"Woody"

Remember when I said I wasn't going to write any more blog's for this one? Well, I lied.

And I came back just in time to report some of the lowest of lows!

The US Road Mile was about as disasterous a race as I could have hoped for. I felt good for about a 1/2 mile, and then the wheels came off all at once. It was an odd experience, it just kind of all of a sudden happened. People started passing me, I tried to respond, and I couldn't get my legs to move. I dropped out a little after the 3/4 mark. I obviously tried to forget the experience as soon as possible, but much easier said than done. And amazingly, the hits kept coming.

The Red Wings lost to the fricken Sharks. I'm not even that big of a hockey fan, but playoff hockey is intense and fun to watch, and anyone who reads this blog knows how much I love all things Detroit. So I watched the game, got even more upset, and then slept for about 4 hours before my flight back to Michigan.

And it got even worse from there. I woke up with a sore foot. The left foot. The same one that has had 2 stress fractures in a 3 year period. It didn't hurt in the fourth metatarsal, but it still hurt.

So I got home to Bath and tried to nap away my sorrows. Obviously, this wouldn't be easy either. So I begrudgingly got in my Dad's homemade truck (see above picture) to drive up to the local YMCA and get in a swim.

I usually don't mind driving "Woody", and his may or may not be true, but I'm pretty sure the radio was stuck on a station playing Creed. So even the driving was ruined.

Then, as I'm driving over I-69 on an overpass, the hood of that damn truck flies up with a POP! and obscures any point of view I could have ever imagined having. After a brief freakout moment, I pulled the car over, shut him down, got out and slammed the hood shut and latched it with a few four-letter words spewing from my mouth.

I got back in the car and just started laughing. Couldn't get much worse than that...

And it really hasn't. I do not have a stress fracture (thankfully!) and my foot is starting to feel better. I'm skipping the great meet that is taking place at Occidental this weekend (gonna be a stacked 15!) to get my training back and going and get my head on straight.

To put it bluntly, I've struggled with my first year and a half as a pro, but I'm going to figure some things out and get ready for some nice racing come June, July and August. As always, it's go time, and I need to "Let's Go!"

New Yorker - Imported

The Motor City

"It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do." - Atticus Finch, To Kill A Mockingbird

I will be the first to admit that there are a few things in life that I seem to overplay (Skyline Chili anyone?). I get into something and I talk it up to any and everyone. It may be overkill, but I go with it anyway. And with how much I love The City of Detroit, some may think I overdo it. Especially considering that my hometown of Bath is a two hour drive away, yet I quote an Eminem movie on the bottom of my LBPjams page. While I may aggrandize some things a little for show, I truly do love Detroit.

They've been around for a while now, all the "Woe is Detroit" pieces in newspapers, radio, and TV spots. Time Inc. even had "Assignment Detroit", where the company bought a house in the city limits, and reported on the city because they believed it was a true "American story." There were no jobs, people were leaving, the politics were rough, and, as Time predicted, some great stories came out of it.

Being a sports fan, I stuck to the Detroit stories related to the Pistons, Tigers, Lions and Wings.

In 2009 when General Motors couldn't afford to pay for a sign over the fountain in centerfield at the Tiger's Stadium, instead of taking the sign down Mike Ilitch (owner of the Tigers and Wings at the time) left it up and put up signs for Chrysler and Ford as well with a sign reading: "THE DETROIT TIGERS SUPPORT OUR AUTOMAKERS." (Article Here)

Then, after the Lions finished 0-16 for the worst season ever, Mitch Albom stood up for Detroit. He pointed out that things weren't great, but the city was going to fix them. In "The Courage of Detroit" he wrote: "We don't talk about whether Detroit will be fixed but when Detroit will be fixed."

My memories of the city stem from street sports in the suburb of Royal Oak. We would drive down Woodward to get downtown and then over to Corktown and my Aunt Sue's house. Then we'd walk the three blocks from there to Tiger Stadium. It was only a buck fifty to get into the game, even on Kazoo night with my Aunt and all her crazy friends. Then maybe my uncle would take us to Lafayette Coney Island for a chili dog. Or we'd visit Granny in Clinton Township when she'd get back from yet another shift at the Sears she worked at for more than 50 years. Sometimes we'd meet all my Dad's high school buddies and play basketball long into the night.

Now when I go, I see Detroit more. I see the old Train Station, dilapidated but still amazing. I see the empty houses from the freeway as we get to my aunt's house. Tiger Stadium is no more, just a field. My mom drives me by the car factories. She tells me that both my grandfathers worked there. My Dad even put in time on the line. The parking lots aren't full.

But here's the thing about Detroit: the people are not giving up. The city may be downtrodden, but they are going to do something about it. It may be an uphill battle, but Detroit plans on winning it.

