A Tip O' the Runnin' Hat
I'm going to try not to turn this into a running blog, but feel inspired to post about last Saturday's Tipperary Hill Shamrock Run -- because it's just about the most fun you can have running a race named after a hill. It's a four mile run up and down -- and up and down and up and down and up and down -- a hill big enough to have its own name -- which as one person's t-shirt proclaimed, "A Hill Big Enough to Have Its Own Name Is a Tough One."
I think half the fun of this race -- the first being the hills -- is the roulette we play with race day weather. Back when they first started running it, and I was still crippled with foot issues so had to opt out, they ran it once in a race-long downpour -- we were home shop-vacuuming our basement that day, I think -- and once in a complete blizzard. The year S ran it, it was overcast but warmish for March -- probably mid to high 40s. I was not at all uncomfortable as a spectator, and then hanging out with new friends outside afterward. Last year it was raining and winds gusting up to 35 mph during the race.
This year, we haven't had a winter all winter, but we got four inches of fresh powder the night before the race, and the temperature at the start was 26 degrees (minus three degrees Celsius for my non-US readers). T ran the kids' fun run first -- doing very well, I might add, and then he and S got to go to the zoo. Meanwhile I had to wait outside for another 45 minutes, slowly losing feeling in my extremities. It's so difficult to dress for those conditions -- you have to be warm enough not to get hypothermia while waiting but not so dressed that you'll overheat during the race.
When they started lining us up, a pack of 3300, I picked a spot as close to in the middle of the crowd as I could find, in an attempt to ward off the wind. I curled my fingers up inside the palm section of my gloves, remembering how nice the hand warmers felt when we were skiing on the only other cold day of this winter. I wished I had a neck gaiter, but I knew that would be getting stripped off before the third mile, so I tried to put the thought of being cold out of my mind.
Eventually those of us waaay in the back heard a roar from up front and knew the race was on. Thirty seconds or so later, we began to move, trotting along slowly. I realized I had no feeling in my feet. I felt like I was running on two blocks of ice. Nothing to do but keep moving forward and hope they would eventually warm up.
We surged, then walked, then surged, then walked, until two minutes and 20 seconds after the horn went off, my section of the pack hit the start line. Therace run was on! Flat at first, bear right, then left, oh wow, there are mini-hills of road salt to be avoided. This run will have enough hills without having to run up and down hills of salt. Turn right, the course is still flat. Another right and we're heading downhill for the first time, and it's a long downhill.
Being near the back of the pack, I see a moving sea of green for as far down the hill as I can see. This is my favorite sight of the entire race -- one the leaders miss. They get nice trophies, but the view from the back of the pack is spectacular.
We pass the first of about the dozen or more bands that will be entertaining us through the run. You just hear snippets of the music before you've gone by them. This year at least they're not being rained on, and slammed by tarps being blown about by the winds we endured last year. This year I wonder how they manage to keep their fingers moving in these frigid temperatures.
A couple of blocks go by and then we're passing under the only traffic light in the U.S. legally permitted to have the green light on top. They don't call this Tipperary Hill for nothing. Someone is shooting video of the light and then the runners. I wave and woot. We haven't gone uphill yet. I'm still happy.
At the Coleman's corner, I see RC -- a running friend of mine for whom it may be a tossup whether he likes running or beer more -- standing outside, waiting for opening time and watching the race. He might be an unofficial race official. I'm not sure. I move to the right to high five him, but he doesn't see me and turns to watch the lead runners coming back just as I run up to him. So I slap his ass. Can I use the word "ass" in a blog? He exclaims in surprise and then laughs when he sees me. Fortunately I'm running so fast, ha ha, he can't slap me back. Then again, I haven't seen him since -- so he may just be waiting for his chance for revenge.
