out for long enough that your clothes get too smelly for you and your companions to handle, wash them in a lake or stream. Or: deal with it. If you tear or damage an article of clothing, learn to improvise. All will not be lost if you have to face a few minutes of downpour or chilly wind in a torn windbreaker. You'll survive.

II. Too Much Boot.
There's an old backpacker's adage which warns that "a pound on your feet is like three on your back." While I don't know how precise that ratio is, there's definitely something to the notion that you're going to be more comfortable in the lightest possible footwear. Most of the "mid-weight" (and even many of the so-called "light-weight") boots intended for backpacking are just ridiculously over-engineered and heavy. They offer the sort of rigidity, structure, and support that is more appropriate for semi-technical Winter mountaineering than for simple, mostly on-trail backpacking.

In most cases—particularly if your pack weight is under 30 pounds—a good, sturdy pair of trail running shoes should work just fine. For heavier loads and/or considerable stretches of rough/off-trail hiking, some semblance of ankle support might be important (or not, depending on how strong your feet and ankles are). But it would be a rare instance, on most basic backpacking trips, to need the 4- or 5-pounds, per pair, of foot armor that is commonly marketed as standard backpacking boots.

III. Too Many Gadgets & "Personal Gear."
The aisles at REI are jam-packed with a bewildering array of ultra high-tech camp stoves, water purifiers, cookware, storage containers, and everything else under the sun that someone dreamed might appeal to the would-be outdoor enthusiast. The simple truth of the matter is that the vast majority of these items are aimed at rank beginners and people that just don't do that much backpacking. The hope is that the first-time or novice backpacker will be convinced that they really need to spend $200 on an 11-piece titanium backcountry kitchen set-up. Or that you shouldn't dream of setting foot on a trail without a two-way radio, advanced GPS, clinometer, shortwave receiver, flares, snake-bite kit, bear repellent, et al., ad nauseum. The simple truth of the matter is that almost none of these items are going to make a difference in terms of your comfort or safety.

A. Camp Kitchen.

Consider, for example, what's really needed for cooking and eating. It breaks down to exactly five items, for most normal circumstances:

some sort of simple stove that (in most cases) doesn't need to do anything but boil water a couple times per day;
some manner of small (1 quart should suffice) pot in which to boil water and prepare hot food & drinks;
a large-ish insulated vessel that doubles as a bowl and cup;
a spork;
a knife.

That's about it. And in the case of the stove, you don't need anything fancy, unless you are heading to high altitude or into truly cold weather. In that case you will want a stove that burns pressurized gas. Otherwise, any sort of simple, alcohol-burning unit will suffice. Or, if camp-fires are permitted, you can cook over open flame (although this method introduces some complications of its own and usually requires even more equipment). I have used the basic Trangia alcohol stove (pictured above) for many years, with great success. It is quiet, clean, efficient, simple, and basically fool-proof. You pour alcohol into it and light it on fire. I think I paid something like 25 dollars for it. It's never failed me, and I doubt I'll ever need to replace it. Maintenance-wise, I hit it with a wire brush every couple trips. There are endless examples online of how to make a similar stove from an empty soda can. I prefer the commercial Trangia model because it is sturdy and has a convenient thread-on lid that allows me to keep unspent alcohol in the stove, between uses, without having it leak out—a huge convenience, and another perfect example of taking-on a few extra grams of weight where it truly makes sense to do so, for the sake of comfort and simplicity.

B. Basic Safety.
Next, consider what's really involved in basic safety. It makes sense to bring a few first-aid essentials. Beyond that, however, there's not much you can do to be prepared for any sort of truly catastrophic injury. Remember that the activity has a certain amount of inherent risk, and it's that risk which actually breathes life into the experience of being outdoors. It's better to accept the risk and be prepared mentally and physically to handle them, rather than to go in with trepidation, hoping that your equipment will save you if you get into trouble. If you break your leg somewhere in the back-country, for example, a more complete first aid kit is not going to make any difference to you--your situation is not changed. It will be your ability to stay calm, think things through, improvise, and adapt that will make the difference between safety and catastrophe.

Along similar lines, I don't think there is any single product that better exemplifies pointless safety gadgetry than bear repellent sprays. In 25+ years of backpacking in California and Oregon, I've seen a handfull of black bears. Typically, however, all I see is their butt, because they are running as fast as they can to clear the area. Which isn't meant to suggest that bears can never be a problem and there is nothing to worry about. But I would far rather arm myself with a basic knowledge of bear behavior (and how to avoid them in the first place) than with some sort of heavy, ridiculous, false security measure that may very well create a problem rather than eliminate it.

C. Staying found.
Finally, in terms of route-finding and not getting lost, there's much ado made over what is typically a non-issue. Particularly if you are staying mostly on-trail, you may not even need a map if you understand where you want to go and have some knowledge about the geography of the area. I'm not actually suggesting to anyone that they shouldn't bring a map; rather, that in most cases a good map is likely all you need. That, and the simplest (but accurate) compass you can possibly find. GPS units and fancy compasses can be interesting and fun from a gadget-hound perspective, and it can be tempting to think that having them along on a trip will save the day when you wind-up lost. Just remember that it takes a relatively high degree of technical expertise to actually use a GPS and/or sophisticated compass. From personal experience, I can say that sometimes the overhead of actually putting a GPS or compass to use can be a huge distraction from the actual business of just looking around, assessing the situation with a cool head, and using the actual landscape and terrain to determine where you need to go. It isn't that GPS units and compasses are too heavy or bulky (quite to the contrary) to consider bringing along. I call them out, specifically, only to bring-home the notion of putting the activity ahead of the equipment. In this specific case, learning a bit about geography and how to understand the landscape, rather than simply leaning on high-tech solutions (that can easily fail).

