So, after assuring myself that I would go the extra mile, do what it took, leave it all out on the course, and other inspirational-poster-type platitudes, you can imagine what happened next. Yes, I injured myself. Playing pickup football, no less. A friend's unimaginably bony knee made contact with my quad, inflicting upon me what has become enshrined in the pantheon of sports injuries as the Deep Thigh Bruise. It's a very painful, yet typically non-fatal injury that is maddening in that it will allow you to start to feel as though you can begin running again, only to flare up and cause excruciating pain the moment you attempt to do so. It is a bitter, petty whore of an injury. I discovered this when I was pulled off the course during a race the following week in which I was limping so badly that I had developed about a fifteen degree list to starboard. Despite this handicap, I was still ahead of about thirty or so other competitors. This episode is not precisely a glowing affirmation of their success as runners.
Eventually, though, I healed, and was at full strength and champing at the bit for our next meet, which also happened to be against our arch-rivals. I downed two CarboCoolers (a wretched 'performance' drink that enjoyed a brief vogue during the early 90s. It was chock full of carbs, in the sense that it contained enough sugar in it to euthanize a decent-sized rat. Lord knows what it did to my pancreas, but I firmly believe that the nationwide rise in late-onset diabetes can be traced, at least in part, to the introduction of that vile beverage. On the plus side, it tasted exactly, exactly, like a melted Flavor Ice) on the ride over. By the time we reached the course, I was ready to pummel my PR into submission, not to mention pick a fight with the other team, vomit out the bus window, and tie my shoelaces with my teeth.
The JV race was run prior to the varsity, so we were the first to line up. As I approached the starting line, I was locked in and ready to go. The starter's gun sounded and I took of as though I were being chased by lava filled with zombies. Within the first fifty meters, I was leading the race. Whether because of that heady feeling, or perhaps because of the dozens of grams of pure unadulterated sugar coursing through my veins, I continued to push my pace. Approaching the first half-mile in, I was still at the front of the pack and making good time. Visions of winning the race began to consume me. Not unlike Homer Simpson when he attempted to jump Springfield Gorge on a skateboard, I started thinking, "I'm gonna make it!" I was going to run the shit out of this course. The course was mine, as were all the runners thereupon.
It was at about this point that my plan began to unravel. My pace flagged and I heard footsteps. First one, then two, then several more runners, all wearing the hated orange and black of the other team, went by. All told, I was passed by seven of their team before the first of my teammates appeared. All I could do was gesture weakly ahead of me to indicate that we definitely were not winning. The rest of the race was a pathetic blur of ignominy. I continued to drop toward my familiar place near the back of the pack. Each quarter-mile became more fraught than the last. Finally, interminably, the finish line hove into view. What the fuck...I began to sprint. I did manage to pick off a couple runners over the last hundred meters, but the damage was done. Cold realization had hit me. I would never, ever win a cross-country race. I have no idea in what place I actually finished that race, but it was not anywhere near the top thirty. Worst part was, I had thought I might actually be one of the scoring runners for that race. Maybe I'd get another chance...
Up next...my opportunity for redemption slips away, but I push a kid down a hill.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
A Runner's Prayer
Dear Lord/Allah/Buddha/Vishnu/L. Ron,
Give me the strength to complete this next mile. Create in me a clean heart, powerful lungs, and light feet. Make me a vessel for your forgiveness, especially when a pack of bikers force me off the trail and into the damned poison ivy. Lead me not into swamplands, and deliver me from blisters. Grant me the grace to set a PR at my next race, and the wisdom to stay the hell inside on the treadmill when it's 10 degrees out and snowing sideways. Bestow upon me the fortitude to stay with my faster friends and the patience to wait for those slower. Give me the guts to keep running when I want to stop, and the brains to stop when I know I should. Line my routes with interesting sights and fascinating people. Bless me with friends and family who will run with me in sunshine and rain, heat and snow.
And most of all, Lord, don't make me have to poop when I reach the halfway point of a 12-mile out-and-back.
Amen
Give me the strength to complete this next mile. Create in me a clean heart, powerful lungs, and light feet. Make me a vessel for your forgiveness, especially when a pack of bikers force me off the trail and into the damned poison ivy. Lead me not into swamplands, and deliver me from blisters. Grant me the grace to set a PR at my next race, and the wisdom to stay the hell inside on the treadmill when it's 10 degrees out and snowing sideways. Bestow upon me the fortitude to stay with my faster friends and the patience to wait for those slower. Give me the guts to keep running when I want to stop, and the brains to stop when I know I should. Line my routes with interesting sights and fascinating people. Bless me with friends and family who will run with me in sunshine and rain, heat and snow.