Then there was the Superbowl Commercial. As soon as I saw the I-75 Detroit sign I was in a trance. I shushed everyone. "It's the hottest fires that make the hardest steel." Hell yeah, I murmured. "Add hard work and conviction and a know how that runs generations deep in every last one of us." Eminem started playing and my jaw dropped. "This isn't New York City." I gotta get outta New York, I thought. "This is the Motor City, and this is what we do." Holy sh*t.

I'm not from Detroit. When people ask me where I'm from I say Bath. They then ask where that is and I say just north of East Lansing and MSU. My Mom told me, along with my entire graduating high school class, to do that. Take pride in where you're from, she said. And I do. That's what people from Detroit do.

I like that pride, and I'm going to try to help. It's not much, but it's better than nothing: every time I win prize money in a race, I am going to make a small donation to the Think Detroit PAL. I won some prize money in my New Balance 1500, and got money to rabbit at Millrose, so two donations are heading to help Detroit's youth through athletic, academic, and leadership programs. A car commercial can do wonders for a city.

My first car was a Chrysler. A New Yorker. Funny how the names worked out like that. It was imported from Detroit. And it was the greatest car in the world.

Liquid Gold

Footage of the race at Gtown last week...(I'm the guy in the headband.)

I walked out of my room holding a jug of Pure Michigan Maple Syrup, looked each of my roommates in the eyes and said: "If either of you even think about taking any of my Pure Michigan Maple Syrup, I'll **expletives deleted** and then I'll **more expletives deleted**!" Then I walked out of the room.

It was at that point that I knew I had a problem with sugar in liquid form.

It started with my dad being an entomologist. Growing up, there were bees everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE. Colonies in the backs had swarms of buzzing drones. At yearly intervals there would be a huge silver spinning vat in the house that was used to extract the honey. I was lucky if I didn't step on a dead bee at some point with the stinger still in tact.

But oh that sweet nectar that my Dad got from those bees. While most kids pulled PB&J sandwiches out of their brown paper lunch bags, I ate PB&Honey. Some kids put brown sugar on their maple syrup, I doused my morning breakfast with silky smooth honey.

On top of my love of honey, my high school's mascot was a Fighting Bee. Everywhere I looked, there was a connection to honey. It was awesome.

Now, my love of liquid sugar goes beyond honey and extends to delicious maple syrup. For a while I was on a Safeway Brand butter flavored syrup craze, but I realized that may be detrimental to my health, so I've gone the good for you sugar route (if there is such a thing).

There is somewhat of a point to this nonsensical post about honey on my "running blog". I look at honey as a healing food. One coach (I won't mention names) I know used to tell his runners that whiskey was a healing power: "Constipated? Take a shot of whiskey...Diarrhea? Take a shot of whiskey." That's how I look at honey. So, if you're a runner and feeling sick, have a squirt of honey...if you're a runner and you're feeling awesome, slurp a little honey.

Bees? Beads!? Beeeees!!! Bzzzzzzz.

--
I'm running a 1500 this weekend at the Armory. Hopefully after last week's race I'll be ready to go for it. I think it's going to be a pretty good field, although I'm unsure who is in it. I go off at 1:40pm EST and I think ArmoryTrack.com usually has a video feed of the races going, so if you're not in NY you can check it out there. Haven't said it in a while, but....LET'S GO!!

"800s"

Ben Zeeb, Andy Tolliver, and I before a workout at the Bath High School Track...Spring 2004

THE WORKOUT: 

"I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start." - Shakespeare, "Henry V"

The wind picked up on the backstretch, as it usually did. All bunched up and taking slow, mincing steps, we barely noticed it. I found myself surrounded. It was an odd feeling for a workout, especially in high school. The skinny legs of Chris Stoddard pumped directly in front of me. Brett Domeyer's choppy stride  was in front of me to the right. To my right was Phillip Liesenhoff (a German exchange student), to my left was the rail. Behind me Ben Zeeb and Andy Tolliver (our two best sprinters) ran effortlessly. We couldn't have been going faster than seven minute per-mile pace, but there was only 250-meters to go in the interval. Thirty-meters later and nothing had changed. Then, all at once:

"Cowards!!*" Phil yelled as his stride quickened, he moved to the outside, and took off at full speed blowing by Chris and Brett and into the lead going into the turn. Almost immediately Andy and Ben were past me, pursuing the fleeing Phil. Chris and Brett tried gamely to match the surge, but their distance oriented leg speed wasn't enough to do it.

Phil, Andy and Ben were telescoping away from us as we rounded the turn.

