NYC Marathon video!

At long last, here is the half-hour movie I made from the videos and photos I shot during this year's New York City Marathon.  I hope you enjoy it!

If you can't view it from here, try this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dS0KUf81cao

37 seconds of feeling like a pro

After a fantastic week of fast 400-meter intervals, a marathon-pace 13-miler, and easy short runs that were still strong, I crapped out on Thursday with an awful attempt at a tempo run, a six-miler that fell far short of the intended half-marathon pace, and an agonizing long run at a 8:45 pace.

Yesterday morning, I changed it up and did eight 200-meter intervals in preparation for this weekend's Passaic Chanukah 5K Race. The point of these short repeats was to push the pace as much as possible, to teach my body what it really means to truly go all out.

These short bursts averaged 38 seconds apiece, but one of those repeats was 37. This was monumentally significant. Why, you ask?
 
Since a mile is 1609 meters (or a slight bit more than four laps around the track), 200 meters (a half-lap) is roughly an eighth of a mile. Multiply 37 seconds by eight and you get 4:56.

That's right - for a little more than a half-minute, I ran at a sub-5:00 pace. Wow.

Of course, I would never be able to sustain that, even to 400 meters.  My best 400 was 1:18, four years ago, and that extrapolates to a 5:12 pace.  But for just a moment yesterdat - or 37 of them - I was able to feel the speed of the pros.  And it was quite amazing.

Trinity Academy Reindeer Run 5K

I have been following Hal Higdon's training programs since day one, so as per usual, the post-marathon plan was five weeks of marathon recovery, shifting gears to focus on the short and fast training. The plan culminates in a 5K and, I am happy to say, it often results in a PR or something close to it.

In fact, the last time I did it, in April after the Lower Potomac River Marathon, I did indeed (and rather unexpectedly) get a personal record at the Got 2B Safe 5K.  I wasn't expecting as much this time, but I threw my heart, soul and legs into this year's Trinity Academy Reindeer Run 5K with all my might.

I had run this race last year and nailed a third place overall finish with an 18:35.  So this year I knew to expect the incline for the first half and the decline for the second, and also that it consisted of only four turns, one of which is actually more like a veer than a pace-killing turn.

Expecting the competition to be similar to last year, I placed myself at the front at the start, so imagine my surprise when more than a dozen runners surged forth in front of me at the "go" signal.  Right off the bat, I watched the two major front-runners (at a sub-5:00 pace!) cruise off into the distance behind the pace car.

The first mile was clocked at 6:05, which was not acceptable; not with the speed work and pace runs I had been killing myself with, so I picked up the pace, no matter how much it hurt.  And it did hurt.

There was no clock at the second mile marker and I did not care, because no matter what numbers were, it would not have detracted from the mission of the next six minutes - to run as absolutely fast as I possibly could.

As I did just that, I started closing in on the teenager ahead of me. But as I got close, he must have heard me coming up behind him, so he pulled away.  This only caused me to push more.  And because I chased that kid with all my might, I saw the clock at the finish line - directly placed, rather unfortunately, after the one hard sprint-wrecking 90-degree turn - still in the 18:00 range.

I finished with an 18:40 (which means I averaged 5:57 for the second and third miles - nice!), only five seconds off of last year's result, but with this year's stiff competition, I placed 15th.  Still, of the 38 dudes in my new age group of 40-44, I placed Numero Uno and that makes me feel extra good about the work I put into it (not to mention the comfy, warm winter hat I received as a prize!).  Plus, 13th out of 341 total males and 15th out of more than 700 is something of which I am certainly proud. 

This race has everything I like in a 5K - a great course, a friendly vibe (great for families, by the way, with lots of kids' activities), wonderful people, excellent organization, and plenty of post-race bagels, bananas and hot chocolate.  And it is at a perfect time of year to recharge after an October or November marathon.  I may very well do it again next year.

Full results: www.compuscore.com/cs2014/novdec/caldrein.htm

Summers of 1994, 2004 and 2014

They sound like a band on a mission, crossing the country with a new album in tow and a sense of purpose. They hit the new songs hard, and long before the tour even ends the new tunes are instant classics - jam vehicles that soar, pop numbers that swing, funk that shakes. Everyone leaves the shows feeling good about what they experienced, and the hardcore fans are excited to hear what comes next. 

That description applies equally to Phish in the summers of 1994 and 2014. 

Of course, in 1994 they played a heck of a lot more shows. They were in the process of conquering the country, making sure every college kid got a taste of this new thing they were offering. Summer tour that year was an extension of the spring tour, as they promoted 'Hoist' while perfecting and stretching the songs of the first Phish decade. I defy you to find one "Tweezer" that was not phenomenal; a "David Bowie" that did not destroy everyone by the time of its frenzied ending; or a "You Enjoy Myself" that did not serve its multiple purposes of booty-shaking, nirvana-reaching and vocal weirdness. 

While each show was stunning in its own right, there is an amazing arc that can be heard when listening to all of it straight through. The band is still improving and the audience is still learning what these guys are all about. Audiences were being encouraged to follow along on these strange musical journeys - the Gamehendge story was told in its entirety for the last two times. Musical teases and references were being carried over from one show to the next. A connection developed between band and audience, linking show to show. 

The jams were wild and experimental, the solos were raging and peaking, the bluegrass was fast and energetic. However, Phish had not quite learned how to reach the depths of dirty funk yet. A friend of mine once differentiated music that sounded vertical vs. horizontal. I can not explain it, but I totally got it. Phish was very vertical at the time; it would be a few years before they got horizontal. 

Twenty years later, Phish has lost the youthful energy that sent every "Split Open and Melt" wailing into the stratosphere, made every "Run Like an Antelope" a thorough workout, and made every "Sparkle" end with such frenetic speed that it was difficult to even find the downbeat. But experience, patience and practice has breathed new life into the oldest songs and given the new tracks the meat on which to gnaw. 

"Everybody gets a 'Fuego'" was a meme on Twitter as Phish broke its old rule about playing any songs two nights in a row. And why not? "Fuego" is such a fantastic new song that to deprive a one-show venue of it just because it was played at the previous one is ridiculous. 

Phish made its own rules and broke them as summer 2014 got underway. It continued the no-cover-songs edict that began when they broke that other rule last Halloween about covering another artist's album. Then the band broke that rule, too, as covers started creeping back in. 30 years into their career together, these four guys still know how to keep us guessing. 

While "Tweezer" took a backseat as the major powerhouse, other classics like "Chalk Dust Torture" and "Bathtub Gin" kept the jam juices flowing. Elsewhere, the funk of "Sand", the bright positivity of "Light", and the accelerating tension of "Piper" provided forums for the kinds of improvisation that could not have been achieved 20 years ago. The 1994 Phish certainly did not have the greasy groove of "555" or effortlessly silly syncopation of "Wombat". 

Plus, what Phish lacked in amount of shows this summer, it made up for in length of each. The average 1994 show was around two and a half hours. The average 2014 show exceeded three, with one show in Maryland (the wackiest show of the tour, with crazy song segues and a hilarious Jon Fishman vocal/vacuum turn) clocking in at three and a half. I can run a marathon to that show. 