And most of all, Lord, don't make me have to poop when I reach the halfway point of a 12-mile out-and-back.
Amen
Friday, April 15, 2011
My Running Buddy
So I got an e-mail on Monday morning...Alan Webb was going to be in town and wanted to go for a run with me. Okay, that's not entirely how it went down, but he was going to be here and we was going running, and folks from the local running community were invited to join him and keep up for as long as they could.
The run was set to begin at 11:45, so my friend and I arrived at about 11:35. At that point, there were only a handful of people milling around, none of whom appeared to be a world-class runner. Unless I was the basis for comparison. In that case, everyone looked like a world-class runner. After standing around for a few minutes making small talk with the other runners and secretly feeling inadequate, we spied a couple chugging up the sidewalk. The broad, boyish grin identified one of them immediately as the reason we were all here. The other turned out to be his wife, Julia. They were just returning from a quick 5-mile run; a warm-up for the pending group run. The poor man is obviously malnourished; despite digging into a paper bag immediately upon his return and consuming a banana, half a Gatorade, then another half banana, he appeared desperately hungry. Additionally, he looked to have some weird subcutaneous parasite working on his calves. Then someone gently pointed out to me that these were most likely veins. Wow.
Someone asked him about his current training schedule. He reported that he was up to about 70 miles. Sweet! Here was my chance to really connect with him. The following conversation ensued:
"That's cool. I'm up to about 60-70 miles myself"
"Really? You're running 60 miles a week?"
"Oh. A week? Oh. Um...you win"
He then went on to describe a typical tempo run as being 8-9 miles at around a 5:00 mile pace. Jesus. That's not normal. And be able to mention that in such an off-handed manner is a sensation I'm reasonably sure I'll never experience.
Thus chastened, I prepared for the run. Just prior to departure, someone asked whether we would be maintaining a 9-minute mile pace. His wife answered, with a slightly bewildered look on her face, "I don't think he has ever run a 9-minute mile in his life." So we set off at a brisk 6:45 pace. I ran up front for the first mile-plus, listening to the banter while attempting to ensure that I would survive the run. Somewhere during the second mile, I backed off a bit to let some other people have their turn at the front. No sense in hogging the spotlight. As time was running short, and we did have jobs to which we needed to return, my co-worker and I decided to cut short our run at 5K and head back. I did stick around for the Q&A with Alan for a little while. He posed for a lot of pictures, shook a lot of hands, talked about tattoos, and basically acted like a decent bloke, which he truly seems to be. Even if he is maddeningly fit and blessed with an extraordinary amount of natural ability. That bastard.
If you're interested in seeing him run, Alan Webb will be back in Des Moines for the Grand Blue Mile on April 26th, along with 2010 champion Boaz Lalang and a host of other elite runners. The race is open to anyone, so if you want to run with them, you can. Well...probably not with them, per se, but in the same race, anyway. Or, you can come watch them run at a ridiculous rate of speed down Grand Ave. For more information, go to www.grandbluemile.com. I understand he may also be at the Drake Relays.
The run was set to begin at 11:45, so my friend and I arrived at about 11:35. At that point, there were only a handful of people milling around, none of whom appeared to be a world-class runner. Unless I was the basis for comparison. In that case, everyone looked like a world-class runner. After standing around for a few minutes making small talk with the other runners and secretly feeling inadequate, we spied a couple chugging up the sidewalk. The broad, boyish grin identified one of them immediately as the reason we were all here. The other turned out to be his wife, Julia. They were just returning from a quick 5-mile run; a warm-up for the pending group run. The poor man is obviously malnourished; despite digging into a paper bag immediately upon his return and consuming a banana, half a Gatorade, then another half banana, he appeared desperately hungry. Additionally, he looked to have some weird subcutaneous parasite working on his calves. Then someone gently pointed out to me that these were most likely veins. Wow.
Someone asked him about his current training schedule. He reported that he was up to about 70 miles. Sweet! Here was my chance to really connect with him. The following conversation ensued:
"That's cool. I'm up to about 60-70 miles myself"
"Really? You're running 60 miles a week?"
"Oh. A week? Oh. Um...you win"
He then went on to describe a typical tempo run as being 8-9 miles at around a 5:00 mile pace. Jesus. That's not normal. And be able to mention that in such an off-handed manner is a sensation I'm reasonably sure I'll never experience.
