10 miles out in VF at 7:25s. My legs feel very heavy; this makes no sense. Tomorrow, this. It's fast and flat. It should be a good one if I can get the feeling back. I'd be happy with anything under 16:19. I had the luck of tucking my daughter in tonight. She's aware of this race and her line of questioning before the race, and before all races that I run, is always some strange flowchart of award possibilities--from money down to gimcrack. Sometimes when she's asking me these questions, my one-word answers are similar to T.E. Lawrence's in that wonderful movie. The shortness of them speaks volumes to her. Josie: Race tomorrow DD? Me: Yes. Josie: 5k? Me: Yes. Josie: Kenyans? Me: No, I doubt it. Josie: Money? Me: No. Josie: Trophies? Me: Yes. Josie: What kind of trophies? How big? Me: I don't know what the gimcrack will be. Josie: What's gimcrack, DD? Me: Garbage. Josie: I thought you said there'd be trophies, not garbage? Me: Yes. Josie: I don't get it DD! Me: That's ok. Goodnight dear, I love you. Josie: Goodnight, DD. I love you too! --------------------------- Hot damn I love garlic. I take pieces when I cook steak and slide them into the meat. I then take dry rub and smother the steak. Apologies to any of you vegetarians for that remark. Right now I'm actually chewing on a piece of garlic. I let a sliver of it sit in my mouth and I just take it all in. Hot damn again; I love garlic. When I ran the Reach the Beach Relay last year, I felt like doo on the beginning of my last leg. I started to catch the runner from the Bucknell masters team. He had a good lead on me to start with (minutes). During the last few minutes something weird happened: I shed all my fatigue: I came up on my toes and ran fast. I don't know how fast it was, but I'd wager my final mile was about 5:00. The only reason I bring this up is that this mental 'barbarian kick' resides in all of us. The more I race 5ks, the more I realize that I have it somewhere and that what separates me from a real 15:4X 5k is going down there and finding it again. Training won't make it happen, something else will and I need to think more about where to look for it. Maybe just acknowledging its existence is the first place to start? I don't want to waste this horridly written essay any more on this topic--especially since this feeling was first with me during the Northern CA. XC sectionals in 1990 where I placed 8th overall after coming from like 50th place. It springs up from time to time. It was there last year when I ran a probably-short 15:47 5k after making the wrong turn at the start. I think it's the same feeling that Mills at the end of his race as well as Viren after he got back up off the ground in that magic Olympic 10,000-meter final. We all have it somewhere. -------------------------------------- This one's worth a gander. --------------------------------------- The following comment was left sometime this morning by Tony Jasica. Had he not made the false statement that I hate him, I'd have left the comments to stand for themselves. Silence is good sometimes, but not now--especially when the word 'hate' is carpet-bombed across this site: "I am curious as to why you hate me so much...You seem to take delight in humiliating me in your blogs, yet you offer no real reason why, except to expose the fact you are such are are a superior runner than myself. Wow, Mr. Larkin, I bowdown before your ability to make fun of the "Fat Runners" in America, because God knows we are not an easy target... " Dear Tony, You expect readers to come across this comment and jump into your corner; you look for sympathy and cast the same tired stereotypes of the 'elite' fast and skinny guy making fun of the poor ole' slow guy; you may even hope that people will associate you as the underdog, David, taking on Goliath, the big loudmouth, sub-elite wannabe: me. We've already got a few Davids lurking about on this site with slingshots--just so you know. But not so fast. Had you gone a few layers past your own Google search for your name which brought you here, had you ventured past the month of May on my blog, had you perhaps even googled someone else besides yourself, you might have responded differently. You might even have connected the dots on why I seem to go after you from time to time. I suppose it's these words that do it for me. Your words, from this article: "Dear Sir...Perhaps you should have read the feature article about my story in the 1/7 Tampa Tribune before making fun of my supposedly hilarious marathon effort. Apparently the people at Balance Bars found my story compelling enough to award me one of 11 nationwide grants from over 1200 applicants. So, until you know the facts, please keep your pedantic writing to yourself. And to Jennifer...until you've had to overcome any personal adversity, physical problems, and societal prejudice that overweight people face on a daily basis --don't you dare call ANYONE who finishes a marathon a "lemming"." The quote first smells of entitlement; it drifts around for a couple sentences and then it disappears, replaced by a more pungent, sickening odor: self-pity. And now a repeat of a very important sentence. Had you learned about the person you say 'hates' you, had you really tried to learn about my own walk in life and my own struggles with the genetic endomorphic monster (a sprightly 230lbs in 2001 babee), had you read about me and my marathon history or people on this very site who I associate with and their waistlines or marathon paces, instead of looking for more about yourself, you'd perhaps understand that I'm not as simple as a skinny, 'fast' guy at the other end of the ring out to go make fun of 'fat runners.' I'm like everyone else--I'm one hell of a complex guy, and I like to think there's some rhyme to my reason. I was closer to you than you realize. Do some homework; read a bit; slow down; take a breath. Be a meticulous investigative reporter instead of a spontaneous, misinformed mudslinger. I don't hate you; I'd love to see you run faster and to reach higher than the first goal of marathon completion. I'd love to read the fact that some day you qualify for Boston--without a grant from a candy bar company that poses as a nutrition bar company. I'd love to witness all this taking place buried below the headlines where the folks that truly deserve a brighter spotlight belong. I suppose it comes down to the spotlight. You never once agreed with the point that while your feat was admirable, it happens every day, along quiet roads to thousands of people. Thousands of people wake up, look at themselves in the mirror, and commit themselves to the lofty challenge of weight loss. They run their first marathon without a fancy story or a nifty press release or a sponsorship. They don't beat their chests about it and then defend it over and over again in endless vanitygoogle searches across multiple blogs. They do it in silence. Some of them even realize that it can go further. They don't settle for a now relatively low standard and rest on their 'I did it!" laurels for a lifetime of memories of that glorious 5:58 slog. They aspire to run faster, to push their bodies to new places--they dream to win. Winning, now that's a headline! ------------------------------ Injustice. I'm always quick to find them in the slightest degree with regards to my pathetic self, so here's one major fucking injustice: Deena Kastor runs a 2:19 to win the London Marathon and she sits in a running store in NYC by herself less than one month later. Where do I begin? Webb breaks Steve Scott's record.... Ritz kicks Meb's 10k to the curb....then Webb beats Ritz and then Ritznwebb beats Webbnritz Goucher makes a comeback and just runs really fast behind Bekele and a million imported, African, Qatarian runners coached by Mr. Canova who's tailed by Mr. Hudson who's taking notes behind the pillar--disguised in a brown trenchcoat, a Lands' End seersucker suit, and a deerstalker cap---posing as a reporter for Runner's World who's real assignment is to find the stolen running stones. This particular scene plays out like a Peter Sellers movie, even down to the David Niven jewel thief character who's hidden the stolen stones in Goucher's Nike Rival(TM) XC spikes. Rupp, looking the part from the PG-13 movie, and under the gentle, fatherly eyes of Salazar, falls down on the new Nike(TM) track after a hard run...he throws his hands up to the sky as the flashbulbs pop and the cheesy music starts to kick in.... Meb kicks Khalid to the curb....USA! USA! USA! um..Eritrea n USA!...Eritrea n USA!....Eritrea n USA!....NO!!! damnit....USA! USA! USA! you commie bastards.... All men, all wouldn't sit by themselves in a store a month later....think about it. Just do it. Swoosh. Bling-Bling.