And then there is the summer of 2004. Coming halfway between a summer of growth and a summer of rebirth, it was a summer of finality. The announcement came in May that the June and August shows would be the last. My tour buddy for the first leg, Jesse Jarnow, said at the time that he wanted it to be like a Viking funeral. 

At first, I thought he might have gotten his wish for a two month ending that sent the whole thing off in a glorious blaze. The first few shows were surprisingly good, with killer jams, tight execution and a surprise visit from Jay-Z. But the ship started sinking prematurely when it became obvious that Trey Anastasio had such a hard time playing the parts he had written. 

The plus side was that for every flubbed composed part, there was a jam around the corner that went places the band had never gone before and would only occasionally visit since. Every jam was long and weird. It was not unusual for a set to have only five or six songs, for jams to go on for 20 minutes. For that alone, 2004 holds a special place for me. 

Still, the final weekend in Coventry was a mess. I shudder to think of the difficulties getting there - sitting still on a highway for 36 hours, waiting for something to happen; getting out and walking when they said the mud was too thick to let any more cars in; being driven closer to the venue by locals for five bucks. And I cringe when I listen to how poorly almost every song was played (though there were some good bits). Instead of a fantastical, fiery send-off, it all landed with a thud. 

The "4" summers are all important parts of the 30-year Phish story. 1994 saw the band reaching new heights in an arc that would continue for another five years. 2004 brought the band's second era to a disappointing and confusing close. And 2014 echoed 1994 as the trajectory of musical growth that began anew five years ago continues to rocket skyward.

Prelude to the TCS New York City Marathon

I said I would never do it. I could not understand why people would want to go through the expensive, logistical hassle of showing up at 6 a.m. on a November morning, waiting four hours to run with 45,000 other people through the streets of New York City. It did not make sense to me.

I did not get it.

The morning was cold and windy. I dressed as if it was winter, bundled up with old sweaters, gloves and a scarf that I would discard when the race was underway. The other folks in Montclair, dressed only in their race clothes, looked at me like I was a weirdo as we piled onto the buses and shared in the bagel breakfast provided for us by the Essex County Running Club.

But once we got to Fort Wadsworth on Staten Island, bundling up turned out to be the wisest move. Thousands of people waited to be called to their corrals on the Verrazano Bridge as the minutes ticked slowly by; some shivering, others huddled for warmth, some (like me) wrapped up in as much material as possible.

At that point, I began my video chronicle of the day's events, which I am in the process of putting together to present to you, so I will say no more...

...except this:

I totally get it now.

The real reason for the pre-race jitters

If there was any doubt before, this removes it. The real reason for my pre-race jitters has nothing to do with the actual running and everything to do with logistics.

The NYC Marathon is, of course, spectacularly organized. But it is still 50,000 people and that means the entire morning leading up to the race is one giant pain in the ass. 

Consider that I live about 30 miles from the start line but I have to leave five hours before my 9:40 start. Or that I'll be in a muddy field (thanks to all that rain yesterday) in cold wind for at least two of those hours. Or that I can only bring certain approved items to said field. Hours of pure discomfort before running 26.2 miles is nobody's idea of a good time. 

And so, I lie awake worrying about that stuff.

As for the actual running, things were looking up for a while. After a couple of tough weeks of slow, worn out running, something clicked and I suddenly felt like me again. On my short runs, I hit my first sub-seven miles since the marathon and all were negative splits. 

My 18 miler on felt so good that I ran an extra mile at the end and still managed to negative split it, too. Granted, it was a 7:59 average pace, but at least I knew I can go the distance again.

But last week was back to the doldrums. My legs felt like lead in the short runs and my painstakingly slow 21-miler along the Patriots Path in Morris County averaged more than nine minutes per mile. 

The rest of the week consisted of three slow three-milers. It is anyone's guess what I will manage to muster today in New York City. 

And really, I do not care. At this point I want to just get to the starting line without falling apart.

Things are not going as well as hoped

Sunday was a beautiful day with mild autumn weather. Perfect day for a long run. The plan: 16 miles on an out-and-back chunk of the Lenape Trail from the end of the rail trail in Verona to Brookdale Park in Bloomfield.

I had previously run this section in the opposite direction, for which most of the trail was well-marked (with the exception of the left turn on Alexander Avenue in Montclair).  The eastbound direction was not as clearly blazed.

Once off the rail trail and heading uphill to Cedar Grove, I lost the trail for a bit, but knew that Ridge Road was dead ahead, so I kept moving onward until I got there. After a short stint on Ridge, the trail hooks through the woods past the reservoir as it continues uphill into Montclair.  For a moment, when there were no yellow blazes in sight and it was a lot harder to figure out where to go. While searching for some yellow, my leg got wrapped up in a downed branch which took me down, lacerating my leg in the process.

I felt the blood trickling down, but refused to look at it.  This was only the fourth mile and I was not going to get psyched out by the sight of a large wound with 12 miles to go.

Finally catching sight of a bit of yellow, I accidentally followed it to a link trail which used yellow with a black dot in the middle for its blazes.  I did not notice the black dots initially, so I ended up at a trailhead in an unfamiliar spot.  Thankfully, there was a map nearby and I got back on the main trail.

By the time of the turnaround in Brookdale Park, I was losing it. Low-8 miles became high-8 miles.  Then 9s, finishing the run (back through those thick woods) with painful 10s and 11s.

If I am going to run NYC in a few weeks, I need to plan on a slow, slow race.  But then, was that not the point when I first was offered the chance to do it?

No pressure, Daniel.  Keep reminding yourself.  No pressure.

A funny thing happened on the way to recovery

Somewhere in Mile 24 of last week's Clarence DeMar Marathon, I had made my mind up. Never again would I put my body through this torture. My racing days are officially over, I told myself.

After finishing, I told my mom that, too. And anyone else who would listen.

The day after the race I was sore as expected, having thoroughly exhausted my energy and depleted my muscles of everything they had. The fact that the result of that effort (3:24:21) was less than desirable made the mental fatigue as great as the physical.

Even my two worst marathons did not have this effect. After the 3:54:10 of the Fortitude for First Descents Marathon in 2012, I refused to rest and instead jumped right back into training to run the Central Park Marathon two months later (at which I nailed a 3:06:28, my third best). After last year's Park City Marathon (3:51:31), I vowed to get moving again and placed third overall with a 3:18:31 at the Fort Myers Beach Marathon three months later.

Though last week's race beat those by a half-hour, I could not help but feel like it was over. I have experienced "the wall" too many times now and could not bear to go through it again. Oh, I will still run marathons for fun, I said to myself, but my racing days are over.

Tuesday, I felt no better, but I started thinking about a proposition by a friend of mine who offered to sell me his NYC Marathon bib for a hundred bucks.