Thus chastened, I prepared for the run. Just prior to departure, someone asked whether we would be maintaining a 9-minute mile pace. His wife answered, with a slightly bewildered look on her face, "I don't think he has ever run a 9-minute mile in his life." So we set off at a brisk 6:45 pace. I ran up front for the first mile-plus, listening to the banter while attempting to ensure that I would survive the run. Somewhere during the second mile, I backed off a bit to let some other people have their turn at the front. No sense in hogging the spotlight. As time was running short, and we did have jobs to which we needed to return, my co-worker and I decided to cut short our run at 5K and head back. I did stick around for the Q&A with Alan for a little while. He posed for a lot of pictures, shook a lot of hands, talked about tattoos, and basically acted like a decent bloke, which he truly seems to be. Even if he is maddeningly fit and blessed with an extraordinary amount of natural ability. That bastard.
If you're interested in seeing him run, Alan Webb will be back in Des Moines for the Grand Blue Mile on April 26th, along with 2010 champion Boaz Lalang and a host of other elite runners. The race is open to anyone, so if you want to run with them, you can. Well...probably not with them, per se, but in the same race, anyway. Or, you can come watch them run at a ridiculous rate of speed down Grand Ave. For more information, go to www.grandbluemile.com. I understand he may also be at the Drake Relays.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Runaway
I ran away from home when I was three. This was no "they won't let me watch seven hours of Sesame Street a day, will they? I'll show them" attempt at acting out. Rather, circumstances dangled an irresistible opportunity in front of me, and I grabbed it in both of my grubby little mitts.
I'd been left in the back yard of our house, which featured a high board fence with a single latched gate. My sister, who was supposed to be watching me, had gone to the park to play softball with her friends. She left me sitting on my blanket in the middle of the yard surrounded by toys, evidently secure in the knowledge that the fence would serve its purpose vis-a-vis my ability to escape, and, more importantly, she would return from the park before my parents got home. However, she made two crucial mistakes. She underestimated my ingenuity and powers of observation, and she disregarded the pull of the Smiley Garage. There was a house in our neighborhood upon whose garage door the owners had painted a large smiling face. This was no round, yellow, Wal-Mart greeter sticker, Have a Nice Day smiley face. Rather, it resembled a slightly imbalanced clown wearing a bit too much lip and eye makeup. This was at once terrifying and intensely interesting to my tiny little mind and I had to see it. Right fucking now.
Within five minutes of my sister's departure, I had the gate open. I'd often watched my dad open it as he was mowing or doing yard work, and I filed this information away, confident that it would one day serve me well. Today was that day. Upon emerging into the front yard, I immediately headed off down the street, moving with all the conviction my stubby legs could manage. You will occasionally hear of a dog, given up for lost during the family vacation to Yellowstone, that will show up at their home in Hartford months later, emaciated and bearing new and exciting parasites, but largely none the worse for the wear. This was as close to that experience as I've ever come. I didn't know the exact route, but I knew how to get there. The remainder of the trip was a blur. I had traveled several blocks, and crossed at least three streets, but I recall none of that. I was having an adventure, and I was going to see the goddamned Smiley Garage! All by myself! It was a moment of triumph that was as yet unrivaled in my short life. I recall coming to the block where I knew the house to be; that's when the uneasiness set in. I tramped up and down the block five or six times, and I couldn't find it. There had obviously been a miscalculation. I had been so fixated on my goal that I now had no idea where I was. I didn't know anyone on that street, and my directional instincts, so finely honed only moments before, had given me a miss. I was well and truly fucked. I sat down on the curb in my red windbreaker and began to cry.
Apparently, my skills at creating pathos outstripped my navigational abilities, because a car pulled up a few moments later. It was driven by a burly dark-haired man, and his daughter was sitting in the passenger seat. He told me to get in and they'd take me home. I jumped at the opportunity. The back seat was covered with flats of empty glass Coke bottles, but I managed to squeeze in. Five minutes later, I was home. My parents, who had in the interim arrived home to discover my bewildered sister taking care of an empty back yard, were happy to see me. My sister was not. I believe she set some sort of record for length of time grounded. It seems a friend of my oldest sister and her dad had driven by and seen me sobbing at the side of the road and brought me home. Luckily, this sort of thing happened regularly back then.
There is a postscript to my adventure. That evening, my dad decided to take us to Dutchland Dairy for dinner, no doubt to celebrate my safe return. I asked if we could drive by the source of all the trouble, and he agreed. As we drove, I tried to recollect the route I had taken; everything looked familiar, this must have been it. We reached the block where the garage was located, and my dad swiftly pointed out to me the single flaw in my otherwise infallible plan.
The fucking garage door was up.