I think that is pretty-much the best bottom-line rule-of-thumb to follow in backpacking: it will always be the fitness of your body and mind, and your ability to adapt to your environment that will make the difference between having a great time versus being miserable. I've yet to have an experience wherein some specific piece of new or upgraded equipment really made a huge difference one way or the other. Instead, I've tended to enjoy myself far more as I have learned to take less equipment with me, and rely on it less. But there is a point of critical balance in that analysis: take what you need to be comfortable and enjoy the back-country experience, but don't let what you take get in the way of that experience. And, likewise, don't forgo simple comforts for the sake of shaving another few grams from your pack.

Rather than following equipment check-lists and the like, I suggest the opposite approach: think first about how you might fare with absolutely nothing at all. With that as a baseline, start adding things in that will actually make a difference in terms of keeping you safe, warm, dry, fed, and hydrated, in the terrain to which you're headed. John Muir would famously head into the high Sierras for a few nights, having donned an overcoat and stuffed a few biscuits into his pocket. He survived in good form, and his minimalistic retreats into the back-country inspired him to help preserve those same mountains for future generations.

Helvetia Half Marathon

2010-06-15T08:09:00.000-07:00

On Saturday I had the opportunity to participate in the "Run With Paula" Helvetia Half Marathon, out in Hillsboro (a suburb of Portland). This was a fairly large event, with about 5,000 runners, total, about 3,500 or so doing the half marathon distance, while the rest participated in a simultaneous 10k run. Overall it was a great event and a really nice course, albeit with a small and not altogether energetic crowd of supporters.

I decided to try to run the course employing a "negative split," wherein I purposely held back quite a bit of speed at the outset of the race, and then attempt to ramp-up the speed toward the end. The strategy worked for me in terms of metering-out my energy. I felt great the entire race and felt like I finished in fine form, but came-in a lot slower than I'd wanted--a few seconds slower than my Eugene half marathon time, in fact. My conclusion is that I simply held-back too much over the first 10k or so. I was purposely keeping my mile splits just above 8 minutes, and that, I think, was just too slow. I put myself in a position of having to go way too fast, at the end, in order to meet my goal of breaking 100 minutes (I didn't). I still believe in "the concept" of the negative split, I just didn't do it right.

I will definitely run the Helvetia Half again, next year--it is a very nice course and a well-organized event with good aid stations at almost every mile marker.

Oh, THAT Wall...

2010-06-07T11:10:00.000-07:00

I have been training for pretty close to a year now to run my first marathon: the San Francisco Marathon, in July. I've been trying to do all the right things, training-wise, ramping-up my mileage and speed slowly but steadily. I've been mixing-in a lot of cross-training and strengthening, and generally speaking everything has been proceeding well and good. I've felt good, and with each new, longer distance I've tackled, I haven't felt inordinatntly challenged.

I ran my first 20-miler the last weekend in May, and that distance felt OK. I held on to my typical 7:45-ish pace, and experienced only the typical complaints of moderate hamstring tightness. With that distance safely tested, then, I decided to head out this past Saturday and give it another go, but just a little faster this time. I started-out a little later in the day, however, and ended-up on the road just exactly as the temperature was getting a bit warm. Rather stupidly, I'd left the house without proper nutrition and without properly hydrating. To boot: I was carrying exactly 10 ounces of water and absolutely nothing in the way of calories.

It all worked-out fine--I felt great, in fact--until about mile 17. At that point I noticed something very, very interesting, a totally new and unique experience for me. My pace went downhill by a factor of 30 to 40 percent, and there was simply nothing I could do about it. I couldn't have faked it if my life depended on it. I was utterly spent, with nothing left. It wasn't that I didn't have the "energy" to keep going. It was more like my body knew something that I didn't, and was refusing to allow my legs to move at that rate any more.

`So,' I thought to myself, `this must be that famous wall I've heard so much about...' Up until that point in my life, I'd quite honestly never experienced it before. And, to be perfectly honest, I was skeptical about it. I've pushed myself hard before, on backpacking trips better described as death marches, and on 150 mile days in the saddle. But I'd never fallen-apart quite that spectacularly. So my attitude toward the existence of this so-called "wall" had always been `how bad can it really be?' The answer has been quite a revelation. I simply had to walk--no other option whatsoever was available to me. I did so for about half a mile, and then was able to hobble-in at something like a 9-minute pace.

I'm glad to have had the experience, because I can see in retrospect the series of errors that led up to it: too optimistic of an early pace, ignoring weather conditions, not enough to eat, not enough water, etc. I won't make those mistakes again.

You Don't Need a Lighter Bicycle

2010-06-06T10:58:00.000-07:00

This post is a follow-up to my earlier dispatch regarding:

minimalism in fitness and active pursuits.

The bicycle is one of humanity's greatest inventions. One of the things that makes it so is the fact that it is a device not particularly prone to obsolescence. The best basic design for the bicycle was achieved about a century ago; since then, there have been only small refinements that have added any sort of improvement, and all of those relatively minor. A 50 year-old bicycle, assuming that everything is in good working order, will offer the cyclist all they need to enjoy the sport at the same level as would almost any modern bicycle just purchased new.