Yes, I know it is unethical to run with the bib of someone else.  But perhaps, I reasoned, if I do New York City without the pressure of having to perform up to my usual expectations, I can restore the joy of marathon running that got lost last weekend.

I looked up Hal Higdon's Multiple Marathon training guide and got back outside on Wednesday and Thursday for some slow short runs. Saturday I did an equally slow six-miler, but with more strength, more confidence.

Sunday's 14-mile easy run included my first sub-8 mile since the middle of last week's marathon. The rest of this week's runs were all at sub-8 pace. Suddenly, I started thinking that not only was a marathon in four weeks possible, but a decent time goal was possible, too.

Within a week, my whole attitude changed from "never again" to "I can do it again in four weeks". I will see how the rest of this week pans out, then make my decision. If things continue to look up, then I will see you in New York City.  

But you will not know it is me because I shall not divulge the name of the person whose bib I will use.

The Clarence DeMar Marathon (Part Two)

Part Two - Race Day

From the outset, the mantra was always "Run the race for which you trained."

When I felt great and was tempted to speed up, that mantra reminded me to hang back. When I started doubting and slowing down, it helped me keep up speed. So when things started falling apart at Sunday's Clarence DeMar Marathon in Keene, N.H., I kept questioning why. What did I do wrong? Why is this not working?

We were bussed to the start line in Gilsum, where I did a very slow warmup mile. It was a chilly morning in the mid-50s, but it would quickly heat up to the high 70s by noon. The gun went off and I cruised down the first big hill a little too quickly, with a 7:03 mile, but talking to Shannon McGinn, a fellow New Jerseyan, in the second mile helped me dial it back, doing mile two at 7:20. I probably should have hung back some more, but I did not want to start out with too great a deficit in my 7:08 pace goal, so I said goodbye to Shannon and pushed up a small hill in the third, only to cruise into the downhills at 6:49 and 7:01 for the next two miles.

"Run the race for which you trained."

Knowing I was too far ahead of my goal, I pulled back, taking the next few miles at 7:12, 7:10 and 7:18. Back on track, I pushed a little, but I surprised myself with a 6:58 in the eighth, so I pulled back again, taking the next few miles even more slowly than the others - 7:18, 7:29, 7:21 - enjoying the scenery of running along the water and knowing that it would not be time to truly race until after the halfway mark. 

Mile 12 had the part with the dam in Surrey and the sight was too gorgeous to rush through, so I took one more slow mile at 7:17 and decided it was time to start moving. But I suddenly did not feel able to do so.

For one thing, my stomach started getting those unsettled feelings that have plagued me too often in the past. The questions started - Was it the pre-race Clif Bar? The Shot Block gel in the 9th? The morning coffee?

"Run the race for which you trained."

This time it meant to speed up, no matter what. My body told me to slow down, but my mind disagreed. So I pushed, only to end up with a 7:25. At the halfway point, I think I was on pace for a 3 hours and 12 minutes. Fine. Keep pushing for the 7:08s and get as close as possible.

Mile 14 was uphill along the golf course, and I motored through it at 7:11, giving me a renewed confidence which was shattered a mile later when all I could muster was 7:45 with the same effort. The 7:21 in the 16th was to be the fastest of the final 12 miles.
 
Still, I felt like this race could be salvaged. After all, 3:07:00 was an ideal goal, but 3:14:59 (the Boston qualifying time) was good, too. And it was still do-able, even with a 7:42, 7:46 and 7:35 in the miles through a loop in a residential area on Keene's outskirts and toward Wheelock Park. Heck, I was still in 25th place, where I had been most of the race. If I was slowing down, so was everyone else.

But slowing even more to a 7:53 in the 20th, I knew things were getting irreversibly bad.

The next mile was the mystery trail mile which started with a big downhill, went under the highways (Routes 9, 10 and 12) and ended with a big uphill.

And that was where I hit the wall.

Cresting the hill and running into the main residential section of Keene, I hit the 21 mark with an 8:14. As I passed a sign that said, "Remember, you PAID to do this!" I had to chuckle to myself.

But there was no laughter left in 22, as I struggled to muster an 8:27, beating myself up physically and mentally, trying to figure out how it all went so wrong again. Then I heard a voice behind me call my name. Realizing it was Shannon, I uttered, "Oh shit."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she asked as she passed me by, while still nicely offering some encouragement after I essentially insulted her. I spent a lot of time afterward wondering why "oh shit" was my reaction, and I guess it was because she told me she was gunning for 3 hours and 20 minutes. If she was passing me, then I was way off my own goal.

And it would only get worse - 8:42, 9:12, 9:37 - as more runners passed me along the rolling hills of the cemetery.  I searched my body for any extra strength I could find. At this point, I was merely surviving. The last mile was a dismal 10:01, which was weird because I felt like I was rallying to the finish and I thought for sure I had picked it up for one last bit of oomph.

At the turn into Keene State College for the finish line, there were people cheering so loudly, I had to hold back from crying. I thanked the crowd for being so great and pushed to the line where, in the last few yards, I saw Mom holding a sign that read, "Go Dan! 40 - Fast and proud!"

I heaved my deadening body into the finish line at 3:24:21, hugged Mom, and tried my best to make sense of what had happened.

I saw Shannon and apologized for the "oh shit". She did phenomenally well - a 3:15 with a negative split. Had I stuck with her, I would have had a much better race.

But therein lies the rub. I could have shot for a 3:15 or 3:20 and gotten it. But then I would have always wondered if the 3:07 was possible had I taken the risk and reached for it. I said in this very blog last week that I have to learn to sacrifice a few minutes to save several, and I thought I was doing so by going for 3:07 instead of a PR. So, no regrets.

Now it is back to the drawing board - figure out what to do next and rearrange my goals. While my peers are peaking at age 40, I will be aiming lower.

But that is the whole point - you train for a race and you run the race for which you trained. Whatever the goal, and whether or not you achieve it, is irrelevant. The success is in having the guts to stick to it. For my next race, I will train for a race that is less risky and I will run that race accordingly.



For Shannon's excellent account of her fantastic race, see http://shannon-creatingmomentum.blogspot.com/2014/10/an-anecdotal-study-of-impact-of.html

The Clarence DeMar Marathon

Part One - Pre-race
The first and most important thing to note about the DeMar Marathon is that it is possibly the most well-organized, runner-friendly race that I have encountered. From the moment I entered the beautiful city of Keene on Friday, I felt welcomed by the town and the race organization.

The first stop was Ted's sporting goods store for early packet pickup, where the five ladies at the registration table sang "Happy Birthday" to me. How is that for a welcoming committee?

I spent Saturday morning exploring downtown Keene with my mom, who accompanied me on this trip for support and to celebrate my 40th birthday. In the afternoon, we drove the race course, scoping out the turns, terrain, and sights, so there would be no surprises for me the next day. The map we were given was excellent, the turns were already clearly marked, and the mostly downhill course was beautiful. 