I'd been left in the back yard of our house, which featured a high board fence with a single latched gate. My sister, who was supposed to be watching me, had gone to the park to play softball with her friends. She left me sitting on my blanket in the middle of the yard surrounded by toys, evidently secure in the knowledge that the fence would serve its purpose vis-a-vis my ability to escape, and, more importantly, she would return from the park before my parents got home. However, she made two crucial mistakes. She underestimated my ingenuity and powers of observation, and she disregarded the pull of the Smiley Garage. There was a house in our neighborhood upon whose garage door the owners had painted a large smiling face. This was no round, yellow, Wal-Mart greeter sticker, Have a Nice Day smiley face. Rather, it resembled a slightly imbalanced clown wearing a bit too much lip and eye makeup. This was at once terrifying and intensely interesting to my tiny little mind and I had to see it. Right fucking now.
Within five minutes of my sister's departure, I had the gate open. I'd often watched my dad open it as he was mowing or doing yard work, and I filed this information away, confident that it would one day serve me well. Today was that day. Upon emerging into the front yard, I immediately headed off down the street, moving with all the conviction my stubby legs could manage. You will occasionally hear of a dog, given up for lost during the family vacation to Yellowstone, that will show up at their home in Hartford months later, emaciated and bearing new and exciting parasites, but largely none the worse for the wear. This was as close to that experience as I've ever come. I didn't know the exact route, but I knew how to get there. The remainder of the trip was a blur. I had traveled several blocks, and crossed at least three streets, but I recall none of that. I was having an adventure, and I was going to see the goddamned Smiley Garage! All by myself! It was a moment of triumph that was as yet unrivaled in my short life. I recall coming to the block where I knew the house to be; that's when the uneasiness set in. I tramped up and down the block five or six times, and I couldn't find it. There had obviously been a miscalculation. I had been so fixated on my goal that I now had no idea where I was. I didn't know anyone on that street, and my directional instincts, so finely honed only moments before, had given me a miss. I was well and truly fucked. I sat down on the curb in my red windbreaker and began to cry.
Apparently, my skills at creating pathos outstripped my navigational abilities, because a car pulled up a few moments later. It was driven by a burly dark-haired man, and his daughter was sitting in the passenger seat. He told me to get in and they'd take me home. I jumped at the opportunity. The back seat was covered with flats of empty glass Coke bottles, but I managed to squeeze in. Five minutes later, I was home. My parents, who had in the interim arrived home to discover my bewildered sister taking care of an empty back yard, were happy to see me. My sister was not. I believe she set some sort of record for length of time grounded. It seems a friend of my oldest sister and her dad had driven by and seen me sobbing at the side of the road and brought me home. Luckily, this sort of thing happened regularly back then.
There is a postscript to my adventure. That evening, my dad decided to take us to Dutchland Dairy for dinner, no doubt to celebrate my safe return. I asked if we could drive by the source of all the trouble, and he agreed. As we drove, I tried to recollect the route I had taken; everything looked familiar, this must have been it. We reached the block where the garage was located, and my dad swiftly pointed out to me the single flaw in my otherwise infallible plan.
The fucking garage door was up.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
A Bad Runner
It's always a bit awkward when someone tells you they're a bad runner. For one thing, running is incredibly easy to do. Basically, all you have to do is have your arms and legs working in some semblance of unison to propel you along in a forward direction. And, at some point during your stride, both feet need to be off the ground. Really. This is how no less an authority on athletic prowess than the Olympics defines the difference between running and walking. When I was young, the fact that there were actual walking events in the Olympic Games fascinated me to no end. I always pictured a bunch of ordinary folks out there just ambling along. I looked up the results religiously, thinking about how glad I was that the preeminent amateur sporting contest in the world had a place for those with no discernible athletic ability. Then, during the Atlanta Games, I actually saw a bit of one of the walking events. I'd had no idea that, for one, the events were so closely monitored. Additionally, I had never grasped how these events so completely combined a test of supreme physical skill with the opportunity to look so incredibly foolish. Have you ever seen this? To me, it looks like nothing so much as someone with a desperate need to go to the bathroom who realizes that breaking into an actual run would bring disastrous consequences. Seriously. YouTube it. You won't regret it.
My point, though, is that virtually anyone can run. Other than a decent pair of shoes and socks that won't cause your feet to blister like an albino in the Sahara, you don't need much. So I think that, when people say they're bad runners, what they really mean is that they are not as successful at running than they would like to be. I can accept this, but it all depends upon your definition of success. By any generally accepted definition, I am not a successful runner. I will never be mistaken for Usain Bolt (he's much taller, you see). Nike will never want to make a commercial featuring me running away from various speedy creatures. Asics is quite happy to have me wearing their most recent stability training shoe, but this is because I pay a good deal of money for them. If there are more than three or four members of my age group entered, I do not stand a good chance of placing therein. I have run races where I would not have placed in the 50-59 age group. This is not necessarily a huge boost to my confidence.
