A Way to Get from Here to There

A few years ago I was an avid bicycle commuter. Conveniently, the ten miles between home and work are paved by the historic Washington & Old Dominion trail, which traces the path of the old railroad system. It goes much further in either direction, of course, but a segment of the trail is perfectly suited for my needs, and safe, too. Only 4-5 roads to cross the whole time.

As I gradually rounded into shape (a quite precise choice of words) each summer, I reached a point of transition from a guy out getting exercise to one who was traveling to and from work. The difference is this: in the former it’s an accomplishment just to complete the ride; in the latter you don’t even think about the ride itself, you just go.

Unless you habitually run low on gas, you probably never bother to think about whether you will make it to work or not, right? Your car just gets you there, right?. Sort of the same thing.

I have now run the distance to work 7-8 times. And, until yesterday, doing so was a huge achievement. Before that, I could never quite get the run to feel like a commute. No gears to shift, no power steering, no automatic transmission, no coasting. Just me and my clunky legs.

The path is 70% uphill, which is something you don’t really notice on a bike with multiple gears. So for most of those attempts, it was all I could do just to make it the whole way. Although I can run much further than ten miles, somehow these particular ten miles always seem extra hard and a bit daunting.

Of course, that may have something to do with the destination. On the weekend I know I’m headed to a nice/long rest and I can take the time I need. On the weekday, I’m bound to be behind my desk by a certain time. Not that my work is something I don’t enjoy; it’s just not as good as a shower and a nap...

So yesterday—for the first time ever—my legs became just a way to get there. Maybe I just got in the right frame of mind. I’m not sure, but instead of thinking about the possibility of not making it I was able to reflect on all kinds of other stuff while my legs and feet just kept churning along.

My first steps were directly into the face of a west side rainbow—something I can’t ever remember seeing since most of our rain comes in the afternoon making rainbows appear in the eastern sky. “This must be the sign telling me it is going to be a good run and a good day,” I thought, “and I’ll gladly take it.” After that signal, I quickly decided that whenever I got tired I would straighten up my back, tighten up my stomach, look a little further forward, and think positive.

You know what? It worked. It really did. And for a while I felt like the “me” part—my heart and mind—were just along for the ride.

Pretty cool.

Angel On the Hill

The day promised to be warm and would get warmer so I was well on my way before the sun had risen Sunday morning. The cloud cover would keep me from overheating, and I started my 20-mile trek with 20 ounces of water, 20 ounces of Gatorade, and three packs of goo-trition.

[urbandictionary.com defines “gootrition” as the process of obtaining food necessary for bad health and obesity. Goo-trition is my term for those little packs of gel that provide quick energy for endurance events.]

The first ten miles went great. Felt great. Looked great. Even the four miles after that were solid. My pace dipped a bit, but then picked up again slightly.

As I neared the 15-mile mark my rations were getting low, but I thought I had reserved enough to make it through. My feet were hurting a bit, but not too bad. My attitude was good and not too shaky. I had this one. Almost.

The last quarter of this route—and there’s no getting around it—are steadily uphill and into the sun. Neither thing is too bad by itself, but together they are completely draining. As I came out of that last bit of shade the sun was bright and hot and four miles left felt like forty miles to go. And by the last mile, I had nothing left. No energy, no water, no nothing.

I’ve learned many times over that one foot down, one foot up gets the job done. Next foot down, next foot up. Drink a little here, drink a little there, and arrive home safe and sound. I knew I would—and I did—but something special happened in the last mile.

As I turned the corner to the home stretch, my pace had slowed to a shuffle, and I was hot, tired, dry and thirsty. To make matters seem worse, I had to pass right by a 7-Eleven where there was ice, Slurpees, gulps, water, juice, soda, refrigerators, cold cuts, kool-aid, squirt guns, water balloons, popsicles, freeze pops, ice cream, fudgesicles, well, anything that was or sounded cold or wet (or both). I dreamed of climbing into the icebox and sleeping on the icebag mountain, and that didn’t make my mental state any less fragile.

Right in front of the store there is a little grassy hill, not more than 4-5 feet above street level. Normally I just run on by, but there, on the very top, was a beautiful golden angel smiling and waving at me. I didn’t have my glasses on so I couldn’t tell who it was or even if she was real. I stared at her, and she wouldn’t look away. I thought the stare-down might work if she had mistaken me for someone else, but she kept right on smiling at me as the sun made her blonde hair glow from behind. Was this angel there for me?

Turns out she was.

My angel was one of my soccer girls whose family had seen me on the road and had stopped to wave me on. If you’ve ever run a long race and you’ve seen a friendly face in the crowd then you know sort of what this felt like. But in the race you’re looking for that face, and you know it should be there. This time I found one quite by happenstance. Or, rather, she found me.

And she carried me home. Not literally, of course, but spiritually. I honestly don’t remember my feet touching the ground over that last half mile.

Thank you, Holly. You made my day.

Try not to look up

To get through my longer runs, I have developed the habit of focusing on the space about three yards in front of me. Then I just kind of zone out and plod along, step-by-step. It’s not flashy or exciting, and I know it’s not really very good form, but it gets the job done. And it’s safe as long as I’m not going against traffic.