For those who enjoy country scenery, this course has it all - babbling brooks, farmhouses, a golf course, hills in the distance, colorful autumn leaves while running on residential streets, through parks and a cemetery, and even along top of a dam

Here's Mom and me at the W.S. Badger Company in Gilsum, the starting line for this point-to-point race:

The course runs along some lovely rivers and streams:
 

...and over the top of the Surrey Dam:
 

One mile was along a bike/hike trail, so that would remain a mystery until Sunday because we could not drive it.

Saturday evening's pasta dinner included a presentation by Gary Allen, a sub-three-hour marathon runner in five consecutive decades, which included inspiring stories from his experiences and about Clarence DeMar. At my table, I helped impart wisdom to a first-time marathoner and gained some from a veteran of races in almost all 50 states. 

Adding that to the Friday lunch I had with my own personal marathon guru, Tim Norris, the man who helped me get started down the marathon path, and you can say I had all the mental tools for Sunday's race.  I even got a pretty good night's sleep.  I was content knowing that I did everything right for this race.

Marathon running at 40

Today I turn 40 years old. With that comes a new age group and a new Boston qualifying time, which serves as a great benchmark for goal-setting.

But really, what changes at 40? How different will Sunday's race be from the one I ran six months ago?

The aging process can not be stopped, so at some point we all have to live with PRs as a thing of the past. Runner Dave Griffin wrote a book called 'After the Last PR' which I would like to read in the future.

And yet, in the short distances, I have defied the usual expectations of running into my late 30s. Who else gets personal records in short races at age 39? Short races are young men's games, yet I managed to get PRs in the 5K, four mile, five mile and 15K distances, and even place high above many of my younger competitors.

Even if you take into consideration, that I started running at 30, I still can't imagine there are too many people who are hitting short-race  PRsat the end of their first decade in the sport.

With the marathon, I have defied expectations in very much the wrong way. Most marathon men I know hit their PR at or around 40. Yet I can not seem to top my 3:04:42 from the Eisenhower Marathon in Abilene, KS., in 2009 at age 34. Not for lack of trying, of course. 

While my 3:06 finishes in the Missoula and Central Park marathons were at least close, the excrutiating wall-hitting, stomach-turning nightmares of Gansett (though with a surprising 3:13), Fortitude for First Descents (the nadir at 3:54) and Park City (a close second-worst at 3:53) are experiences I do not want to re-live. Because of those crash-and-burn experiences, I do not think it wise to use the occasion of my 40th birthday to try again for a PR. 

Perhaps then, marathon running at 40 means running smarter, if not always faster. In that sense, I already began my journey into Masters running in March, when I learned at my previous race that sacrificing a little bit of time and getting a 3:10 ends up being better than gunning for a record and ending up with a 3:54. It is a weird notion - trying a little less in order to gain a little more.

If that sounds like an excuse for playing it safe, so be it. But I can not take another marathon in the 3:50s. I would rather inch my way back toward the PR, even if I never get there.

Therefore, the idealistic goal is 3:07, enough to move my average up by one minute to 3:17.  That would put this race as my fourth best out of 12. Realistically, I can still be thrilled if I beat my new Boston qualifier time of 3:15. And even if I do not make that, beating my average time of 3:18 will make me happy.

What I want more than anything, though, is to not hit the wall, to finish strong and to feel good knowing that this is exactly the right way to spend my 40th birthday.

Three days until the Clarence De Mar Marathon

Preparing to run a marathon never seems to get easier. In fact, the training has been harder and the taper as nerve-racking as ever.

I do feel better about the taper this time around though. Perhaps that is a result of having trained harder - following Hal Higdon's Advanced plan exactly as prescribed, rather than with the earlier modification of substituting a walk day for an easy run day.

I ran the tempo runs with gusto (the middle thirds in the low 6 pace), pushed hard in the speed work (2:56 in the 800s), and tried to nail my goal in the pace runs (7:08s) without going to fast or slow. Between those quality workouts, I took my easy runs extra easy, doing even the short ones at around an 8:00 pace. Some of the long run paces were well over 8, in fact.

With the training behind me, I feel really good about resting for the next two days. The work is done. All that is left is to run the race.

21 miles along the Jersey shore

I live in New Jersey yet I rarely visit its renowned shoreline. Not that I have much of a reason to do so. I'm not much of a beach guy and, well, you know the type of people associated with the Jersey Shore.

But the idea of running along the famous boardwalks through several shore towns is appealing because it is a consistent flat stretch and the ocean breeze feels good on a warm day. So the Sunday after Labor Day, I headed down to Sea Girt for a 21-mile run through 10 Monmouth County shore towns.

Starting north along First Avenue through Sea Girt's Crescent Park, there was not much beach to see until crossing into Spring Lake, home of one of the shore's biggest five-mile races. The town has a beautiful boardwalk through its entire shoreline. Then it was a quick couple of blocks on the road over the town line, and back on a boardwalk through Belmar. I had to chuckle when I passed a frozen treats truck on the corner of 10th Avenue called 10th Avenue Freeze Out. Again, it was all boardwalk the whole way, and though I had to do some people-dodging on this beautiful sunny day with temps in the 70s, it was nothing but smooth sailing.

There is a drawbridge over the Shark River Inlet between Belmar and Avon by the Sea and it started going up just as I got to it. Using that downtime to check my Garmin GPS watch, I calculated that I had gone about four miles and was keeping a steady pace in the low 8:00s. It was exactly where I wanted to be for this last long run before the taper leading to my 12th marathon. This day was about covering the distance - no hill work, no speed work, only straight, flat running.

Back on the boardwalk through Avon by the Sea, Bradley Beach and the Ocean Grove section of Neptune, I could not get over what a perfect day it was - listening to a Phish show (7/5/94), running along these beautiful stretches of boardwalks with ease, and doing some people watching.

Asbury Park's boardwalk proved to be the busiest of the bunch that afternoon, but slowing down to maneuver through the people was no bother. I was not working against the clock. The only time goal was a negative split, so the slower I went in the first half, the easier that goal would be to achieve.

The boardwalk ends at the North Asbury Park border, so Ocean Avenue is the closest way to continue north through the two tiny municipalities of Loch Arbour (.141 square miles, population 193) and Allenhurst (.283 square miles, population 493), and into Deal and the Elberon section of Long Branch, the latter two with ridiculous, ostentatious mansions along the coastline. You know, the kind with gates to the driveway.

In Elberon, I hit the 10.5 mile mark, so I turned around and made my way back, pushing the pace a little bit to ensure that negative split. I built a small cushion of time through the next few miles, but lagged a bit through Bradley Beach and had to push harder than I should have needed to once over the drawbridge and back into Belmar.

In the end, I had to race the clock after all - exactly what I did not want to do, but I wanted the negative split. Pushing even harder just to get sub-8 miles, I chugged through Spring Lake. In the last two miles I expended every last bit of energy in the last two miles and wondered how I would run a marathon - at a faster pace for a longer distance - in only three weeks when I was struggling to merely achieve a eight-minute miles.

It was a close call, but I hit that negative split, finishing the second half a little less than a minute faster than the first, for a total of 21 miles in 2:49:55 (8:05 average pace).