We've turned left and at the next intersection there are barricades to direct the returning runners downhill while directing us uphill. On this 26 degree day, the lead runners are all wearing shorts and tank tops. I presume they do that to motivate themselves to get to the finish as quickly as possible. I've never worn a tank top below 40 degrees. I can't imagine wearing one in below freezing temps. But I realize I'm beginning to feel my toes, and it's not pretty. After all my years of ice skating on frozen ponds in New England and northern New York, I suffer from chilblains when my feet start thawing out from being too cold. Itchy, painful toes. And ankles. I've never had chilblains in my ankles before, but there's always a first. Oh, well, nothing to do but keep moving forward. Uphill. Up that long hill we just ran down.
Suddenly there is a line across the road and someone is calling out times. Fourteen-thirty-five, fourteen-thirty-six. We've reached the one mile mark. I look at my watch, but forget to press the split timer. Clearly my competitive days are long over. But my watch, which I started at the start line, not when the crowd roared, shows 12:12. Given that my goal in this race is to finish without walking any of the hills, and that my training this winter has been severely curtailed due to health and child care issues -- so I have not run four miles since last year's Tipp Hill run, I'm pleased with this split. However, I also know it's going to be the best mile of the day. After this, the miles all have a lot more uphills.
I know I can run three miles. And I know I can run one mile. So my goal is to run three miles, and then run one more mile. Mind games. That's how I get through races. The question that begins to loom as I struggle through this first long uphill is: how will I do with the long, steep hill in the second half of mile three?
More bands, more snippets of music. More pubs, more crowds of spectators. But none with beer. What happened to the beer this year? It's not yet noon; the city must have cracked down.
We get a brief respite from the hill at each intersection, where the street levels out for the crossing. Then back up we go. Finally we get to the top and turn right. This is a section of road you would never realize actually rolls up and down a bit if you were driving it in a car, but you become acutely aware of when on foot. We pass the Blarney Stone. An a cappella group of older gentlemen in green jackets, the same group that's featured in a local furniture store television commercial, is standing outside. They're singing an Irish tune. Shocker. I wave in appreciation. Men wearing kilts pass me. What are they wearing under those kilts? I can only imagine the chill and shrinkage.
After several blocks, we're going downhill again. Sweet relief. I know that the only way I'm making any time in this run is to rock the downhills, so I let my legs go. I pass the woman in the green plaid kilt. Kilt count is up to four or five at this point. Green tulle tutus -- too many to count. Headbands with shamrocks, shamrocks painted on faces, green socks, green shamrock-shaped sunglasses -- even I'm sporting green beads.
We pass more bands and more bars. We turn right and now we're on the section where we saw the lead runners and uphill an a downhill ago. They're finishing now. I'm not even halfway. But this isn't a race for me today, this is an experience. A chance to just soak in the craziness of this Irish race in this Irish neighborhood. And I realize I'm hot. The gloves come off.
We turn right and then left and are faced with a long sharp downhill followed immediately by a steep uphill. The kilt lady passes me on the uphill. Downhill again and some dudes are yelling out the window to get our asses in gear. They'd be kicking our butts if they were running. Um, but you aren't. And today I'm kicking your ass. And my kid -- he'd really kick your ass.
Someone on the sidelines tell us we're almost halfway there, which starts us all looking for that magical two-mile marker. We spot it in unison and feel some relief. I calculate that I've slowed to about a 13-minute per mile pace. That's fine. We turn right and on the flat, there's water up ahead. I grab a cup and try to drink as much as I can. It's nearing the freezing mark, so getting it down without causing my esophagus to spasm is a challenge.After three swigs, I wait for the people on my left to go by and then toss the cup and the remaining water to the side. I'm walking, trying to catch my breath and slow down my heart rate. But I hate walking in a race. I hate walking on a level stretch, which this is. But I now have to run two miles again, and I need the break.
My nose is running. Ah, there's an excuse to keep walking for a bit. I fish a tissue out of my pocket and blow. A couple of dabs, the used tissue goes back in my pocket, and I'm off again. I'm starting out on another two mile run. Mental games again.
