If you are just getting started running, or just getting back into it, a word of warning. There will come a time in to the not-too-distant future when you will say to yourself, "This running shit isn't so bad. I could get used to this." This will occur right about the time your body starts to get used to the abuse to which you subject it on a daily basis. You may indeed feel this way only a couple days into it. Do not be fooled; you can trick your body for a couple days, but soon it will discover that what you are doing to it is not all that great and it will rebel. At this point, no matter how much it sucks, it is imperative that you persevere. Because it will get better. But know that you cannot trick your body for very long. It will soon discover that something strange is going on and it will punish you for it. My advice...get into it slowly.
All the same, the day will come when it will actually start to seem easy. You may actually feel great. Please note that here I am not referring to the mythical 'runner's high' to which many allude and even more aspire. This does not exist. Sure, there may be times when the endorphins start flowing and the pain in your legs and lungs diminishes ever-so-slightly, you may even be tempted to pick up your pace a bit. I have experienced this; however, as a mind-altering happening, it is somewhat lacking. For all those fitness nuts nattering on about this mythical occurrence, a couple words, if I may. Try weed.
Even still, it is possible to turn running into a pleasurable activity. As your body adjusts to the rigors and you begin to improve your times, you may return from a run feeling better than when you left. You may, indeed, feel like going back out for more. You will want to run farther tomorrow than you did today. This is an incredible sensation; enjoy it. It may even get to the point where, as you cross the finish line at a race, knowing you just set a PR, probably by quite a bit, you may feel a frisson of electricity, a small shudder, run through your body, not unlike when you reach that most intense of moments. A tiny little orspasm, if you will. That will make all the training, all the pain, all the sacrifice worth it. However, do not get used to this. Nothing is that good all the time.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Saying Goodbye to an Old Friend
As many of you are no doubt aware, we have dogs. They are a constant source of joy, humor, and indelible stains. We lost one early in the year. Maggie was a sweet, fussy, little princess of a dog. Though she was not all that doglike. She was more of a cat that panted. Cancer made her life agony so we helped her along.
Recently, Beckett left us. We had had him for over eight years; he was, as all our dogs are, a rescue. He came to us from American Brittany Rescue, age indeterminate, full of eagerness, ehrlichiosis, and hip dysplasia. He had been found, along with a Golden Retriever buddy, living in an abandoned house, subsisting on charcoal they obtained from an overturned grill. He joined our pack and immediately won our hearts. It was apparent from the beginning that he was not the brightest of pups; indeed, he was incredibly, heartbreakingly simple. His response to nearly any stimulus was a tilt of the head and a raise of the ears. This, however, almost always failed to render a life-altering epiphany. As such, he existed in a constant muddle of confusion. This did not prevent him from being a wonderfully sweet, goofy boy. He got around well enough; his only concession to his dysplasia was "hobbying", a process by which he ascended stairs by a rocking motion not unlike that of a hobby horse. He loved chewing; indeed, he became well acquainted with our oldest daughter's stuffed animal collection very early on. He was also possessed of a great degree of cunning, particularly when it came to obtaining foodstuffs. Many was the evening when we would be called from the dinner table after securing our food in what we believed to be an impregnable position. Quite often, though, Beck would greet us upon our return, wiggling for all he was worth and holding, say, a pork chop or loaf of bread in his mouth. He was loving, and lovable, and had the most wonderful head for petting. Seriously...somehow he was imbued with an extra layer of awesome between his scalp and skull. I could pet that dog for days.
However, he had been going downhill for some time. His hips made it harder and harder for him to stand up; he now had to be carried up and down stairs. He seemed to lose track of his surroundings; he would stand in one spot and stare for long stretches of time. He drooled a lot and this normally fastidious dog (indeed, who once escaped a latched kennel so he wouldn't poop therein. Still have no idea how he did that...) began losing bladder control in the house. Finally, he started whining and showing signs of real discomfort. It was time for him to go.
The eldest had expressed a desire to be with him at the end, so the family packed up and headed to the vet. They had a room ready for us with a soft blanket laid out on the floor. We were allowed some time with him before the vet came in and gave him a sedative. He laid down and closed his eyes. His breathing became more regular, and he relaxed. We gathered around him, petting him and telling him what a good boy he was. After about ten minutes, the vet came in and administered he euthanizing injection, an overdose of phenobarbitol, I believe. Within seconds, he was gone. We said our final goodbyes and departed.
A few days later, I miss my friend. It's hard to verbalize the void left behind. Imagine, if you will, the best cookie you've ever tasted; say, a chocolate chip-M&M cookie full to the brim with chocolaty goodness. Now, imagine you get to have as many of those as you want every day for eight years without getting fat. That's the pleasure of having a dog like Beckett. Why the cookie analogy? Maybe because 'cookie' was one of the few words he understood; maybe because I really want a cookie; maybe for some other reason. Regardless, an apt characterization of the impact he had on my life.