I had known it was coming. The workout was an 800 meter interval where the first 400 was purposely slow. Then, at any point on the next 400, someone could take off, but they had to sprint to the finish. So it could be a 400 meter sprint, or it could be only 120...either way, you were sprinting your balls off once someone went. We would usually do 3 or 4 of the intervals. It was fun, but it also taught you how to race. Because I was excelling at the high school level, we would sometimes throw the sprinters into the mix to make these "800s" more interesting for everybody.

I quickly moved by Chris and Brett (sadly in lane 2 of the track) as Phil had 10 yards on me; Ben and Andy only 5. Around the bend I reeled them in some, then moved into lane 3 as the track straightened out and the finish line came into view. Phil was 5 yards ahead now as Ben and Andy were only a step in front of me. We were all well into our final sprint now and barely managed to hold our form together as we all became even with only 20 meters left.

We composed a blanket finish of 4 as we leaned across the line with Brett and Chris only a few ticks of the clock back. Phil went to the infield, found a resting spot, and splayed himself on the grass. Ben, Andy, and I grasped our knees and sucked for air around us. Coach Roberson -- the mastermind behind the workout -- came up to us: "25 seconds for the last 200, nice work guys!" We all murmured less than understandable responses. My headache wouldn't subside for hours.

*We actually wouldn't yell "Cowards." The rule was that you had to yell a disgusting word as you took off...none of these words are appropriate for this blog.
--
Those were the days of high school running. Work your butt off and then see what happened on race day. It seems that I'm back in that mode of training, and I'm pretty happy about it. At Columbia and Georgetown I would probably have a "workout headache" once every two months. Lately, they have been coming once every two weeks, sometimes even more. When you start workouts with 2:59 1200s or 54 second 400s I guess that's what happens.

Getting excited for the indoor season to start. The New Jersey/New York TC will be in DC next weekend opening the season up. I'm pretty jacked for it. Hoping to race like we would in those Bath workouts...

The Humbling of a Middle Distance Runner

The bikes in Amsterdam...

Yesterday was the first time I had exercised outside in about 3 weeks. It was a crisp, autumn-esque morning in Bath, and I took my Dad’s road bike out for a spin. My foot feels great, but going to avoid running on it until I see the Doc once I get back to New York. Enjoying the fresh air compared to my now accustomed to chlorine tainted oxygen, I approached the corner of Chandler and Clark to take a left and head back towards my Dad’s house to finish up the ride.

At the same time, a biker with some serious gear was taking a right onto Clark coming from the opposite way on Chandler. I beat him to the turn and settled into my 15mph tempo that I had gotten so used to. Then disaster struck.

The dude BLEW by me. I thought about trying to go with him, and picked up the tempo for a moment, but when I looked up he was already 50 meters ahead of me and drifting further away every second. I shook my head in disgust and settled into my tempo trying to avoid looking up to see how terribly I was being beaten.

I need to stick to running.

After getting my ass kicked daily in the pool I was biking my own pace and thought I was doing pretty well until this joker rocked my world. It is a humbling thing to get beaten so soundly so many days a week. Especially to women who are clearly just better swimmers than I am. I tell myself I’m staying in shape, but I am getting antsy to getting out and running so I can show the weekend warriors what’s up. Man it sucks.

The one glimpse of light I’ve seen has been the improvement of my swimming. If I was 10-years-old I would have the Haslett Community Pool records from 25 to 200-meters. Boo. Yah.

Moving up to New York on the 12th…can’t wait. Let’s Go!

Family Records

The spiked shoes on the runner in front of him gripped the cinders and then tossed them out behind. His Chuck Taylors failed to have the same effect as they slid across the black surface. With “FRASER T&F” stitched onto his singlet in blue and gold, and a budding pony-tail flowing in the wind behind him, the runner in the Chucky T’s labored past the spiked runner and crossed the finish line in first place.

His time for the ½-mile: 2:00.0

And with that a family record was born. It was the late 60s, and 2-flat for a freshman was promising to say the least. That runner was my Dad, and as a freshman in high school, the guy could run.

Walter Pett decided to stop running after that year (he claims he hated the coach), but his two-minute half would live on for years to come.

My brother and I have encyclopedic minds when it comes to our track times. (My mile PR’s from 7th grade on: 5:20, 4:54, 4:38, 4:21, 4:17, 4:10, 4:09, 4:08, 4:06, 4:04, 3:59, 4:00.) And because of this, we have a set of family records. Call it the Boylan-Pett Record Book. We have categories for each age group. There’s seventh grade 800, which Will has at 2:19, and 12th grade 3200, which Will has at 9:31. Then there’s every other age group and record ranging from 800-3200, which I have. Juust kidding, Will has freshman year 1600 and most 3200s as well.

Will and I dominate the record books. Only one record didn’t have the name Will or Liam next to it. It was the 800 (or half-mile, since that’s what they ran back in the 60s) for 9th grade: and the 2:00 remained the record after I was only able to run a 2:01 as a relay split.