We turn left and go downhill. Then right and we face a long, gentle rise. Somewhere along in there, perhaps in front of the church we pass, I swear a band is singing the song I Would Walk 500 Miles by the Proclaimers, but in my oxygen deprived delirium, I think I hear them singing "I would walk 10,000 hills." Um, personally I am running. The 10,000 hills part sounds about right though. I have no idea if that's what they were singing, but that's what I was hearing.
I'm so hot now that my headband has come off too, I've unzipped my jacket, and since it's no longer snowing, I'd like to ditch the hat. I consider tossing it all into the doorway of the church, but decide against it. I say a quick prayer for help for what's coming up ahead.
The road blissfully levels out. We turn right, and it's still level, but The Hill looms ahead. It starts out quite steep. This is the hill that separates the winners from the rest of the pack. It starts at the very bottom and keeps on going until you get to the very top. Almost everyone around me slows to a walk. I keep running. I am not passing a lot of the walkers, but I do not break my running stride. This hill didn't get me last year, and I'm not letting it get me this year. We curve right and then left, and then the grade eases. It's still a tough one, and it's a long way -- a half mile of uphill from here -- to that three-mile marker. Plod, plod, plod. A family with matching Kelly green t-shirts listing their two Irish last names passes me, then I pass them, then they pass me, then I pass them. They are doing the run, walk, run, walk thing. I hate that. If you're ever in a race with me and want to annoy the heck out of me, run past me, then slow to a walk until I've just gotten by you, then start running again. Continue ad infinitum. I will want to trip you.
Finally, mile three. Woo hoo! That hill is over. I've given myself permission for another walking break here. Last year I walked for about three seconds before realizing it had leveled off, and refusing to walk on a level, I started running again. I have an odd theory about walking during a hilly race. You never walk the downhills -- that's where you can make some time. You never walk the levels -- that's where you can run and take a breather at the same time. And you never run the uphills. You defeat the uphills -- not the other way around. I've barely broken 16 minutes for that mile, but I don't care. It included a water stop and a Hill. A hill that did not defeat me.
I walk for at least 30 seconds. Then I gather myself for one. more. mile. We cross the start line again, but this time bear left into the park. And uphill again. Some lady who already finished comes back to run in with the rest of her family. She's yacking non-stop and asking if she's bothering them by talking so much. They say no. I want to scream "YES, please shut UP!" But I'm now looking for a place to ditch my jacket and all the stuff I've stuffed in the pockets. We're heading downhill for the final circle and if I place it right, I will be able to finish, grab a water bottle and walk 50 meters to retrieve the jacket. I consider just throwing it on the ground in the snow, but then I spot a barrier that's been moved off the road into the park area. The jacket comes off, I run to my left, toss it onto the barrier, and it stays. Now I can focus on the final kilometer.
We run downhill at first and then about a third of the way around start the almost final uphill. It's steeper than you'd like at that point in a race. An older gentleman passes me, struggling, breathing heavily and painfully. He must be at least 75 if he's a day. Ok, dig harder. The road levels out a bit and I start my final kick, a bit too early. I pass him and two walk/run, walk/run ladies who are just trying to get one of them to the finish line. The road rises again. I would not say that the road rises to meet you. The road rises to try to freaking beat you. Mr. Older Heavy Breathing Gentleman (MOHBG) passes me again. Cripes.
Now I'm on the lookout for my cheering team. I'm pretty much on target for when I said for them to be looking for me. I hang on to MOHBG's heels, waiting for the hill to end. It does finally and I kick again, passing MOHBG. I see T and S. They are cheering for me and video recording my finish. I usually look so desperate at the end of a race. I try to smile and I manage a wave with my pinkie finger for the camera. The last race they recorded, we can see a little kid zip by me like I'm standing still. T loves to watch it. He thinks it's hysterical.
I begin to cruise for the finish strip, remembering that stupid kid from the last race. All of a sudden MOHBG zips past me like I'm standing still, running for all the world as if he had just started a 100 meter race. I let him go. It'll be another video for T to laugh at.