And yet, I know that if I enter a race, I can complete it. I can go out and run a decent number of consecutive miles if called upon to do so. I am in reasonably good shape, something I probably could not have said about myself ten years ago. I typically feel pretty okay when I wake up in the morning, and bit better than that when I go to bed at night. I do not worry about my daughters being able to outrun me at this stage in their lives. I'm pretty certain that I'm going to inhabit this planet for a good while yet, and be able to enjoy doing so.
To me, that's what success is about. Unless you're an elite-class athlete, you may be better served by paying more attention that what makes running special for you. It might be seeing the pounds you've accumulated over the years melt away. It may be that it brings you closer to your spouse, your friends, your children, your co-workers. It could be in seeing your PR at a certain distance improve, even as you get older. Whatever it is, you run for a reason. Don't let yourself lose sight of that. Because you have that reason. And that's why you run. And that is success, no matter how you look at it.
And if you are an elite-class athlete, don't expect to learn anything from me.
My point, though, is that virtually anyone can run. Other than a decent pair of shoes and socks that won't cause your feet to blister like an albino in the Sahara, you don't need much. So I think that, when people say they're bad runners, what they really mean is that they are not as successful at running than they would like to be. I can accept this, but it all depends upon your definition of success. By any generally accepted definition, I am not a successful runner. I will never be mistaken for Usain Bolt (he's much taller, you see). Nike will never want to make a commercial featuring me running away from various speedy creatures. Asics is quite happy to have me wearing their most recent stability training shoe, but this is because I pay a good deal of money for them. If there are more than three or four members of my age group entered, I do not stand a good chance of placing therein. I have run races where I would not have placed in the 50-59 age group. This is not necessarily a huge boost to my confidence.
And yet, I know that if I enter a race, I can complete it. I can go out and run a decent number of consecutive miles if called upon to do so. I am in reasonably good shape, something I probably could not have said about myself ten years ago. I typically feel pretty okay when I wake up in the morning, and bit better than that when I go to bed at night. I do not worry about my daughters being able to outrun me at this stage in their lives. I'm pretty certain that I'm going to inhabit this planet for a good while yet, and be able to enjoy doing so.
To me, that's what success is about. Unless you're an elite-class athlete, you may be better served by paying more attention that what makes running special for you. It might be seeing the pounds you've accumulated over the years melt away. It may be that it brings you closer to your spouse, your friends, your children, your co-workers. It could be in seeing your PR at a certain distance improve, even as you get older. Whatever it is, you run for a reason. Don't let yourself lose sight of that. Because you have that reason. And that's why you run. And that is success, no matter how you look at it.
And if you are an elite-class athlete, don't expect to learn anything from me.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
XC, Part 1
Prior to the last few years, my experience with running was limited to a couple years on the track team in junior high (during which I steadfastly refused to run anything longer than a single-turn race, thus finding myself consistently entered into the 200 hurdles. This was not an event to which most teams committed their strongest runners; typically, the entrants more closely resembled those who you might expect to be competing in, say, the shot put. Or the chess club. This made success easy to come by; I never finished worse than second in any race.) and one season of cross-country.
I ran cross-country my senior year of high school. I did not do so out of a conviction that I would be an invaluable member of the team. Unless the coach esteemed sarcasm and the ability to crack wise more highly than speed or endurance, I was destined to be more of a hindrance than an asset. Thankfully, I did not let my complete lack of ability keep me from joining the team; my friends ran and talked about how much fun it was, and I wanted to be a part of that. I thought I was prepared. A teammate and I had been running sporadically for almost two weeks, sometimes as far as 3ish miles. This was gonna be easy.
On the first day of practice, we all showed up at the high school gym. The first day of school was a couple weeks off, so the school was largely empty. The coach called out a few names from a clipboard. This was Group 1, consisting of the runners who would most likely comprise the varsity squad. Eventually, a friend and I were called to the front to lead Group 4. This was a decidedly non-varsity group, made up of freshmen, other newbies, and anyone else considered not necessarily the top of the heap, or even residing anywhere on the heap. We led them on a merry four-mile trot through town. This was further than I had ever run at one time, but I was still feeling reasonably okay when we returned to the school. We did some push-ups and crunches. Then, Coach uttered the words that rendered me never quite the same again: "See you guys this afternoon". Apparently, I was expected to return that very same day and run again. Thus began the two-a-days phase. In the morning, distance runs around town. Afternoons brought speed work on the track. Everything done with an eye toward peaking for our first meet in a couple weeks.
Finally, the day of the meet arrived. We boarded a bus and traveled for an hour to another school. The meet was broken into three races, freshmen-sophomores, junior varsity and varsity. Because I was neither a freshman nor a sophomore, certainly not varsity, and because there was no "an embarrassment to himself and others" race, I was slotted into the JV contest. As this was the first race of the year, and we were definitely not the cream of the running crop, the freshman/soph and JV races were contested at a distance of 2 miles, rather than the 5K that would later become the norm.