The handful of major corporations that comprise the vast majority of the bicycle industry, however, have done an excellent job of convincing the general public that the technology behind the bicycle is as transient as mobile phones and needs to be replaced every couple years (e.g., 11 speeds are better than 10, are certainly better than 8, etc., and a 4 pound frame is no question better than a 6 pound one, and so on). They've been successful at getting people to buy into this mindset by using a marketing technique which temps the average person to believe that they are perhaps not so far removed from the ranks of professional racing cyclists.

Everyone, of course, wants to believe that they have greatness in them, and is capable of doing amazing things. Seizing on this facet of human nature, companies like Trek, Specialized, Cannondale, et al., produce bicycles for the general public that very pointedly look exactly like those that have been ridden up all those famous Alpine passes by finely-tuned professional athletes with funny-sounding names. They want people to believe that with just the right equipment, the average person with an 8 to 5 job can knock at the door of that same level of athleticism and claim a piece of the glory that attends it. Naturally, however, they'll have to replace said equipment next season, when it is made totally obsolete by the latest and greatest "advance" in technology.

Of all these so-called advances in bicycle technology, nothing seems to receive more attention than weight--less weight always being deemed better, regardless of how the lower weight is achieved. Usually it means employing alternate frame materials (aluminum, carbon-fiber, and titanium in place of steel), or making components which are basically disposable, less safe, ugly and inelegant, or simply not very comfortable to use. Particularly in the case of the two bulkiest and heaviest pieces of the bicycle--the frame and the wheels--it means supplanting efficient, tried & true construction methods and materials with constant experimentation in barely-tested fringe technologies, all for the sake of weight-savings expressed in grams.

The lightest of the lightweight bicycle frames available to the general public right now weighs around two pounds. A complete bicycle built on such a platform, with the lightest components currently available, will weigh-in at something like 16 pounds. Compare this to the bicycle I typically ride: a Rivendell Sam Hillborne (see my review here, if interested) frame built-up with a combination of new and old-timey components, including racks, fenders, and thick, puncture-resistant tires. That bike weighs right around 27 pounds, all-told--or about 11 pounds heavier than the lightest possible production bicycle that I could buy today. I could make my Rivendell 2 or 3 pounds lighter by removing the racks and fenders, so lets go with a number of an even 25 pounds versus that 16 pound number for the following analysis:

I weigh about 165 pounds, presently. With my clothing, helmet, shoes, gloves, etc., I'm at about 170 to 175 pounds. Let's call it 172. In addition to that, on a day-ride I'll carry a lunch (a pound), some water (2 or 3 pounds worth), a spare tube and some tools (a couple more pounds), a camera (half a pound), other sundries (another pound), and the bag which all that stuff goes in (a couple pounds). That comes to right around 180 or so pounds for the total rider-plus-gear weight. Now add that to the weight of my bike (25 pounds) to arrive at a figure of 205 pounds for the complete package, versus 196 pounds if I were riding that super-light technological marvel. The difference? Taken as a whole, the 9 pound difference comes-out to 4.4% of my 205 pound package.

Four point four percent. Does that make a difference in my ride and my enjoyment of the sport? Is that the very point at which things tip and everything is different? Would I fly like the wind and tap my true potential, as a cyclist, if only I would get with the program and buy that ultralight bicycle? I don't think so. And I think I would have to give-up all the things that are of great value to me in the bicycle I ride: comfort, durability, versatility, long-lasting style, elegance, simplicity, ease of maintenance. Those are the things that matter to me, as a non-professionally-racing cyclist. The extra weight doesn't make one bit of difference to me, or to anyone else not making a living by winning races with milliseconds to spare.

I can almost hear, at this point, the chorus of "serious" amateur cyclists out there, clamoring with the indignant refrain that I "just don't get it" because I just don't "train" at a high enough level of athleticism. If I trained harder and went faster, they'll say, I'd care about every gram. To them I say simply this: "no, you're wrong." Which isn't to claim that I am a superbly conditioned athlete, nor to tear-down anything someone else might've achieved. Certainly there are amateur cyclists that are far, far beyond my level. As an endurance athlete, I am probably somewhere just above average for my age. My "primary" athletic activity is running, and at 41, I can put-away a half marathon--13.1 miles--in a little less than 100 minutes. That's not super fast, but neither is it anything to be ashamed of. And I only put it here in writing by way of indicating that I'm not a "non-athletic" cyclist. I enjoy going fast and hard, pushing my body sometimes to relatively extreme limits. And in doing so, I can say from the standpoint of performance that the weight of the bicycle doesn't make the slightest degree of difference.

Even if it did make a difference: why should I care? If a lighter bicycle would allow me to "attack the hills" with greater vigor and arrive at the top a few seconds ahead of where I'd have been otherwise, should I believe myself to have gained more fulfillment from the activity? Is that the goal I'm after? Or, rather, am I simply trying to stay reasonably fit and enjoy myself in the process? If not, then have I crossed the line into narcissism? Probably so, I think, unless there's a paycheck waiting for me when I push myself hard enough to be the first across the line.