Finally the finish line, and a bottle of water. Whew. Final mile two minutes faster than the third mile. Another Tipp Hill run down, another year of me defeating the hills; not the other way around. Another year of enjoying the bands, the sights, the outfits, the festive atmosphere.
Next year, can someone please offer me a swig of beer somewhere along the way?
I think half the fun of this race -- the first being the hills -- is the roulette we play with race day weather. Back when they first started running it, and I was still crippled with foot issues so had to opt out, they ran it once in a race-long downpour -- we were home shop-vacuuming our basement that day, I think -- and once in a complete blizzard. The year S ran it, it was overcast but warmish for March -- probably mid to high 40s. I was not at all uncomfortable as a spectator, and then hanging out with new friends outside afterward. Last year it was raining and winds gusting up to 35 mph during the race.
This year, we haven't had a winter all winter, but we got four inches of fresh powder the night before the race, and the temperature at the start was 26 degrees (minus three degrees Celsius for my non-US readers). T ran the kids' fun run first -- doing very well, I might add, and then he and S got to go to the zoo. Meanwhile I had to wait outside for another 45 minutes, slowly losing feeling in my extremities. It's so difficult to dress for those conditions -- you have to be warm enough not to get hypothermia while waiting but not so dressed that you'll overheat during the race.
When they started lining us up, a pack of 3300, I picked a spot as close to in the middle of the crowd as I could find, in an attempt to ward off the wind. I curled my fingers up inside the palm section of my gloves, remembering how nice the hand warmers felt when we were skiing on the only other cold day of this winter. I wished I had a neck gaiter, but I knew that would be getting stripped off before the third mile, so I tried to put the thought of being cold out of my mind.
Eventually those of us waaay in the back heard a roar from up front and knew the race was on. Thirty seconds or so later, we began to move, trotting along slowly. I realized I had no feeling in my feet. I felt like I was running on two blocks of ice. Nothing to do but keep moving forward and hope they would eventually warm up.
We surged, then walked, then surged, then walked, until two minutes and 20 seconds after the horn went off, my section of the pack hit the start line. The
Being near the back of the pack, I see a moving sea of green for as far down the hill as I can see. This is my favorite sight of the entire race -- one the leaders miss. They get nice trophies, but the view from the back of the pack is spectacular.
We pass the first of about the dozen or more bands that will be entertaining us through the run. You just hear snippets of the music before you've gone by them. This year at least they're not being rained on, and slammed by tarps being blown about by the winds we endured last year. This year I wonder how they manage to keep their fingers moving in these frigid temperatures.
A couple of blocks go by and then we're passing under the only traffic light in the U.S. legally permitted to have the green light on top. They don't call this Tipperary Hill for nothing. Someone is shooting video of the light and then the runners. I wave and woot. We haven't gone uphill yet. I'm still happy.
At the Coleman's corner, I see RC -- a running friend of mine for whom it may be a tossup whether he likes running or beer more -- standing outside, waiting for opening time and watching the race. He might be an unofficial race official. I'm not sure. I move to the right to high five him, but he doesn't see me and turns to watch the lead runners coming back just as I run up to him. So I slap his ass. Can I use the word "ass" in a blog? He exclaims in surprise and then laughs when he sees me. Fortunately I'm running so fast, ha ha, he can't slap me back. Then again, I haven't seen him since -- so he may just be waiting for his chance for revenge.
We've turned left and at the next intersection there are barricades to direct the returning runners downhill while directing us uphill. On this 26 degree day, the lead runners are all wearing shorts and tank tops. I presume they do that to motivate themselves to get to the finish as quickly as possible. I've never worn a tank top below 40 degrees. I can't imagine wearing one in below freezing temps. But I realize I'm beginning to feel my toes, and it's not pretty. After all my years of ice skating on frozen ponds in New England and northern New York, I suffer from chilblains when my feet start thawing out from being too cold. Itchy, painful toes. And ankles. I've never had chilblains in my ankles before, but there's always a first. Oh, well, nothing to do but keep moving forward. Uphill. Up that long hill we just ran down.