Afterward, I drove back up to Asbury Park, cooled off by taking a dip in the ocean, took pictures of the old house in which my parents lived 43 years ago, and spent the evening experiencing the little joys of the town - eating ice cream, strolling the boardwalk, watching the sunset, and playing old pinball machines at the awesome Silverball Museum.

Running the Patriot's Path (or, at least, trying)

Where the Lenape Trail ends in Roseland, Essex County, the Patriots Path in East Hanover, Morris County, begins.  So I continued on...

Unfortunately, after the first mile or two, the trail is extremely overgrown with wild vegetation.  It seems to have been completely ignored for maintenance and path-clearing. At first, I tried to power through it, but as my legs got bloodied from thorn bushes, I could not take it anymore and turned back to the nearest road crossing (through the same bushes).  

Having lived in Morris County in the past, I have a general knowledge of the main roads, so I worked my way through some of the familiar streets and managed to keep meeting up with the path entrances off of the streets.  Each time I ventured back onto the trail, I was faced with the same problem.  Finally, somewhere in Hanover (or perhaps Parsippany-Troy Hills), I turned around and took the main roads back to my starting point, completing my 19-mile run, but not thrilled about the Patriots Path.

Today, I happened to speak with someone who told me that the western parts are much better maintained and easier to navigate.  With that knowledge, I hope to explore more of the trails the Patriots Path in the near future.

Running the Lenape Trail

After five years of running the short West Essex Trail (2.5 miles of former railroad from Little Falls through Cedar Grove and Verona), I finally began wondering about the yellow blazes on the trees in its southwestern portion. Some online research led me to find that the section is part of a larger entity called the Lenape Trail.

Named after a Native American tribe that once lived in the area, the Lenape Trail is not always, in fact, a trail. Rather, it starts in Newark and winds through Essex County, passing through several parks - sometimes on the roads, sometimes on paths, and sometimes through the woods.

Breaking it up into four separate runs, I tackled the first 13 miles by parking at Brookdale Park in Bloomfield/Montclair and taking a bus to Newark. Starting at Riverfront Park, I worked my way through city streets to beautiful Branch Brook Park. It was there I started following the yellow blazes.

Once out of the north end of the park, the blazes followed some more streets and a few small strips of land between properties in Belleville and Glen Ridge. It was not always easy to navigate - when you run, you can miss the blazes. But eventually, I worked my way into Bloomfield and to Brookdale Park. 

The second leg was from Brookdale Park to Fairview Avenue in Verona. This run took me straight up the little mountain in Montclair, through lots of steep, wooded areas with rough footing, and down around the reservoir in Cedar Grove before hooking up with the West Essex Trail into Verona. At that point, I took a more direct route back to Brookdale via the roads. If you follow one of the online maps of the trail, you can see that this section makes a lot of turns, so following a straight line back to Brookdale made the most sense in order to maximize the forward movement on the trail.
For the third leg, I did an out-and-back from Verona to West Orange, including another difficult stretch. After winding through several Verona side streets, I was faced with another heavily wooded, steep incline with difficult footing through Eagle Rock Reservation. Coming down from the mountain and into West Orange, the trail follows along power lines off of 280 along unkempt terrain - tall, weedy grass with lots of bugs - before landing back on the road in Roseland.

The final stretch is tricky right now because the trail continues to follow the power lines, but the sections are closed due to work by the power company. So I had to find the nearest roads and follow as best as I could until finally meeting up with the official trail again through Becker Park and crossing Eisenhower Parkway, finally ending along Eagle Rock Avenue at the Essex County Environmental Center and the Morris County line (where the Patriots Path begins). Then, of course, I had to turn around and get back, too.

Supposedly, there is a section of the trail that breaks off near Route 280. I was going to cover that in a separate run, but I couldn't find it.

If you run the trail, keep your eyes well peeled for the yellow blazes, but also have a good general idea of where the route is supposed to take you, just in case you miss a turn. Also, be prepared to run around the closed-off section - keep the power lines in sight and know where you need to end up. It is a fun adventure and well worth it the multiple trips if you live in northern New Jersey.

Marathon XII

After nailing four PRs in a row in as many short distance races (5K, four-mile, five-mile and 15K), I had grown weary of speed. It was time to switch gears and get back to longer, slower distance running. That means I needed to select a marathon. 

Looking for a late September race to coincide with my 40th birthday, I found the Clarence DeMar Marathon in Keene, N.H. It is a relatively small race, capped at 600, but it seems well known. When I mentioned it to a fellow runner, he recognized it immediately.

With a race date of Sept. 28, two days after I become a "Masters" runner (the only qualification for which, it seems, is to turn 40), it put me in week five of the 18-week Hal Higdon Advanced training program. I have jumped into training in the middle before, so it should not be too bad, but the past two long runs (19 and 20 miles) were pretty rough.

Nonetheless, I am determined to rock this race in my new age group. A PR is not necessary, a Boston qualifier would be preferred (especially since my qualifying time is pushed back to 3:15), but a solid race like the one I ran in March is all I truly want.

Spring 1994, 2004, and 2014

This year, I am determined to listen to every Phish show from the years ending in "4". Having completed all of the spring shows, I have found that the contrast between each of these three eras could not be greater.

1994 was a huge year for Phish and it started with a bang in the spring. First, they released a new album, 'Hoist', that featured big production and soundscapes inside compact songs. The tour kicked off accentuating those sounds by including a horn section in the first show. "Julius" became an instant classic as a result.

Throughout the tour, they hammered the new songs hard - "Sample in a Jar" was played at least once every two shows, "Down With Disease" only took days to become a scorcher, stretching out more through the weeks. Though "Wolfman's Brother" still had yet to find its footing (and its key change to "B"), the rest of the 'Hoist' songs easily slid into the repertoire as the band crossed the country, starting in their home state of Vermont, working its way through New York and New England, down the Atlantic Coast, swinging through the South, and barn-burning its way westward with a notable stop in Dallas on May 7 for what is widely considered to be one of the best sets ever.

This was a band on fire, tearing its way through the Southwest, then up the Pacific Coast, ending its massive run of 45 shows in 56 days with two nights at a multi-band festival in Monterey.

The benefits were incredible. The musicianship got sharper and more refined, the band members eventually seeming to be able to read each others' minds. Yet, as the playing got tighter, the players got looser, trying new things and challenging the audience to play along. What other band could play a major mid-sized concert hall and get the audience quiet enough to hear them play with zero amplification?

Speaking of the audience, we were really starting to get in tune with the program, too, becoming a bigger part of this thing that was itself becoming bigger than the four guys onstage. Want to hear the evolution of the clapping in "Stash" and the "Wilson" chant? They both started right there. (Little known fact - before the clapping took hold, some audiences tried to fill the spaces with a "woo!", almost two decades before the Tahoe "Tweezer"!)

