Oucho Gaucho

Saturday, 12.09.06, 6 a.m.
Weather: 29 degrees, sunny with cold breeze


"This is not a hill," I said out loud as I started up. "This is not a hill."

"This is not a hill."

"This is not a hill."

"This is not a hill."

"This....gasp....is.....not.....gasp.....a......hill."

Ok, it was a hill. A large one. The first of oh, a zillion that we ran up and down today. Originally named for the restaurant parking lot from which we start (Gaucho's Grill, which has since relocated), this run is infamous for its route through neighborhoods where you wouldn't want to live during an ice storm. Steep streets.

Tom and company were driving to Dallas for the White Rock Marathon, so I headed out alone. Well, as alone as a person can be in a herd of fifty or sixty runners, which is my best guess at how many showed up in Saturday's sub-freezing temps to take on the Oucho. We all start out together but it doesn't take long to spread way out, with the fastest fast runners in front and the slowest walkers in back and the rest of us in between. I pretty much stayed between clumps of people and enjoyed being alone with my thoughts. Running alone meant also meant concentrating on pace work, because I want to stay in the "fast" zone where I've been living lately.

This run was fun enough until around mile 8 or 9. Somewhere in there I got either tired or bored, I don't know, and started wanting to get done. Now, trying to think back on it, my brain is fuzzy about what my thoughts were, but I recall thinking about what I was thinking, trying to analyze on my feet what was triggering the bad attitude. Who knows.

On the physical side, I'm sure blood sugar has something to do with it. I continue to ride a frustrating gel-induced fast/slow pattern. No doubt during those low parts of the waves my brain is affected. A 14-miler is a 3-gel outing. Also, when it's this cold it's a challenge to drink enough. In wicking clothing, you don't always realize how much you're sweating. I try to stay on the :20/:40 routine, drinking a couple ounces of water every twenty minutes and eating a Gu on every other cycle (every forty minutes). Tricky today. Water bottles were frozen shut. Not frozen solid, just shut. Also, gel is usually, well, gel-like. Soft. Smushy. Today it was stiff, like the gum I used to keep on my nightstand overnight. Had to swish my cold cold water around in my mouth with the gel to get it soft and swallowable.

Another food note, on pre-run food. For a year, pop-tarts have been good to me, providing an easy-to-digest sugar rush for that first few miles. Before that I was doing half-bagels, bleh. I rarely wake up hungry though, so whatever I eat pre-run is always a chore to cram down. Just trying to avoid an empty sloshy stomach and lack of energy. Lately, I've been experimenting with half peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, with good results. A whole piece of bread, a smear of peanut butter, a generous spoonful of jelly...it seems to be a good blend of carbs and protein and thus sticks with me a little longer than the pop tarts. I hope it's not just novelty, but so far these sandwiches are working, and I actually like 'em.

I used to hate peanut butter. Funny, I used to hate running too.

Back to the hills. Big ones. Lots of them. One after another after another.

The chant comes from Tom. I first heard him utter it sometime last year, on some riduculously steep street somewhere over in the Heights or Cammack Village. A bunch of us had succumbed to walking up it, and here comes Tom from behind us, cheerfully sauntering up the incline, looking around innocently. "What hills? I don't see a hill. This is not a hill." We argued with him, he argued back. Before we knew it, we were at the top.

I was a lot less fit last year. I'd been running flats during the week, almost always out at Murray Park, so the weekend routes' rolling hills (in Maumelle, Hillcrest, Cammack) kicked my butt every time. Right then I decided to start training on hills and get strong enough to take them on. Weekdays saw me running the Kavanaugh loop route from work, rather than Murray's flat out-and-backs. Weekends, I walked less and less hills.

As annoyed as I was with Tom's stupid mantra, I tried it. His theory is that if you spend a whole hill telling yourself "This is not a hill," you'll be over it in no time. Roughly a year later, I can report that it works. Basically, it's a strategy for distraction; it keeps your mind off the burning lactic acid buildup in your legs and the rapidly increasing demand for oxygen your lungs are screaming for. I know it sounds dumb. I know. But I'm stronger now.

It's not a coincidence that our training team shirts say "What hills?" It's part smartass, sure, but it's part strategy, too.

The Oucho Gaucho course is not designed to let you down easy. The whole thing builds up to the giant, neverending, multiple-mile hill that is Taylor Loop/Rahling Road. It goes up, up, up, up, up. Most people just walked it. I started counting light poles and making little deals with myself, like "Ok, if you run past four poles you can walk to the next one." Repeat.

Finally, finally, I crested the top and sped downhill to the parking lot, which was now in view. 2:16. According to a bunch of people's Garmins, the course was short. Most said it was 13.5. I'd figured as much; there was no way I'd done 14 in 2:16 with that many hills. I didn't care. It was a grueling run and I'd done it in roughly 10: pace, with no stupid acorn injuries, no slipping on ice (some idiots had their sprinkler system on and the sidewalk and road were frozen), not too much whining, and no crying. (Yes, there has been crying before...I need to write about that.)

People's heads were steaming as we stretched. My head, hat, and faceBuff had ice crusted on them. Frozen sweat. Ahh, I love running in winter.