This was a tremendous boon to me. All the work we had done in practice left me a vastly improved runner, but one without the slightest clue about pacing. I decided that, in order to have some energy left for my finishing kick (during which I envisioned myself running with such skill and vigor that I overtook the entire field right before the finish line), I should run a cautious first mile. Apparently I was a bit too cautious, as I reached mile 1 in approximately 243rd place. I quickened my step for mile two, running it about ninety seconds faster than my first; indeed, I believe I was still accelerating when I reached the finish line. I did manage to pick up quite a lot of places over the second mile, but more importantly, I had learned a valuable lesson. Never again would I feel so energetic when I finished. I would go out quickly and finish strong. I would leave it all out on the course, so to speak.
I had no idea at the time how foolish this would turn out to be.
I ran cross-country my senior year of high school. I did not do so out of a conviction that I would be an invaluable member of the team. Unless the coach esteemed sarcasm and the ability to crack wise more highly than speed or endurance, I was destined to be more of a hindrance than an asset. Thankfully, I did not let my complete lack of ability keep me from joining the team; my friends ran and talked about how much fun it was, and I wanted to be a part of that. I thought I was prepared. A teammate and I had been running sporadically for almost two weeks, sometimes as far as 3ish miles. This was gonna be easy.
On the first day of practice, we all showed up at the high school gym. The first day of school was a couple weeks off, so the school was largely empty. The coach called out a few names from a clipboard. This was Group 1, consisting of the runners who would most likely comprise the varsity squad. Eventually, a friend and I were called to the front to lead Group 4. This was a decidedly non-varsity group, made up of freshmen, other newbies, and anyone else considered not necessarily the top of the heap, or even residing anywhere on the heap. We led them on a merry four-mile trot through town. This was further than I had ever run at one time, but I was still feeling reasonably okay when we returned to the school. We did some push-ups and crunches. Then, Coach uttered the words that rendered me never quite the same again: "See you guys this afternoon". Apparently, I was expected to return that very same day and run again. Thus began the two-a-days phase. In the morning, distance runs around town. Afternoons brought speed work on the track. Everything done with an eye toward peaking for our first meet in a couple weeks.
Finally, the day of the meet arrived. We boarded a bus and traveled for an hour to another school. The meet was broken into three races, freshmen-sophomores, junior varsity and varsity. Because I was neither a freshman nor a sophomore, certainly not varsity, and because there was no "an embarrassment to himself and others" race, I was slotted into the JV contest. As this was the first race of the year, and we were definitely not the cream of the running crop, the freshman/soph and JV races were contested at a distance of 2 miles, rather than the 5K that would later become the norm.
This was a tremendous boon to me. All the work we had done in practice left me a vastly improved runner, but one without the slightest clue about pacing. I decided that, in order to have some energy left for my finishing kick (during which I envisioned myself running with such skill and vigor that I overtook the entire field right before the finish line), I should run a cautious first mile. Apparently I was a bit too cautious, as I reached mile 1 in approximately 243rd place. I quickened my step for mile two, running it about ninety seconds faster than my first; indeed, I believe I was still accelerating when I reached the finish line. I did manage to pick up quite a lot of places over the second mile, but more importantly, I had learned a valuable lesson. Never again would I feel so energetic when I finished. I would go out quickly and finish strong. I would leave it all out on the course, so to speak.
I had no idea at the time how foolish this would turn out to be.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Rabbit in the Moose Pajamas
I think pretty much everyone had some sort of inanimate friend in their formative years. Mine was a blanket called Colt. I was an imaginative child, but not one blessed with a surfeit of sense; somehow, this plain white receiving blanket with sateen edging resembled nothing to me so much as a frolicsome young equine.
The 5-year-old, however, has taken this to a level heretofore unheard of. Her constant companion is a small grey rabbit called Dozy. He is a character from one of her favorite picture books, Mama Says Goodnight, which is about three young bunnies going through their evening routine under the watchful eye of their caring yet punctual mother. Dozy has two sisters, called Rosie and Posy, and together they are the subject of several books. Dozy is portrayed as being a bit on the simple side, as evidenced by his utterances related to mealtime ("Dinner, dinner! What's for dinner?"), a shooting star ("Wish, wish! Make a wish!"), and bath time ("Bubbles, bubbles! I want bubbles!"). Presumably, this vernacular continues into the other volumes, which include Bunny's Noisy Book ("Noises, noises! Loud, loud noises!") and Goodnight and God Bless ("Jesus, Jesus! I love Jesus!"). His is a carefree and happy existence.