If Spring 1994 showed a band breaking out, conquering the country while still continuing to discover its powers, Spring 2004 - which consisted of three shows - showed a band seemingly past its creative peak, drunk on itself, and showing up shitfaced to its own party. Though the improvisations were wilder and more adventurous than ever, the precision required to play the heavily composed parts had gone, especially in the case of Trey Anastasio. One month after those three fateful April shows in Las Vegas, Anastasio sent shockwaves through the community by announcing that at the end of the upcoming summer tour, Phish was done. Listen to those shows and try not to cringe.

A decade later, Phish played one single spring show. The 2009 reunion had run its course by the fall of 2013. After five years re-establishing its members as rock music's preeminent musicians, one thing was missing - new music. After the initial burst of songs from 2009's 'Joy', audiences were treated to myriad new cover songs (many of them only once each), but only a handful of new songs, and only a precious few of them had any staying power.

That all changed on Halloween, with its complete set of new songs. Good songs. The concept was pushed further for the four nights leading to New Year's - not one cover song was played. With that as the lead-in, the single spring show, at Jazz Fest in New Orleans, held a lot of weight. They played one cover that night, but more importantly, played with a renewed focus. And though nothing in particular stands out from that show, we now know they were merely winding up, getting ready to sock us hard. 20 years after taking the country by storm, they were getting ready to do it all over again as a more mature band that knows exactly what to do and how to do it.

Sunset Classic five-mile race in Bloomfield

Run enough races in one area and some names and faces will inevitably become familiar.
 
At the Sunset Classic, a five mile race in Bloomfield that has been a fixture on the North Jersey running scene since the early 1980s, I saw my one-time arch nemesis Sergio Cano, who bested me in a series of races in 2010, as well as Maria Danna, who had so handily whipped me at the St. Jude's 15K earlier this month. There were also familiar running clubs - Clifton Road Runners, Garmin Runners, etc.

After the St. Jude's race, without any set marathon plans yet, I signed up for the Sunset because I always need something on my race schedule.

During the two weeks of intense training aimed at beating my PR of 30:24 from the 2010 Ho Ha Classic in Hoboken, I finished each workout with only the slightest bit of confidence that the 6:03 pace goal would happen.

It seems so long ago that I had first run this race in 2009 but I remembered one very important thing - at the left turn on Sunset Avenue, just after the first mile mark, there is a huge hill.

Gliding along with little effort, I was astonished to see the clock at 5:44 when I passed the first mile mark. I passed Maria and bounded up the hill figuring I would lose much of the gained time. Surprisingly, after turning left on Forest Avenue with some more uphill work, I hit the second mile with a 5:48.  I deliberately slowed to what felt like a crawl despite the cheers of the spectators and Maria passing me. It felt unnatural to slow down that much, but this was not a 5K - I was barely halfway done so I had to conserve some energy.

Run the race for which you trained, I kept telling myself. That meant a 6:03 pace, and it meant giving back those 34 seconds. Instead of using the downhill to gain ground, I relaxed around the turns on Osbourne Street and Essex Avenue. With a 6:24 third mile, I was closer to my target time but still ahead by 13 seconds. The math started swirling in my head - a 6:09 for each of the two remaining miles will net me a PR.  Certainly I can do that!

Except I suddenly could not. Was it the humidity, the 83-degree heat, the fact that I had started way too fast? Whatever it was, I was losing steam. Quickly. I pushed hard, but even with the downhill of the turn on Glen Ridge Parkway, I only managed a 6:12 in Mile Four. 

Back on Broad Street with only one mile to go, I had to pull a 6:06 or better.  I was grunting, groaning, and pushing with all my might, but never really feeling like I was accelerating. Downtown, spectators, energy, focus, push.

James Street, JFK Drive, home stretch, Foley Field....

Ah, Foley Field and the track finish.  There is something about finishing a race this way that lends an advantage to those of us that do interval training on tracks.  No matter how spent I felt, once we were on the track for the last 300 meters, my body instinctively kicked into high gear. Running tall with full leg extension, I overtook Maria and saw the clock just hitting 30:00 as I rounded the last turn. Finishing with a 30:11 (and Maria a mere half-second behind me), I had knocked out that last mile in 6:02.

It was exhilirating, but I was hurting, out of breath, light-headed, gasping in the humid air, and just about ready to puke.  I cheered for the next few dozen people coming around the track, and grabbed a water and a soda (no Gatorade?), and a yogurt (no bananas?). There was a barbecue set up with hot dogs - how nice, unless you are a vegetarian. I ate a plain bun while regaining the strength to be a cheerleader for the next few hundred runners, staying on the sidelines to cheer everyone in, right down to the last of the 600-plus participants.

Tenth place overall, second in my age group (though winning the first prize of a $20 gift certificate to the Fleet Feet running store in Montclair, because the first male age 35 to 39 was in the top three overall), and most importantly, a new PR made this another excellent experience. This would be the last race in my 30s. What a way to wrap up my first decade of running - four PRs in as many distances, over the course of three months.  Not to mention my fourth best marathon that had preceded them.

The Sunset Classic is a well-organized and enjoyable event for runners of all skill levels. It is not an easy course but the evening setting, mile clocks, track finish and hundreds of runners and spectators provide a quality experience. The selection of post-race food and drink could be improved, but overall this late-June mainstay in Bloomfield has enough to keep going another 30 years and more.

A confession about "Split Open and Melt"

After seeing much praise heaped upon the "Split Open and Melt" from last weekend's Randall's Island Phish shows, I must make a confession:

I do not really enjoy that song anymore, and haven't in a very long time, certainly not in the 3.0 era.

The jams are always interesting, there is no doubt. Sometimes, they hit on textures that are intense, thick and dark. The soundscapes they create can suck you into their vortex and envelop you. So why do I feel unfulfilled?

I have finally figured it out: It feels like those things do not belong in "Melt". If those same sounds were in, say, a "Sand" jam, I would be singing their praises all day. But every "Melt" feels like a missed opportunity to push for high, peaking jams, not thick, horizontal jams. I do not consider myself one of those old fans that longs for the past, but the 1990's "Melts" did it the way I like it - from the early '90s machine-gun soloing by Trey Anastasio to the all-in funky workouts of 1999. The pinnacle was 7/15/99 and, I dare say, I have not been nearly as moved by the song since that day in Holmdel, 15 years ago.

As a phan who first saw Phish in 1993 but has seen almost as many shows in the past five years than I did in 1.0 and 2.0 combined (I am a total 3.0 booster!), it pains me to say it. But the best days of "Melt" are long gone.

Phish at Randall's Island, July 13

Phish at Randall's Island, July 13

For my last show of the tour, I was determined to do it right, starting with getting there. I went for the simplest approach on Sunday - on foot. It was long run day anyway, and I needed to cover 16 miles.

I made a tentative route plan from Rutherford train station (so I could take the train back home) and used my phone's GPS for specific directions while my Garmin watch kept track of the distance. I hit the 10 mile mark on the George Washington Bridge, so I added a detour into the Bronx to pad it out to 16 miles.

The next step was to find a good spot with room to dance - and other dancers, too. My best memories of dancing at Phish shows involve being around others that are whirling and revelling as I am. I found that spot slightly in front and to the left of the midfield speaker racks on Mike Gordon's side.