Having stated that opinion, however, I'll retrace my steps just a bit and also state that I have nothing whatsoever against the sport of bicycle racing, amateur and professional. In the case of professional racing, I think it's extremely interesting, entertaining, and inspiring to witness what an athlete can achieve when devoted to the sport on a full-time basis, with pay (and potential wealth) as an incentive.

In the case of an amateur race, however, wherein my livelihood is in no way riding (no pun intended) on the outcome, why in the world should I care so deeply about the finish, so long as I have an enjoyable time and satisfy my simple desire to share in the spirit of the activity with other like-minded amateurs? My personal opinion is that I shouldn't care--that I, in fact, have no business caring. This opinion isn't meant to deny the existence of an ego that requires a certain degree of care and feeding once in a while. But I do think that something of the essence of the activity is lost when one becomes blindly captivated by the adrenaline rush of passing another cyclist. Particularly when, in order to have that fleeting experience, one gladly hands-over thousands of dollars for phantom high-tech assistance, sacrificing basic comfort and durability all the way.

Maybe Lance Armstrong said it best in the title of his first book: "It's Not About the Bike." He's right, and he'd have won his seven Tours de France on my Sam Hillborne, fenders and all.

On Minimalism (In Fitness and Active Pursuits)

2010-06-06T10:15:00.000-07:00

I was recently devoting some casual thought to the different approaches I've developed in two of my favorite active pursuits: cycling and backpacking. It suddenly struck me that my modus operandi in each of these pursuits seemed to be at complete odds with one-another. In cycling, I care very little about the one variable on which so many other athletic and sport-oriented cyclists seem to place so much emphasis: the weight of the bicycle and attendant equipment. In backpacking, on the other hand, I am totally obsessive about the weight I carry; I'll go to great lengths to cut my pack weight by a few more ounces.

At first I puzzled over why I would have arrived at such seemingly opposite approaches to these two activities. Upon further reflection, however, I've decided that in actuality these approaches are really reflections of the same ideal: a certain type of minimalism that has as its goal the removal of emphasis from equipment and technology and the placing of focus back onto the activity itself.

This is certainly not to say that I am anti-technology or anti-equipment--hardly so, in fact. I truly love and appreciate bicycles simply for the engineering and artistic aspects of their design and construction. And I am as susceptible as anyone to endlessly roaming the aisles at REI, gawking at all the latest outdoor gadgetry and jiggery-pokery: backpacking stoves, tents, sleeping bags, GPS devices, etc. It's all interesting stuff, and some of it can actually be helpful. But I am always suspicious, and always asking myself this two-part question: is this latest "technological advance" (whataever it may be) or newer, even lighter bicycle really going to help me get more out of the activity, or will it perhaps, somehow, actually pull me further away from the essence of it?

I'm going to spend the next two or three posts addressing this question as it relates to the aforementioned activities: cycling and backpacking. We'll see where the discussion goes...

Barefootin': An Update

2010-05-26T16:59:00.000-07:00

At this point I have about 500 miles down as a "barefoot runner." I put that in quotes because I'm not out there in the wild running around without any protection on my feet. I don't have that level of confidence (faith?) in my ability to avoid nasty things like broken glass, sharp rocks, used needles, dog poo, etc. So I wear these silly things:

And they are actually not as silly as they look. They work great. They are comfortable and do pretty-much nothing at all except provide a modicum of protection against the aforementioned nasty things. Which is all I want them to do, the whole point being to remove all the artificial padding and support offered by traditional running trainers.

My experience so far in transitioning out of motion-control and supportive shoes has been--in a word--great. I've never felt better about my running and (come to think of it) just never felt better, period.

Since roughly early March, I had been dealing with some sort of severe pain in my right hip/quad area, and had been worried that perhaps my quick transition to "The Barefoot Way" had somehow contributed to that situation. The pain was bad enough that on some days it was truly a very seriously painful proposition to run at all. After a visit to my doctor, a physical therapist, and a 3-hour session in the MRI chamber, the determination was made that I was experiencing the effect of a very bad bursitis of the soas muscle (of all things). Turns out that while I was in plenty good enough shape, in terms of cardiovascular fitness, to be doing the kind of mileage I wanted to do, the muscles around my hips just were not strong enough to support it! The physical therapist prescribed a series of exercises to correct the situation, and the problem is basically solved at this point. The pain still flares occasionally, but it's at a totally manageable level and fading more and more into the background every day.

My doctor and physical therapist both concur that there is simply no way the barefoot running could've been a negatively contributing factor in developing the bursitis. If anything, it might've helped the situation, because barefoot running will (theoretically, so I believe) take workload from the quads and hips and distribute it more evenly to the calves and glutes. This is my working theory, and I'm sticking with it. In fact, I have a suspicion that at least part of the reason I was so weak in key areas is due to running in supportive, cushioned, motion-controlling shoes for so many years.

At any rate... with that little diversion out of the way, I will say again that the barefoot transition is going swimmingly. I am still not doing all my runs barefoot, however. It seems that my calves and glutes are still not quite strong enough to sustain distances of more than about 10 barefoot miles. I start getting too sore at that distance, and need to rest. I also feel like my achilles are getting a pretty major workout, too--more so than I'd like. I attribute this latter facet of the experience to the fact that I am (still!) somewhat of a heel-striker. Part of the whole point of going barefoot is to eliminate heavy heel-striking, but this seems to be something my body is really being stubborn about unlearning. So, by coming down hard on the heel, without the supporting cushion of a shoe, seems to cause the achilles tendon to have to flex further than normal. Again: just one of my theories.