When purchased, it was not intended that Dozy would happen into the clutches of a young blue-eyed girl. He was a gift with the purchase of the aforementioned book, which at the time was slated for a boy we would be adopting from some far away and exotic land. Life, though, rarely follows the script, and the Eldest was born within a year or so afterward. Dozy quickly became her favorite. He was the first animal into the crib at night, and the one constantly being dragged along by one ear or shoved along the floor in the manner of a small fuzzy snowplow. As her imagination and vocabulary expanded, he became less of a stuffed animal and more of a adventuring partner. He accompanied us to Rocky Mountain National Park and served as a lookout for bears and wolves. As time has gone by, he has been subject to more frequent and harrowing episodes, which has contributed greatly to a rather haggard appearance. His once-pristine blue footie jammies became threadbare, his fur bedraggled, his stuffing compressed to the point where his limbs are nothing more than air beneath an unraveling layer of polyester. Finally, a new outfit was deemed necessary. Wife fashioned a new pair of pajamas for him out of a scrap of leftover fabric. It's forest green and has moose on it. Thus far, it has been rated a successful replacement.
With age, Dozy has been imbued with more and greater powers. He can now drive a car and fly a plane. He has numerous 'kids' who are forever causing mischief around our house; mischief that might otherwise be placed at the feet of a certain child. He celebrates birthdays approximately fortnightly. He has traveled to many out-of-the-way locales and seen many interesting things. He has swum with dolphins. He has climbed mountains and piloted helicopters. He has a freaking dragon, for chrissakes.
This is one seriously awesome bunny.
And yet, his exploits pale in comparison to those of his grandma and grandpa. Theirs is an epic tale truly worthy of being celebrated. And a tale for another post.
The 5-year-old, however, has taken this to a level heretofore unheard of. Her constant companion is a small grey rabbit called Dozy. He is a character from one of her favorite picture books, Mama Says Goodnight, which is about three young bunnies going through their evening routine under the watchful eye of their caring yet punctual mother. Dozy has two sisters, called Rosie and Posy, and together they are the subject of several books. Dozy is portrayed as being a bit on the simple side, as evidenced by his utterances related to mealtime ("Dinner, dinner! What's for dinner?"), a shooting star ("Wish, wish! Make a wish!"), and bath time ("Bubbles, bubbles! I want bubbles!"). Presumably, this vernacular continues into the other volumes, which include Bunny's Noisy Book ("Noises, noises! Loud, loud noises!") and Goodnight and God Bless ("Jesus, Jesus! I love Jesus!"). His is a carefree and happy existence.
When purchased, it was not intended that Dozy would happen into the clutches of a young blue-eyed girl. He was a gift with the purchase of the aforementioned book, which at the time was slated for a boy we would be adopting from some far away and exotic land. Life, though, rarely follows the script, and the Eldest was born within a year or so afterward. Dozy quickly became her favorite. He was the first animal into the crib at night, and the one constantly being dragged along by one ear or shoved along the floor in the manner of a small fuzzy snowplow. As her imagination and vocabulary expanded, he became less of a stuffed animal and more of a adventuring partner. He accompanied us to Rocky Mountain National Park and served as a lookout for bears and wolves. As time has gone by, he has been subject to more frequent and harrowing episodes, which has contributed greatly to a rather haggard appearance. His once-pristine blue footie jammies became threadbare, his fur bedraggled, his stuffing compressed to the point where his limbs are nothing more than air beneath an unraveling layer of polyester. Finally, a new outfit was deemed necessary. Wife fashioned a new pair of pajamas for him out of a scrap of leftover fabric. It's forest green and has moose on it. Thus far, it has been rated a successful replacement.
With age, Dozy has been imbued with more and greater powers. He can now drive a car and fly a plane. He has numerous 'kids' who are forever causing mischief around our house; mischief that might otherwise be placed at the feet of a certain child. He celebrates birthdays approximately fortnightly. He has traveled to many out-of-the-way locales and seen many interesting things. He has swum with dolphins. He has climbed mountains and piloted helicopters. He has a freaking dragon, for chrissakes.
This is one seriously awesome bunny.
And yet, his exploits pale in comparison to those of his grandma and grandpa. Theirs is an epic tale truly worthy of being celebrated. And a tale for another post.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Why Run?
This is a question I get asked on occasion. People want to know what some folks in general, and myself in particular, find so appealing about...well, going out and running from nowhere to nothing. What's so much fun about going outside and sweating and getting red-faced and breathing like a surfacing hippopotamus? And my rejoinder would be, "Why, any number of reasons." I am not what you (or anyone else, for that matter) would call 'svelte'. For many years, this was not an issue for me; all through college, despite spending a couple years competing halfheartedly on the tennis team, my fitness regimen consisted primarily of playing football on the lawn outside the dorm, eating a bunch, drinking heavily, and the occasional game of Indoor Ricochet Death Baseball played with my roommate. And this served me well; I was reasonably happy and didn't feel as though death were imminent. It was enough.