The "Sand" opener threw down the gantlet early - it was time to get funky and it was now or never. Suddenly I was dancing like I had not just run 16 miles. On paper, to follow quickly with "Winterqueen" would seem like killing the buzz that only just started, but something about this ballad works so well. When Trey solos, the magical overtones of the lyrics seep into his playing and the notes sound like pretty colors painting a brilliant landscape. The fact that the song lasted roughly the same amount of time as "Sand" should tell you how much faith Phish has in this song to move people.

The rest of the set kept it mostly old school - five songs from the 1980's  - "Reba", with a lovely jam as well; "Possum", thankfully not placed as encore or set-closer; "Runaway Jim", with some excellent dynamics; "Bouncing Around the Room"; and "Split Open and Melt" which was interesting but did nothing to help my continued disappointment with the song - and three more from the 1990's ("Birds of a Feather", a knockout "Maze", and the tour debut of "Water in the Sky"). There was nothing from later than 1998 in the set except "Winterqueen".

The second set was the kind for which I had hoped at my last show of the tour. The opening "Chalk Dust Torture" took the ball from the previous one (only three shows ago) and ran. Just when I thought the Mann "Chalk Dust" would be THE one of the tour, out comes this 28-minute extravaganza that did everything right except not actually end (I have a thing about that). The band was so hooked up, they could not have played bad notes if they tried. And if the lack of a cohesive ending was a problem, well, there is "Light". When a jam is abruptly cut off for a new song, "Light" is usually the best choice to come crashing in (7/10/13 comes to mind). Heck, it is even in the studio version. The band sounds like they are playing "Gone" and then BAM - the clang of B and E chords!

"Light" always delivers a mountain range of peaks and valleys and this was no different. What absolutely slayed the crowd after 40-minute one-two punch of "Chalk > Light", was Phish launching into "Tweezer". After playing the shortest "Tweezer" in four years at the Mann, they gave this one more leg room. I spun around and saw all the other people dancing and going nuts nearby. That moment clinched it - this was exactly what I had hoped for in a great Phish show. So when "Wading in the Velvet Sea" came next, it was no less than wonderful to hear my all-time favorite Phish ballad played so beautifully in the calm glow of the 52 minutes of jammed out perfection that had come before.

The show could have easily ended there. I have seen amazing sets of Phish that came short of the one-hour mark (12/30/94). Instead, "Sing Monica". Not the best placement for the pop-rock tune, with such a changeup in the vibe. But things switched back after that detour with the set-ending "Slave to the Traffic Light", delivering the goods in a blissed-out building jam that squeezed all the emotion possible out of its sweet four-chord progression.

"Backwards Down the Number Line" seemed like an odd encore at first. As usual, it had a shaky start, but Trey Anastasio brought it home to a satisfying conclusion before leveling the place with the power of "Tweezer Reprise".

On the ferry heading back to Manhattan, the amazing feeling that this show was everything I had wanted was mixed with the sadness that I will not be attending any more shows this summer. My mother asked me, "After nine shows, aren't you all Phished out?"

Not a chance. I look forward to hearing the rest of the tour as the recordings become available. I do not want to miss one thing.

Set list:
Set I: Sand, Winterqueen, Reba, Birds of a Feather, Water in the Sky, Possum, Runaway Jim, Bouncing Around the Room, Maze, Split Open and Melt

Set 2: Chalk Dust Torture > Light > Tweezer, Wading in the Velvet Sea, Sing Monica, Slave to the Traffic Light

E: Backwards Down the Number Line > Tweezer Reprise

Phish at Randall's Island, July 12

It was a weird night. And this is a long post, but I have to tell this story.

Trying something different Saturday night, I drove into Manhattan and parked on a street nine blocks away from the ferry landing. Though it took a little while to negotiate the traffic getting there and finding the spot, I figured it would get me home more quickly, so I could get up and do a 16-mile run before last night's show.

I placed myself within the front few rows on Mike Gordon's side, determined to soak up the show, fully immersed in the music. From the predictable opener of "AC/DC Bag" to the out-of-control "Run Like an Antelope" closer, Phish showed again how the first set is not to be dismissed as a warmup.

When "46 Days" came crashing into the second song slot, it seemed it was going to be a balls-out rock set, and though "Free" gave us some more crunch later in the set, Phish's trademark left turns kept things more interesting than that. "My Sweet One", "Sparkle" (back in its usual first set placement), the pop cheerfulness of "Devotion to a Dream", and falsetto backing vocals of "The Line" brought happy vibes throughout the set. Interspersed, though, were some darker moments - the jams in "Free" and "A Song I Heard the Ocean Sing", plus the minor-key but optimistic "Halfway to the Moon". "Back on the Train" provided some comedy when a sloppy ending to a great jam led the band (with some audience prompting) to re-do the end twice more (neither time getting it right).

More than a year after its debut, I am still not a fan of "Yarmouth Road", but being uprfront and so close made for a good experience with the song. But that positive up close experience was to be short-lived, for now I present to you a tale of how some audience members can ruin your Phish show...

I staked out my spot early. That is just what you do. If you want to be in the front, you have to be willing to get up there and stay there for hours. No one likes the assholes that decide, when the set starts, to shove their way through the crowd and squeeze into the front, causing (a) less dancing room for all and (b) blocked sight lines for shorter folks.

I encountered two such groups of dipshits. The first was as set one was ending. A group of three dirtbags forced their way in front of me, one so close and with such disregard for personal space that I caught a mouthful of his disgusting hair. He was that close. I understand it is a rock concert and people up front are in close quarters, but to stand literally two inches in front of me, so within the span of seconds I went from seeing a full view of the band to seeing only the back of someone's head, with his hair in my mouth? Come on.

Having inched my way left around hair guy, I started the second set excited about "Punch You in the Eye" when out of nowhere, a huge Cro-Magnon of a man crashed his way, you guessed it, directly in front of me, his elbow connecting solidly with my head. Again, I shifted left, around his petite wife (I swear she was a foot and a half shorter than he) who proceeded to blab in my ear once "Carini" started about how it is her favorite song.

Why was she talking to me and not her husband about this? Clearly, she is the Phish fan and he is the muscle to get her up front for every show. I told her flat out that I did not like that tactic and that they ruined my vibe (I mentioned the elbow, too). She apologized, but really, what good was that? It is not like she apologized and then moved back. It is like stealing somebody's wallet, apologizing, then keeping the money.

But even that girl became my ally when I was faced with a whole new type of wack-job. When I skirted left, I found myself in front of two particularly short folks. I am five feet, 10 inches - average, I would say - and behind me was a girl that was five feet at best. I felt bad that I was now in *her* way, so I asked her if she had an OK sight line. She said she did, but the gentleman next to her, and not much taller, was clearly having an issue. He tried working his way toward me and I was more than happy to let him pass when he encountered two guys in front of us - one older (50s with a short grey beard and bald head save for the male-pattern friar tuck ring) and one younger (shifty looking and gaunt) who stood firmly with both feet on the ground and whom I noticed were watching the show with absolutely no expression. To their left was at least one other guy that seemed to be with them, and in front of them was a huge open space with three girls and two odd-looking guys dancing around in it.