So now he's gone. I am left with sweet memories of him and the firm knowledge that I will see him again someday. Meantime, instead of stroking his soft skull, I am left stroking the furry wall and grieving. I miss him so much...
Thank you for letting me get maudlin for a bit. I promise that, with my next entry I'll go back to being snide and poking fun at things.
Recently, Beckett left us. We had had him for over eight years; he was, as all our dogs are, a rescue. He came to us from American Brittany Rescue, age indeterminate, full of eagerness, ehrlichiosis, and hip dysplasia. He had been found, along with a Golden Retriever buddy, living in an abandoned house, subsisting on charcoal they obtained from an overturned grill. He joined our pack and immediately won our hearts. It was apparent from the beginning that he was not the brightest of pups; indeed, he was incredibly, heartbreakingly simple. His response to nearly any stimulus was a tilt of the head and a raise of the ears. This, however, almost always failed to render a life-altering epiphany. As such, he existed in a constant muddle of confusion. This did not prevent him from being a wonderfully sweet, goofy boy. He got around well enough; his only concession to his dysplasia was "hobbying", a process by which he ascended stairs by a rocking motion not unlike that of a hobby horse. He loved chewing; indeed, he became well acquainted with our oldest daughter's stuffed animal collection very early on. He was also possessed of a great degree of cunning, particularly when it came to obtaining foodstuffs. Many was the evening when we would be called from the dinner table after securing our food in what we believed to be an impregnable position. Quite often, though, Beck would greet us upon our return, wiggling for all he was worth and holding, say, a pork chop or loaf of bread in his mouth. He was loving, and lovable, and had the most wonderful head for petting. Seriously...somehow he was imbued with an extra layer of awesome between his scalp and skull. I could pet that dog for days.
However, he had been going downhill for some time. His hips made it harder and harder for him to stand up; he now had to be carried up and down stairs. He seemed to lose track of his surroundings; he would stand in one spot and stare for long stretches of time. He drooled a lot and this normally fastidious dog (indeed, who once escaped a latched kennel so he wouldn't poop therein. Still have no idea how he did that...) began losing bladder control in the house. Finally, he started whining and showing signs of real discomfort. It was time for him to go.
The eldest had expressed a desire to be with him at the end, so the family packed up and headed to the vet. They had a room ready for us with a soft blanket laid out on the floor. We were allowed some time with him before the vet came in and gave him a sedative. He laid down and closed his eyes. His breathing became more regular, and he relaxed. We gathered around him, petting him and telling him what a good boy he was. After about ten minutes, the vet came in and administered he euthanizing injection, an overdose of phenobarbitol, I believe. Within seconds, he was gone. We said our final goodbyes and departed.
A few days later, I miss my friend. It's hard to verbalize the void left behind. Imagine, if you will, the best cookie you've ever tasted; say, a chocolate chip-M&M cookie full to the brim with chocolaty goodness. Now, imagine you get to have as many of those as you want every day for eight years without getting fat. That's the pleasure of having a dog like Beckett. Why the cookie analogy? Maybe because 'cookie' was one of the few words he understood; maybe because I really want a cookie; maybe for some other reason. Regardless, an apt characterization of the impact he had on my life.
So now he's gone. I am left with sweet memories of him and the firm knowledge that I will see him again someday. Meantime, instead of stroking his soft skull, I am left stroking the furry wall and grieving. I miss him so much...
Thank you for letting me get maudlin for a bit. I promise that, with my next entry I'll go back to being snide and poking fun at things.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Where to Look
Okay, a couple things this entry is not about. First off, it is not about the want ads or where to find something you may have lost.
Secondly, it is definitely not a guide about where you may cast your gaze should you find yourself in a crowded public showering situation. So get that thought right out of your heads. Fucking perverts...
Rather, gentle readers, this post will seek to forestall, once and for all, the classic question of, "When I run, should I look up? Or down? Or what? Hey! Where are you going?" Because, you know, some people don't like to talk about running...
My advice is, don't do either. Look around. Especially if you wear headphones when you run. For God's sake, if you do, please take note of your surroundings, particularly if you are not running on some sort of recreational path. There will be vehicles around, and no matter how stalwart you are, they will squish you like an overripe melon dropped on a sidewalk. I do not wish for this to happen to you.
Please note, this advice only applies to those of you who prefer to run outside. There exists a certain subsection of the running community that prefers to run on a treadmill regardless of the weather. These shiftless poltroons are insurgents, Communists, and likely Episcopalians. You should have no truck with them whatsoever.
It's amazing what you can see if you just pay attention. Just today, as I was taking one of my frequent runs through Woodland Cemetery, I happened upon a fox. She was beautiful. Her coat was lush, her tail was luxuriant, her black stockings were in stark relief to the red of the rest of her. But enough about the hooker I saw on my way over there, let's talk about the fox...