Suddenly there is a line across the road and someone is calling out times. Fourteen-thirty-five, fourteen-thirty-six. We've reached the one mile mark. I look at my watch, but forget to press the split timer. Clearly my competitive days are long over. But my watch, which I started at the start line, not when the crowd roared, shows 12:12. Given that my goal in this race is to finish without walking any of the hills, and that my training this winter has been severely curtailed due to health and child care issues -- so I have not run four miles since last year's Tipp Hill run, I'm pleased with this split. However, I also know it's going to be the best mile of the day. After this, the miles all have a lot more uphills.
I know I can run three miles. And I know I can run one mile. So my goal is to run three miles, and then run one more mile. Mind games. That's how I get through races. The question that begins to loom as I struggle through this first long uphill is: how will I do with the long, steep hill in the second half of mile three?
More bands, more snippets of music. More pubs, more crowds of spectators. But none with beer. What happened to the beer this year? It's not yet noon; the city must have cracked down.
We get a brief respite from the hill at each intersection, where the street levels out for the crossing. Then back up we go. Finally we get to the top and turn right. This is a section of road you would never realize actually rolls up and down a bit if you were driving it in a car, but you become acutely aware of when on foot. We pass the Blarney Stone. An a cappella group of older gentlemen in green jackets, the same group that's featured in a local furniture store television commercial, is standing outside. They're singing an Irish tune. Shocker. I wave in appreciation. Men wearing kilts pass me. What are they wearing under those kilts? I can only imagine the chill and shrinkage.
After several blocks, we're going downhill again. Sweet relief. I know that the only way I'm making any time in this run is to rock the downhills, so I let my legs go. I pass the woman in the green plaid kilt. Kilt count is up to four or five at this point. Green tulle tutus -- too many to count. Headbands with shamrocks, shamrocks painted on faces, green socks, green shamrock-shaped sunglasses -- even I'm sporting green beads.
We pass more bands and more bars. We turn right and now we're on the section where we saw the lead runners and uphill an a downhill ago. They're finishing now. I'm not even halfway. But this isn't a race for me today, this is an experience. A chance to just soak in the craziness of this Irish race in this Irish neighborhood. And I realize I'm hot. The gloves come off.
We turn right and then left and are faced with a long sharp downhill followed immediately by a steep uphill. The kilt lady passes me on the uphill. Downhill again and some dudes are yelling out the window to get our asses in gear. They'd be kicking our butts if they were running. Um, but you aren't. And today I'm kicking your ass. And my kid -- he'd really kick your ass.
Someone on the sidelines tell us we're almost halfway there, which starts us all looking for that magical two-mile marker. We spot it in unison and feel some relief. I calculate that I've slowed to about a 13-minute per mile pace. That's fine. We turn right and on the flat, there's water up ahead. I grab a cup and try to drink as much as I can. It's nearing the freezing mark, so getting it down without causing my esophagus to spasm is a challenge.After three swigs, I wait for the people on my left to go by and then toss the cup and the remaining water to the side. I'm walking, trying to catch my breath and slow down my heart rate. But I hate walking in a race. I hate walking on a level stretch, which this is. But I now have to run two miles again, and I need the break.
My nose is running. Ah, there's an excuse to keep walking for a bit. I fish a tissue out of my pocket and blow. A couple of dabs, the used tissue goes back in my pocket, and I'm off again. I'm starting out on another two mile run. Mental games again.
We turn left and go downhill. Then right and we face a long, gentle rise. Somewhere along in there, perhaps in front of the church we pass, I swear a band is singing the song I Would Walk 500 Miles by the Proclaimers, but in my oxygen deprived delirium, I think I hear them singing "I would walk 10,000 hills." Um, personally I am running. The 10,000 hills part sounds about right though. I have no idea if that's what they were singing, but that's what I was hearing.
I'm so hot now that my headband has come off too, I've unzipped my jacket, and since it's no longer snowing, I'd like to ditch the hat. I consider tossing it all into the doorway of the church, but decide against it. I say a quick prayer for help for what's coming up ahead.