I'm a little surprised at how long it is taking, also, for my calves to strengthen. They must've really been quite weak, because I am still experiencing continual soreness in them. Not in a really bad way, just the reminder that I'm working them hard on a regular basis. I'd have expected that to have diminished by now, but it has not.

One thing that I can report as a very interesting effect: I am really feeling a major difference in the overall strength and stability of my foot and ankle. I didn't necessarily anticipate this, but maybe should have. I can feel my foot getting stronger. Much stronger. It's hard to put into objective terms, other than to say I just feel much more confident in my ability of my feet to take varied terrain more easily. I can feel my arches and ankles controlling motion and correcting my stride with far greater ease. Additionally, the pain hot-spots I used to have under some of my toes are absolutely gone. It's a great feeling.

My sincere apologies to Nike, Brooks, New Balance, et al., but I do believe you've lost a customer for life... :-)

Canon S90 vs. Lumix LX3 (sort-of): FIGHT!

2010-05-25T17:48:00.000-07:00

You'll find better and far more in-depth reviews of the new(ish) Canon S90 compact camera elsewhere. Being extremely pleased with mine, however, I wanted to post my anecdotal observations on this fine little camera, in case anyone else is having the same difficulties that I went through in deciding if it was for me (it is).

I was motivated to seek out a new digital camera by a desire to get back into some level of "serious" photography, having enjoyed film photography, as a hobby, a rather long time ago. All my digital cameras, to date, have been of the mid-level point-and-shoot variety. I've owned two Canons, including (most recently) an SD1000, and also a Pentax. Each of those cameras served fine for what I wanted to achieve: reasonably decent captures of people, landscapes, and other scenic settings while out hiking & backpacking, traveling, or attending events. As I got a little better at digital photography, however, I began noticing the lack of capability and somewhat lackluster overall image quality in my SD1000. E.g., slow lens, no wide-angle, no RAW capture, difficult to use manual controls, etc. So I embarked on a rather arduous and torturous quest to find the perfect camera.

At the very top of my list of requirements was size and weight. I am not the sort of photographer that enjoys in any way the heft and presence of a large camera, such as a DSLR. I am a photographic enthusiast, but making pictures is always a secondary activity for me. It's something I enjoy doing in the context of some other activity, like backpacking, bike-touring, or other outdoor pursuits. So the camera had to be unobtrusive and fit right into that context. My decision-making process included the eventuality that if I could not find a nice, lightweight/small unit that also had the commensurate bump in image quality and features I was after, then I would be resigned to simply let it go and hold-out for something down the road another year or so.

Other "musts" on my list of requirements included:

sharp and fast lens, at least f2.0;
wide angle, at least 30mm equivalent or better;
RAW capture;
good (but not ridiculous) zoom range--out to about 80mm equivalent or so;
very easy access to manual control, including program, aperature-priority, shutter-priority, and full manual modes;
low shutter lag; and,
maybe most-importantly, a reasonably low pixel density.

With that list of requirements, the following cameras showed-up on my radar:

Panasonic Lumix LX3
Canon G11
Canon S90
Ricoh CX3
Samsung TL500

Of those, it was fairly easy to exclude the G11, the CX3, and the TL500. I say "easy," but to my neurotic mind that actually means about two weeks worth of obsessively pouring over camera specifications and thinking, re-thinking, and then re-re-thinking exactly what I wanted out of a new camera, and out of photography as a hobby, in general... At any rate...

The G11 is a fantastic camera, but for the relatively significant difference in both price and size/weight, I just didn't see what it had to offer that would make me want it over the S90. The S90 seems to be very nearly the same camera in a lighter, smaller, and cheaper package.

The Ricoh CX3 shows incredible promise, but the inclusion of a "super zoom" focal length range (28mm to 300mm equiv.!) makes for a very slow lens (f3.5), and I honestly don't even necessarily want all that zoom power (it's my opinion that having all that range available can make for sloppy compositions, but I'm old school like that...). Additionally, I read a fair number of CX3 reviews which seemed to indicate a fairly lackluster overall image quality for the camera.

Finally, the Samsung TL500 looks like it will be a great camera. When it's available. Which is not (as of this writing) now. Also, I don't know that I'd like to be a guinea pig for what is ostensibly Samsung's very first entry into the world of truly "serious" cameras (i.e., other than the NX10, which is a different story altogether...).

My decision, then, finally came down to the Lumix LX3 or the S90. And this was a very, very difficult choice. I agonized over this one. Both cameras seem to have very similar capabilities. Both are lightweight and compact enough for my purposes, although the S90 does have a bit of an edge in that arena--not enough to sway the decision in and of itself, however. And both cameras, based on the samples and reviews I looked at, surely seemed to offer very similar results in terms of image quality. The margin seemed razor thin, and I think I could've flipped a coin and been equally happy with either camera. But here's what it ultimately came down to:

Lens cap. Ridiculous? To some, surely. But I don't want to have to mess with one. I shoot casually and on the go, and don't want it in my way. The LX3 has no built-in lens shield, and thus requires the use of a lens cap.
Manual control. I liked the idea of the little control ring around the S90's lens. And, in general, comparing the way the two cameras are laid-out in terms of their controls, I liked the S90 design better.
Brand loyalty. I'd owned two Canons and been happy with their quality, so decided that the comfort factor of having that experience behind me was worth something--not to mention the advantage of being somewhat pre-familiarized with the new camera's menu system, etc.
Zoom range. While (as indicated above) I don't need a lot of zoom, I want enough to get me into a scene in situations where I can't walk the camera closer. The LX3's 60mm equivalent is just not quite enough to do that, for the sort of shooting I do.