In all seriousness, it was a wonderful moment. I would not be surprised if the fox had a den somewhere nearby. The purposeful aimlessness with which she ran away from me, looking over her shoulder to make sure I was following, led me to believe she was trying to steer me away from a certain locale. Finally, after being satisfied that I was not going to plunder her den and grievously injure her kits, she settled into some tall grass next to an old, decrepit tomb set into a hillside. Soon, I could see nothing but her ears and her bright eyes peering out at me. When I ran by again a few minutes later, she was still there. That's the sort of thing you miss if you don't pay attention.
So, to recap: There are myriad reasons to be aware of your surroundings when out for a run. First and foremost, it will most likely prevent you from wandering into the path of some motorized conveyance that is much larger and carrying a great deal more momentum than you. The mere possibility of reducing your chances of being turned into a random collection of disconnected organs and tissues should be more than enough. And if suicide is your goal, there are much cleaner ways of accomplishing this. I recommend guns. Drugs are too chancy; you might miscalculate the dosage and just have a good time.
Additionally, you can see and experience way more if you look around once in a while. Take Ferris Bueller's advice...don't miss it. Let the scenery be your guide. Allow the birds to be your soundtrack. Look at the clouds; see the forest for the trees. Watch that dog taking a dump on someone else's lawn. Watch closely; make the owner squirm a little bit. Maybe then they'll actually clean up after their animal. Memorize license plate numbers...never know when they might come in handy. Daydream. Make up stories about what you see around you. Why is that couple at the bus stop arguing? How did that raincoat end up in that bush? Reflect. Ask yourself questions to which you don't know the answers. Relive that freaky bondage dream you had last night. Try to figure out why it starred Billy Dee Williams. Ponder life's great mysteries. But most of all, for the love of Mike, look the hell around. There's an awesome world out there. Experience it.
Secondly, it is definitely not a guide about where you may cast your gaze should you find yourself in a crowded public showering situation. So get that thought right out of your heads. Fucking perverts...
Rather, gentle readers, this post will seek to forestall, once and for all, the classic question of, "When I run, should I look up? Or down? Or what? Hey! Where are you going?" Because, you know, some people don't like to talk about running...
My advice is, don't do either. Look around. Especially if you wear headphones when you run. For God's sake, if you do, please take note of your surroundings, particularly if you are not running on some sort of recreational path. There will be vehicles around, and no matter how stalwart you are, they will squish you like an overripe melon dropped on a sidewalk. I do not wish for this to happen to you.
Please note, this advice only applies to those of you who prefer to run outside. There exists a certain subsection of the running community that prefers to run on a treadmill regardless of the weather. These shiftless poltroons are insurgents, Communists, and likely Episcopalians. You should have no truck with them whatsoever.
It's amazing what you can see if you just pay attention. Just today, as I was taking one of my frequent runs through Woodland Cemetery, I happened upon a fox. She was beautiful. Her coat was lush, her tail was luxuriant, her black stockings were in stark relief to the red of the rest of her. But enough about the hooker I saw on my way over there, let's talk about the fox...
In all seriousness, it was a wonderful moment. I would not be surprised if the fox had a den somewhere nearby. The purposeful aimlessness with which she ran away from me, looking over her shoulder to make sure I was following, led me to believe she was trying to steer me away from a certain locale. Finally, after being satisfied that I was not going to plunder her den and grievously injure her kits, she settled into some tall grass next to an old, decrepit tomb set into a hillside. Soon, I could see nothing but her ears and her bright eyes peering out at me. When I ran by again a few minutes later, she was still there. That's the sort of thing you miss if you don't pay attention.
So, to recap: There are myriad reasons to be aware of your surroundings when out for a run. First and foremost, it will most likely prevent you from wandering into the path of some motorized conveyance that is much larger and carrying a great deal more momentum than you. The mere possibility of reducing your chances of being turned into a random collection of disconnected organs and tissues should be more than enough. And if suicide is your goal, there are much cleaner ways of accomplishing this. I recommend guns. Drugs are too chancy; you might miscalculate the dosage and just have a good time.
Additionally, you can see and experience way more if you look around once in a while. Take Ferris Bueller's advice...don't miss it. Let the scenery be your guide. Allow the birds to be your soundtrack. Look at the clouds; see the forest for the trees. Watch that dog taking a dump on someone else's lawn. Watch closely; make the owner squirm a little bit. Maybe then they'll actually clean up after their animal. Memorize license plate numbers...never know when they might come in handy. Daydream. Make up stories about what you see around you. Why is that couple at the bus stop arguing? How did that raincoat end up in that bush? Reflect. Ask yourself questions to which you don't know the answers. Relive that freaky bondage dream you had last night. Try to figure out why it starred Billy Dee Williams. Ponder life's great mysteries. But most of all, for the love of Mike, look the hell around. There's an awesome world out there. Experience it.
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