The road blissfully levels out. We turn right, and it's still level, but The Hill looms ahead. It starts out quite steep. This is the hill that separates the winners from the rest of the pack. It starts at the very bottom and keeps on going until you get to the very top. Almost everyone around me slows to a walk. I keep running. I am not passing a lot of the walkers, but I do not break my running stride. This hill didn't get me last year, and I'm not letting it get me this year. We curve right and then left, and then the grade eases. It's still a tough one, and it's a long way -- a half mile of uphill from here -- to that three-mile marker. Plod, plod, plod. A family with matching Kelly green t-shirts listing their two Irish last names passes me, then I pass them, then they pass me, then I pass them. They are doing the run, walk, run, walk thing. I hate that. If you're ever in a race with me and want to annoy the heck out of me, run past me, then slow to a walk until I've just gotten by you, then start running again. Continue ad infinitum. I will want to trip you.
Finally, mile three. Woo hoo! That hill is over. I've given myself permission for another walking break here. Last year I walked for about three seconds before realizing it had leveled off, and refusing to walk on a level, I started running again. I have an odd theory about walking during a hilly race. You never walk the downhills -- that's where you can make some time. You never walk the levels -- that's where you can run and take a breather at the same time. And you never run the uphills. You defeat the uphills -- not the other way around. I've barely broken 16 minutes for that mile, but I don't care. It included a water stop and a Hill. A hill that did not defeat me.
I walk for at least 30 seconds. Then I gather myself for one. more. mile. We cross the start line again, but this time bear left into the park. And uphill again. Some lady who already finished comes back to run in with the rest of her family. She's yacking non-stop and asking if she's bothering them by talking so much. They say no. I want to scream "YES, please shut UP!" But I'm now looking for a place to ditch my jacket and all the stuff I've stuffed in the pockets. We're heading downhill for the final circle and if I place it right, I will be able to finish, grab a water bottle and walk 50 meters to retrieve the jacket. I consider just throwing it on the ground in the snow, but then I spot a barrier that's been moved off the road into the park area. The jacket comes off, I run to my left, toss it onto the barrier, and it stays. Now I can focus on the final kilometer.
We run downhill at first and then about a third of the way around start the almost final uphill. It's steeper than you'd like at that point in a race. An older gentleman passes me, struggling, breathing heavily and painfully. He must be at least 75 if he's a day. Ok, dig harder. The road levels out a bit and I start my final kick, a bit too early. I pass him and two walk/run, walk/run ladies who are just trying to get one of them to the finish line. The road rises again. I would not say that the road rises to meet you. The road rises to try to freaking beat you. Mr. Older Heavy Breathing Gentleman (MOHBG) passes me again. Cripes.
Now I'm on the lookout for my cheering team. I'm pretty much on target for when I said for them to be looking for me. I hang on to MOHBG's heels, waiting for the hill to end. It does finally and I kick again, passing MOHBG. I see T and S. They are cheering for me and video recording my finish. I usually look so desperate at the end of a race. I try to smile and I manage a wave with my pinkie finger for the camera. The last race they recorded, we can see a little kid zip by me like I'm standing still. T loves to watch it. He thinks it's hysterical.
I begin to cruise for the finish strip, remembering that stupid kid from the last race. All of a sudden MOHBG zips past me like I'm standing still, running for all the world as if he had just started a 100 meter race. I let him go. It'll be another video for T to laugh at.
Finally the finish line, and a bottle of water. Whew. Final mile two minutes faster than the third mile. Another Tipp Hill run down, another year of me defeating the hills; not the other way around. Another year of enjoying the bands, the sights, the outfits, the festive atmosphere.
Next year, can someone please offer me a swig of beer somewhere along the way?
It was too darn cold to hang around at the race site for photos. Here I am at home, post-race,
with the hat I swiped from T's goody bag. The beer (hey, carbo-loading) waited until dinner.
First I had a nap to take!
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