I purchased the S90 new for about $375. I've owned it for about a month now and can say unequivocally that it meets or exceeds my expectations. It is a great little camera that is very pleasing to use.

After getting used to the S90's program mode, I am certain that is the mode in which I will do 75% or more of my shooting. It is extremely easy to use, and with just a little practice I have been able to achieve pretty nice results most of the time. The camera does offer a fully automatic mode, and also "scene" mode (wherein you choose a specific shooting situation and let the camera base its automatic exposure selections on that basis), and I have found my results in these modes to be average. This leads me to conclude that the S90 is really an enthusiast's camera. To take full advantage of its capabilities it is important to transition out of fully-automatic shooting and embrace the camera's great program mode.

I process my images using Apple's Aperture program, and have found no difficulties importing the S90's RAW format, and getting good results with the output.

In my pre-purchase research, I kept coming across reviews mentioning two points of potential concern: ergonomics and build quality. In terms of the first concern, other users seem to think that the camera is difficult to handle, and the controls are fiddly. Perhaps I am just used to very small cameras, but these concerns don't seem like major issues to me. It is an ultra-compact camera, after all, so it's simply not going to fit like a pistol grip in the hand, and the controls--obviously--are small. Personally, I have not had issues handling the camera or getting it in place and steadied for a variety of shot angles. As to the build-quality of the camera, it's fine. For the price, perhaps, there are other cameras that better exude an aura of precision engineering and high-end materials and manufacturing. But the S90 is by no means sub-par. The body is aluminum and it does not feel cheap or flimsy at all.

I would say that if you are closing-in on a decision between some of the cameras I've mentioned here, do give the S90 serious consideration. If it's a decision between the LX3 and S90, I think that for some types of photographers the LX3 might be a better fit. My brother has an LX3 and has gotten some amazing results with it. But if you want a highly versatile photographic tool that offers superb results in the tiniest, lightest, and easiest to control package possible, then I think the S90 is really the only camera to have right now.

The Rivendell Sam Hillborne

2010-05-11T19:12:00.000-07:00

I had, for years, at the back of my mind the notion that I'd like to own a Rivendell bicycle. For one reason or another, however, I'd never quite managed to commit the rather sizable outlay of funds required to acquire one of their frames. Their release of the more affordable "Sam Hillborne" model, however, coincided almost perfectly with my desire to build-up a sort of all-around sport/touring or randonneur style bike. I wanted something that would work for about 75% of all my riding: fast/athletic day rides on the road, trail rides, light- to moderately-loaded touring, and just hopping around town. After doing a painful amount of research, I concluded that for $1,000 (at the time of my purchase), the Sam Hillborne frame offered the best possible combination of features and value.

The frame has absolutely everything I wanted: lugged steel construction, traditional sport-touring geometry, plenty of room for bigger tires and fenders, cantilever brake studs, plenty of well-placed rack attachment points, and (not unimportantly) fantastic style. My only gripe about the build of the frame is that it does not have braze-ons for downtube shift levers--instead there are cable stops. This forces you into using some sort of handle-bar mounted shifting mechanism (or going single-speed, of course). For my purposes, I'm fine with it, because I wanted bar-end shifting for this bike. But it sure would be nice to have the downtube option open.

There are more pictures of the bike in
my Sam Hillborne Flickr Set.

I built the bike up with my usual "eclectic" mix of components: Nitto stem and handlebar; Nitto two-bolt seat post and Brooks saddle; wheels built (by me) with Phil Wood hubs and Velocity Synergy rims; a wonderful old Sakae SX 110/74 triple crank that I acquired via eBay and polished-up; Shimano Ultegra rear deraileur, and Deore DX front. One very major extravagance: a pair of White Industries Urban Platform Pedals. These have to be the finest pedal ever made. They are hands-down the most comfortable pedal onto which I've ever placed my foot, and just stunningly beautiful in their minimalism. The brakes are Tektro cantilevers (which, at 50 bucks for the set work brilliantly), and the brake levers are Cane Creek (in the elusive gum-colored hood variation, which I was happy to find available). And, of course, living in Portland, I had to choose a Chris King headset.

From the first test ride on the Sam Hillborne, I have been absolutely amazed at how wonderfully the bike fits and rides. I had been skeptical, because part of the way Rivendell keeps the cost on this frame low is to spec it in only a very limited number of sizes. To compensate for these few sizes being a bit too big or a bit too small for a particular rider, the top tube is sloped down from the head tube to the seat tube, in order to provide the greatest possible stand-over clearance. And I'd thought that this design method might perhaps somehow compromise on "optimal" handling characteristics for the actual frame size in question. However, as promised by the staff at Rivendell, all those concerns flew right out the window the minute I got up to speed on the Hillborne. It's agile without being twitchy, easy to accelarate, steady and true on fast & windy descents, accepts hard braking with aplomb, and tracks straight as an arrow at slower speeds. Of all the bikes I own, it is simply the most comfortable and enjoyable to ride. It's a cyclist's bicycle, to be sure, offering that magical combination of ride qualities that instantly puts a smile on your face the moment you get onboard.