Then I started getting older.
And I got married, and had children. I wasn't just living for myself anymore. My health insurance premiums depended upon a yearly Health Assessment and completing a certain number of activities each year. Don't get me wrong, I haven't turned into Steve Prefontaine or anything. For one thing, I am overweight. They tell me this every year at my Health Assessment. My BMI falls into the overweight range, never mind the fact that my 'ideal weight' is so low as to be laughable and, in fact, is a weight I haven't seen since ninth grade. The nurses who administer the tests are normally very solicitous. They say things like, "Well, you look healthy to me. Besides, the BMI test doesn't take build into account." Apparently, if your bodily shape resembles nothing quite so much as a garden shed, your results may be a bit misleading. Even so, this is cold comfort. This is akin to telling one of the girls on those shows about the high school kids that get pregnant, "Well, Emillee, you're no doubt an inveterate whore, and have for all intents and purposes ruined your life, but I'll bet you have a cute baby."
Aside from keeping fat at bay, which is a much more realistic workout goal than most of the DVDs one sees today, such as Banish Your Fat, Slim Down in Thirty-nine Seconds a Day, and my personal favorite, Tell Your Fat to Go Fuck Itself, one of the most enjoyable things about running outside is the variety. Routes are, truly, almost without end. You can run for six months and never do the same route twice, unless you want to.
And how can one write about running without mentioning the races themselves? What's not to love? I mean, I pay the organizers $25 and in return I get a t-shirt, most likely a tech tee, maybe a pair of socks, and a goody bag with Clif bars, Gu, and all sorts of cool stuff. And I get all this stuff even if I don't win. In some cases, even if I don't finish! Big races even have expos, where I can go hang with other runners, learn about nutrition, try on the latest gear, etc. And the spectators! Nowhere on earth, outside of perhaps some youth soccer leagues and the Special Olympics, are you more likely to encounter strangers who are willing to give you the fullness of their approbation. You run by, and they applaud as though you've just completed an especially tricky piece of Shostakovich, or performed open-heart surgery in a crowded restaurant, when all you've done is managed to slog along for six miles. It's awesome, and you're statistically much less likely to be hugged by an exuberant seven-year-old, or a childlike adult with serious boundary issues.
Then I started getting older.
And I got married, and had children. I wasn't just living for myself anymore. My health insurance premiums depended upon a yearly Health Assessment and completing a certain number of activities each year. Don't get me wrong, I haven't turned into Steve Prefontaine or anything. For one thing, I am overweight. They tell me this every year at my Health Assessment. My BMI falls into the overweight range, never mind the fact that my 'ideal weight' is so low as to be laughable and, in fact, is a weight I haven't seen since ninth grade. The nurses who administer the tests are normally very solicitous. They say things like, "Well, you look healthy to me. Besides, the BMI test doesn't take build into account." Apparently, if your bodily shape resembles nothing quite so much as a garden shed, your results may be a bit misleading. Even so, this is cold comfort. This is akin to telling one of the girls on those shows about the high school kids that get pregnant, "Well, Emillee, you're no doubt an inveterate whore, and have for all intents and purposes ruined your life, but I'll bet you have a cute baby."
Aside from keeping fat at bay, which is a much more realistic workout goal than most of the DVDs one sees today, such as Banish Your Fat, Slim Down in Thirty-nine Seconds a Day, and my personal favorite, Tell Your Fat to Go Fuck Itself, one of the most enjoyable things about running outside is the variety. Routes are, truly, almost without end. You can run for six months and never do the same route twice, unless you want to.
And how can one write about running without mentioning the races themselves? What's not to love? I mean, I pay the organizers $25 and in return I get a t-shirt, most likely a tech tee, maybe a pair of socks, and a goody bag with Clif bars, Gu, and all sorts of cool stuff. And I get all this stuff even if I don't win. In some cases, even if I don't finish! Big races even have expos, where I can go hang with other runners, learn about nutrition, try on the latest gear, etc. And the spectators! Nowhere on earth, outside of perhaps some youth soccer leagues and the Special Olympics, are you more likely to encounter strangers who are willing to give you the fullness of their approbation. You run by, and they applaud as though you've just completed an especially tricky piece of Shostakovich, or performed open-heart surgery in a crowded restaurant, when all you've done is managed to slog along for six miles. It's awesome, and you're statistically much less likely to be hugged by an exuberant seven-year-old, or a childlike adult with serious boundary issues.
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