I asked the two creepy guys if they could move a bit so the short guy could get in on some of that dancing room. They did not even turn to look at me. I asked again. This time they turned their heads, almost in unison, as if to say, "I heard you and I am ignoring you."

I asked a third time and the old man said, "No." As I protested, he just kept saying, "No. No. No. No," even as I gently leaned on them to get them to part.

Meanwhile, Cro-Magnon's wife was working on the sketchy younger dude whom she said told her, "Stay away from our girls!" and pushed her back whe she tried to scoot around him. Perhaps he got a little scared that Cro-Mag would hurt him, so he softened a bit and talked with her.

From what he told her and what we could figure out, everyone in the group was related - the three guys formed the wall (perhaps there were even more farther left?) so the rail-thin girls dancing like they were doing ancient pagan rituals and the odd-looking dancing guys with the vacant eyes all could have more room than anyone else near the front. They were either inbred carnie-type weirdos or Manson-family-esque psychopaths. Or both. I tried hard to ignore all that, realizing I had completely missed the "Carini" jam and now "Ghost" was swinging into a full-on freakout jam, peaking and climaxing into waves of bliss.

Which gave me an idea. I would have liked to have taken the sketchball father and son (as we now determined them to be) by the necks and bash their heads together like Moe would do to Larry and Curly, but any physical act would probably get me kicked out and/or arrested. But this *was* a concert and people yell and scream at a concert, so with every peak of Trey Anastasio's guitar, I shrieked the loudest, most shrill scream I could, directly into their ears. They winced a bit, glancing at each other, knowing full well what I was doing. I kept this up through the gloriously climaxing "Wingsuit", singing and yelling and shrieking in their ear canals. But by the time the Velvet Underground's "Rock and Roll" was busted out (yes, the one or two token covers each show really feel like bust-outs these days), I had had enough.

It was too much work to be this passive-aggressive and though it was fun at first, it dawned on me that as my energy was focused on irritiating these loony idiots who were ruining my show, I still was not enjoying the show any more than I was before. I started talking with the folks behind me and a dozen others were as fixated on these crazies as I was.

I had to get out of there. I found the shortest people near me (including that previous girl) and helped position them to get the best sight lines as I started working my way back. When they thanked me, it was the first genuinely positive vibe I had felt during the set. I was leaving having done some good.

"Harry Hood" began as I danced my way to the open areas in the rear of the field. The relief of being away from the nonsense must have shown because people were smiling at me as I grooved by. I would pause here and there in an open spot and every time I made eye contact with someone, I felt a shared happiness. I could not believe I had waited so long to get back to where I belonged - where the true fans were, dancing and vibing in the field.

As "Hood" came to a semi-climactic close (good jam, but not soaring to its finish), the set ended. It was 10:30. Friday's show had ended by 11. I hung around the exit as the "Tube" encore began. I did not want to wait on those huge lines again for the ferry, so I moved through the exit gates and enjoyed the end of "Tube" from a distance. I suspected there would be another, and as "Joy" started, I continued toward the ferry, figuring that at 10:55, I was timing it perfectly.

A group of us boarded the ferry, where we could still see and hear "Joy" as it finished, satisfied that we were seeing the end of the show from the boat and that it would leave when the last chord was struck. The boat's engine fired up and...

"First Tube"??! We looked at each other in disbelief. Pulling away from the island, motoring south toward the stage during the E-minor section, then passing it during the A-minor part, I felt a weird sense of disappointment about not hearing the song lift into its A-major jam before we drifted too far away.

But on the plus-side, I was home shortly after midnight (as opposed to 1:30 on Saturday morning), and when I went to bed, it was with the thought that after all the weirdness of my experience at this show, I would do Sunday night, my ninth and final of this tour, the right way - dancing and revelling in a spot with clear sound, a decent sight line, and, most importantly, good people.


Set list:
Set I: AC/DC Bag, 46 Days, Yarmouth Road, Devotion to a Dream, Free, My Sweet One, Back on the Train, Halfway to the Moon, Sparkle, A Song I Heard the Ocean Sing, The Line, Run Like an Antelope

Set II: Punch You in the Eye > Carini > Ghost > Wingsuit, Rock & Roll > Harry Hood

E: Tube, Joy, First Tube

Phish at Randall's Island, July 11

After 105 Phish shows, it amazes and amuses me that there can be new experiences - Friday's 106th was my first time rolling up to a Phish show on a boat.

Randall's is a piece of parkland that sits in the East River between Manhattan, Queens and the Bronx. The Phish shows are sectioned off on a field at its southern end. Getting there is easy, if not exactly convenient. For me, it meant driving to a train to take to Penn Station, walking from Midtown to the pier on the East Side, then taking the ferry (which was fun, don't get me wrong) to the island. The whole trip from door to ticket-scan took two and a half hours. I made it to Philadelphia in less time, and this was only 17 miles away. Maybe I will run there today for my long run, though the logistics of that may not work.

It is possible that on my seventh show of the tour that I am a little more nonchalant about really paying attention. After all, at this point, Phish shows have become my daily routine. So if I spent "The Moma Dance", "Kill Devil Falls", "Rift", "Sample in a Jar" and "Waiting All Night" catching up with a friend and enjoying the company of actually hanging with someone at a show, well, I suppose I can be forgiven. Besides, the continually excellent "555", climactic "Stash" first-set closer, and the best "Bathtub Gin" since...oh, dare I say, the Great Went...certainly returned my focus sqaurely on the band.

The second set was fiery and steamy - kind of literally - with a rocking "Fuego" and a sexy "Steam". Though the former showed that not every version had to be like the previous two exploratory monsters to be good, the latter was the worst performance of the song ever. Trey Anastasio seemed to be forgetful of the words, and then during the jam, he tried to crowbar a fast rock riff into the slow-burn groove. Points for trying something new, but a fail nonetheless.

On the other hand, "Down With Disease" rocked out into bigness even as it strayed into familiar territory (the return of the audience "Woo", thanks to start-stop jamming), and was all the better for it. The booty-shaker "Golden Age" surprised the crowd again as another cover made its way into the set. I defy anyone to not dance to that one. Ah, memories of Super Ball IX.

Jon Fishman proved that each of his limbs has its own brain during the tight reading of the complex "Limb by Limb". And just in case we had not had enough of fiery, frentic jams, we were treated to a killer "David Bowie" before "Cavern" closed out the set in classic style.

A raucous (as usual) "Character Zero" as the encore made the show satisfying for the one-nighters (like my friend) and left the rest of us excited for more.

Getting home took forever - waiting in line for the ferry, walking back to Penn Station in Midtown, waiting for the train to New Jersey, then driving home from Secaucus. But Randall's Island is a unique New York City venue and well worth the experience.