As I mentioned above, I wanted this bike to fit the bill for about 75% of my riding, and that's just about exactly what it does. So, what's the 25% it's not good for? I'll say first that for some riders, the Hillborne could, very well, serve 100% of their needs. It's only if you have interests that range into higher-speed athletic road riding (or racing), technical single-track riding, or heavily-loaded touring & weeks-long bike camping trips that the Sam may not work for you. E.g. if your body fat is below 8% and you're riding in tight pelotons at 30 mph, you might want something a little lighter and slightly more more responsive; if you're bombing down 20% grades with basketball-sized rocks and stumps; or if your idea of a "a little tour" involves four fully-loaded panniers and a trailer -- well, in those cases you might want to consider something else. But for everything that's not in the extreme margins of cycling, I can't think of a better foundation for the perfect bike than the Sam Hillborne.

Rack-wise, my Sam H. is outfitted with a Nitto "mini" front rack, and a Carradice saddle uplift mounted directly to the Brooks saddle. I find that a large saddle bag and boxy-style handlebar bag are all I really need for inn-to-inn (i.e. "credit card") touring. But, then again, I don't wear "special" shoes or clothes for riding, so I don't need to carry as much as a result.The bags I use are from a relatively obscure Japanese maker called "Ostrich."

I should add a little side note about the truly amazing customer service experience I had with Rivendell, and also the retailer through whom I acquired the frame--Renaissance Cycles. The first iteration of the frame I received had the tiniest of tiny "flaws," which is so trivial it's not even worth mentioning. Suffice it to say that this "flaw" was something that in no way could even begin to affect the performance or (most assuredly) the safety of the bicycle. It was, however, something that I noticed and could not put out of my obsessive mind. I contacted Rivendell about it, and they immediately sprung into action to make me happy. They worked with Renaissance to get me a new frame, on the double, shipping the new one before I'd even boxed the old one up for return. I was amazed at the level of service from both companies, and it just goes to show you: Yes, part of the price you pay for a quality product, from an independent company, does, indeed, go toward supporting a higher, more personal level of customer service. And yes, absolutely, it's worth every single penny.

The Most Awesome Thing Ever

2010-05-06T13:53:00.000-07:00

That picture there, off to the left, is an image of the most important milestone in the history of the universe being achieved--in under four minutes. It happened exactly 56 years ago today. A day that runners hold as sacred.

You see, that's one of the greatest runners and (for that matter) human beings of all time--Roger Bannister--crossing the finish line on a one mile run in less than that time. For the first time ever. After most people had opined that it could simply never be done. Roger didn't get the memo and thus broke the rules.

If you're a runner, you understand just how ridiculously, freakishly fast a sub-four minute mile is. Hell, you realize how hard it is to run a six minute mile! Most people can't do it. The average sedentary individual would probably be hard-pressed to cover the distance in ten minutes.

The breaking of the four minute mile is, in my opinion, just about the most awesome thing ever. It's inspiring and amazing as a simple outstanding human achievement--something to hold up above all the so-called "achievements" in war, avarice, and vanity that require the infrastructure of civilization around them in order to count. Ol' Rog did his thing, by himself, with nothing more than his legs and an absolute single-minded pursuit of his simple passion. Cheers to that!

Speaking of Running...

2010-05-04T08:21:00.000-07:00

For about six months now I have been transitioning to so-called `minimalist' footwear for running--on the way (hopefully) to do a lot of my running barefoot. For those of you that have been living under a rock, much of the latest research in sports medicine indicates that the best way to avoid running injuries is to eschew all the padding, support, and stabilizing trusses/what-not that attend to most modern running shoes.
Here's just one popular article on the topic:

The painful truth about trainers: Are running shoes a waste of money?

Short answer = "yes"

What my own experience indicates is that these findings are spot-on correct. As I have gotten out of the heavily-cushioned and stability-control shoes, my stride has become lighter and more efficient, and my feet, ankles, and calves are all getting much stronger and able to handle the punishment of longer runs with greater ease. I do not feel that I've suffered any sort of ill-effect from the transition.

I started-out by wearing the (above-pictured) Nike "Free 5.0" shoe on one of my shorter weekday runs, progressing over the course of a little over a month to the point where I was doing all my weekday runs in the Free. The "Free" series offers (from what I can tell) a series of progressively less-cushioned/supportive shoes, with the model number indicating the level thereof (there's a 3.0, 5.0, 7.0, and 10.0). I've now transitioned to the point where I never run in anything more cushioned than the Free, and I do at least one of my weekly short runs in a Vibram Five-finger "shoe" (pictured below).

The Five-finger, as you can see, provides essentially no support or cushioning whatsoever. It's intended to provide nothing but a protective layer for your sole, so that you can run without having to worry quite so much about foot placement--e.g., worrying about cutting yourself on broken glass or other sharp objects. I won't say that running in these is exactly an "easy" transition. It's not, but only because coddling my feet in heavy, unnaturally-supportive shoes for so many years has weakened me in all the areas that I need to be strong in order to run in the way that I was naturally intended(!) -- i.e., barefoot. It takes time to erase all those years and build the strength back up to where it ought to be.