But this week, there were some changes made to the record book, which is now titled the Boylan-Pett/Pett/Fanta Records. That’s because Annie, my little sister, decided to drop a 63.7 one-lapper as a seventh grader! Yiikes that is moving! Congrats to Annie for moving her skinny little self around the track so quick. I’m looking forward to see what her and her teammates can do the rest of the track season as they have some fast girls rocking the Mid-Michigan track circuit.
--
Training went well this week. I’m looking forward to heading out to Minneapolis to run a road mile on Thursday night. Back to some good old fashioned street racing, and I really can’t complain about that. It is shaping up to be a really good field, and I’m starting to get pretty jacked up for it.

Got to actually run some fast stuff in practice on Friday as I did 3x600 with the first two at 1:26.6 and then 1:26.4. Then ran the last one in 1:21 after coming through the first 200 in 28high. Nice to get back to some 800 paced stuff and starting to get sharp for some racing...

That’s all for this week: the picture is in honor of Mother’s Day and my favorite Mom quote of all: “She just shown on me like the sun.” Happy Mother’s Day!

Let’s GO!!

Degrees

So this is going to be a short post. My final project in my Master’s program is due May 3, so I have to make sure it is perfect. My project is a lot about running, though, so you all will get a little treat to it…mainly because I had no idea what to write about this week, so I’m just going to cut and paste something in.

I wasn’t extremely pleased with my race at Stanford this week, but there was a lot to learn from it. Namely, that I need to be able to handle being tired and head into a race still with my head on straight. I am racing May 13th in Minneapolis for the USA Road Mile Championship and then May 22nd at Occidental College for a hopefully fast 1500… That’s all the updating for now. Enjoy the opening to my Capstone Project (thesis type project for journalism students at Gtown)…

Traveling Stoll Road in Bath, Michigan, the distance between Upton and Center Roads is one mile. Starting at Upton and going east to west, the first three hundred yards is flat before a steep hill leads to a mailbox marked 7804 that signals the first quarter mile. A field opens up to the south while tall pine and walnut trees hug the north side of the street as the dirt road flattens out for another two hundred meters. Long blades of crabgrass droop over the shoulder of the road as the fuzzy ends of the yellow foxtail weed find themselves caked in brown dust. A slight downhill begins as three ranch style houses appear behind the giant Oak Trees lining their front yards. Power lines carry long black ropes down the hill and continue onward towards Center. At the halfway point, one smaller electricity post stands alone, away from the larger ones lining the entire street. One measly, black cord extends from the post. It makes its way to another lonely pole, drooping in the middle to form a sad smile. Below the lowpoint of the smile is a creek that cuts under Stoll perpendicularly. Extending from Potter Lake to the southwest, largemouth bass sometimes follow the creek outward. A young fisherman sits atop the steel cylinder tunnel that runs below the road with his legs dangling back and forth above the clear water. If he hears anything other than the buzz of horseflies and gnats, it is the faint crunches of gravel. Quick, rhythmic steps tread over the dirt road and the crunch becomes more and more audible. The fisherman turns around to see a runner approaching him. A sun worn mop of frizzled, curly hair bounces on top of his head with each step. Sweat beads flow from his hairline down his hollow cheeks and fall from his chin down to his chest. Sweat soaked shorts swish with each step as droplets splatter in dark brown splotches on the road behind him.

“One fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine,” The voice inside my head counts off as I pass the electrical post to my right that marks a half-mile to go. “They’re on pace now, just over halfway there.”

I wave my arm at the fisherman and only slightly disrupt my running motion before switching my concentration to the approaching hill. Up I run past the farmland to my left. To my right is the Jerome’s, an old farmhouse with black shutters outlining each of the windows. Robson Road branches off to my right and I only have a quarter mile to go.

“Two fifty-eight, two fifty-nine,” The announcer in my head reads off. “400 to go and these guys are getting going now.”
I steady myself and pick up the pace, bouncing a little higher with each step as I arrive at the crest of the hill and begin a slight decline for the last 200-meters.

“Less than half a lap to go and Boylan-Pett looks like he’s going to get under!”

I hunker down and veer to the right side of the road, picking up the tempo even more. Down the last hundred I float, covering ground as smoothly as possible.

“Three fifty-seven, fifty eight, fifty nine…”

I pass the stop sign to my right and click my watch.

“He just did it ladies and gentlemen! Liam Boylan-Pett has broken four for the mile!...”

I snap out of the track world in my head and glance at my watch. No three on it. Not a five or a nine either. Forty-five minutes and six seconds, it shows.

The imagination of an aspiring high school miler lets you break four even on easy runs.