But I'm determined to get there. The next step for me will be to get a pair of the Nike 3.0 shoes, which I will wear on my longer runs, and then transition to the Five-fingers for all my shorter runs. Whether or not my ultimate goal is to always run completely barefoot, I don't know... For me, I think there will always be certain circumstances under which I will want at least a little sole protection, and for marathon distances, there may be reasons that I do want a little cushion under my heels and toes. But time will tell. Bottom line, for now, is that I have absolutely no regrets about adopting the minimalist approach, and recommend it wholeheartedly to any other runners out there looking for a way to improve their overall strength and/or avoid injury.

If you're looking for further inspiration, take a look at the book Born To Run, by Christopher McDougall. This is, without a doubt, the best book about running I've ever come across and--for that matter--just flat-out one of the best books I've read in a long while.

Eugene (Half) Marathon

2010-05-04T07:28:00.000-07:00

I participated in the `half' distance of the fairly new Eugene Marathon this past Sunday, and it was a great event. Everything was very well organized, and the course was fantastic. So too were the amazing crowds that turned-out to cheer the runners. Everyone was very enthusiastic--more so than in many of the other running events I've done in the past. I would highly recommend this event as a first half or full marathon. The course is fun and fast, and proceeds down nice wide streets at the start, which serves to get the runners well-spaced before everyone manages to find their pace. In so many other runs, the course can often exacerbate the problem of runners getting bunched-up. To finish on the track at historic Hayward Field, too, and run past the full grandstand is quite an honor.

This is the longest distance I've yet done in an organized event, and I did so in preparation for my first full-length marathon in July, when I'll be running in the San Francisco Marathon. I chose a pace of just under 8 minutes per mile, and that felt fine. I finished in about 1:43, and had plenty left in the tank at the end. I did have some knee pain issues, though, which slowed me down significantly toward the last couple miles. It's time to bump the `long' training runs up to 15 miles or so...

The Best iPad Case, Hands-down: Macally Bookstand

2010-04-30T09:55:00.000-07:00

The iPad is usable without any sort of case, and is durable and resilient enough on its very own to simply toss into a bag for transport. But the right case makes the whole "user experience" much better, and simpler, as I've discovered. I looked long and hard for just the right case option, after taking delivery of my iPad, and found that they generally come in one of four flavors:

form-fitting "skin" type add-ons that simply protect the side and back casing, and (sometimes) the screen, from scratches
sleeve-style cases that simply house the unit while not in use
larger bags and/or briefcase style cases that simply integrate an iPad compartment
folio type cases that (generally) protect the entire unit and also offer the ability to prop the unit up into various positions for optimized usability for typing or media-viewing.

Of these styles, it seems quite clear to me that the latter option is by far the best. It offers the greatest degree of flexibility and usefulness for the reasons you'd ever want a case in the first place: to protect the device, and to optimize its usability. A simple "skin" type case certainly adds nothing to the usability of the device, and may not even do a great job of protecting the device. A sleeve type case only protects the device while it is not in use, and does nothing for usability. And for me, personally, I despise device-dedicated bags--I want to be able to use any bag I'd like, and have device protection as a wholly independent consideration.

The Macally Bookstand case offers the best combination of the features that should be key to a good case for the iPad: holds the device very securely; thoroughly protects the back and (most of) the sides from scratches and incidental bumps; protects the corners from bumps; securely allows placement of the iPad into the perfect positions for laptop/tabletop typing and viewing.

Apple offers a similar-looking folio-style case, but for the money it isn't anywhere near the quality of the the Macally product, and I have read that the Apple case is flawed in that the flap will easily slide out of position when used to prop-up the iPad. The way in which the Macally flap is secured is totally foolproof. I literally have no complaints about the case at all. It's basically perfect (although I might not mind having a couple color selections).

Pretty Much the Best Coffee Ever

2010-04-29T15:36:00.000-07:00

Here in the Great Northwest we are fairly serious about good coffee. In a way this facet of our rain-drenched existence is somewhat odd, given that coffee does not naturally grow here and never could. What we do seem to excel at, however, is the roasting of coffee that we obtain from elsewhere around the world. My favorite sources have always been Central and South America, and these locations make up the offerings from Portland's own new micro-roaster, Trailhead Coffee Roasters.

Portland is already famous as home to Stumptown Coffee which, until recently, has been my favorite supplier of finely roasted beans for home brewing. Stumptown beans are featured in cafes up and down the west coast, having developed quite a reputation for sourcing nothing but the best (fair trade) beans and applying the touch of a master at the roasting oven. To my taste, however, Trailhead presents what is clearly a superior product in terms of absolute consistency of balance and flavor characteristics. My favorites so far are the Bolivian and Mexican beans.

How to Build a Bicycle Wheel

2010-04-28T08:49:00.000-07:00

As a compulsive bicycle hacker/tinkerer, one of the basic skills that I've picked-up over the years is wheel building. I'm not by any means a master wheel builder, but I can build a very decent basic set using traditional materials and techniques. It's not that difficult, actually. If you're at all mechanically-inclined, the process is fairly simple and straight-forward.

I've been asked by friends, many times, to show them how to build a wheel. So, at long-last, I finally captured the entire build process in photographs. The result is posted as a publicly available Flickr photo set which has been organized as a how-to.

The photos and instructions in that set probably won't be quite enough to take you from no wheel-building knowledge or skill to being able to assemble a properly tensioned and trued wheel set. It should serve pretty well, however, to augment the information available in a fine book such as The Bicycle Wheel, by Jobst Brandt. I highly recommend picking-up a copy of that book.