Quite frequently I’m tempted to look up to see where I am. There are 1/2 mile markers on the bike trail I use so if and when I raise my head I try to find the next one. Lately, for some unknown reason, I’m right at a marker almost every time.

Emerging from the relatively boring world of distance training, I let myself get excited about that trend. The miles aren’t any shorter, that’s for sure, but perhaps I’m getting faster. Perhaps I’m getting more fit. Maybe more confident, calm, and patient.

Nah! That trend ended two days ago.

At this point in my preparation for San Francisco, my mid-week runs are getting longer. The ten-miler on the schedule for Wednesday was exactly the distance from my house to work. Convenient? Yes! Easy? No way. 70% of that route is uphill. Maybe not Bay Area uphill, but almost non-stop. It’s 10 miles, but it felt like 20. It was 75, but it felt like 100. Hot. Muggy. Degrees.

Some time after the eight-mile mark I was slowing down and feeling exhausted in the hot, thick air. I was ready for this run to end and ready to step into a bracing cold shower. Dare I look up? Sure. I should be right at the… Where is it? Oh my gosh, it’s that little tiny dark spot at the far end of my range of vision. And, it’s moving away from me.

[Well, it wasn’t really moving away from me, but that was a nice dramatic effect don’t you think?]

And that’s why I try not to do it. When I’m guessing right it’s a great feeling. When I’m wrong—and I’m tired—it kind of stinks. I’ll try to be more patient, and if you come within ten feet of me, I’ll see you there.

A Good Run With a Good Friend

I ran nine miles with my friend, Michelle, on Sunday morning. She's several years younger than me and not currently training for a marathon. She also can glide along at a much better pace than I can, but still she agreed to go on a run with me and I was glad to have the company.

The eighteen-week marathon training plan I use totals about 640 miles. Times three over the past two years comes to just about two thousand miles. And that doesn't count the distance I do when I'm not training for a specific event so let's add another thousand or so to the total.

In all of that time and distance I think I have been alone for all of the miles but.... nine.

Okay, maybe that's a tiny stretch. I actually ran with Michelle for a few miles when we happened to meet each other on the local trail once by accident. I also ran with another friend in a group training run, but she quickly outpaced me to catch a faster group. And once I fell in with a guy in that training group who had a pace similar to mine, but he dropped out after that one run never to return.

And so, with little exaggeration, about 99.7% of the time I run alone. I actually don't mind doing so. There has been a lot to think about: some of it complicated, some of it exciting, some of it sad. And I listen to music or books most of the time so I'm not totally absorbed in the sound of my feet slapping the pavement. I also like the mental challenge that running alone and testing my limits brings.

But, man was it nice to have someone to talk to. And, man, did the miles go by a lot faster. Years ago, when I was cycling for fitness, I rode with my good friend, Tom, who was perfectly compatible with me. Our hours in the saddle just flew by whether we were talking or had nothing to say. I forgot how much I enjoyed that rhythm and I realize how hard it is to find someone that  you feel that connected to.

For a few miles I was that connected again. Thanks, Michelle.

It’s Back

I wondered why my marathon training was going so well and so easily.

The humidity hadn’t hit yet.

It has now.

As is typical of the seasonal change in the Washington, DC, area, our winters are long and cold (not freezing) and our summers are hot and humid. We get a few brief weeks of beautiful spring weather and then, wham, right into summer. Pretty much, that’s the way it goes.

So, I’m about halfway through my 18-week San Francisco Marathon training program. The mornings have been cool, which makes for excellent runs. I would also say that those mornings have been “misty,” which also makes for excellent runs. In fact, I wish for both when I toe the starting line with 26 miles ahead of me.

Even as recently as ten days ago I had the best long run (16 miles) I have ever experienced. No kidding. But on Sunday I went just one mile further, and I felt like I was on a different planet. I think it was Mercury. My trademark shuffle—which had been absent since last fall-—returned with a vengeance as I slogged through the last couple of miles. My growing confidence shattered as I realized that the cool weather had given me a false perception of just how ready and fit I am at this point. Pretty fit, but not ready.

And, today when I ran my four hill repeats at 6:30am—and was dripping wet at the base of the first hill—I started to wonder whether I actually should be doing this marathon thing again.

But perhaps this weather has been the reality check I needed but didn’t know I needed. The worst thing to do is start a marathon overconfident. Confident, yes, Slightly under-confident, okay. Overconfident, not a good idea.

I didn’t run that 17-miler well, but I did finish. I cursed those hills today, but they did not defeat me. I will forego my normal rest day tomorrow—due to a busy weekend schedule—and I will run twelve more hot miles. Despite the humidity, I am confident of that.

Thank you, accu-weather. Bring it on.

It’s better to feel good than to look good

Contrary to Billy Crystal in the old Saturday Night Live skit, “Fernando’s Hideaway,” I’m convinced that looking “mah-velous” is not that important.

I have evidence to prove it. This picture was taken of me near the START of the 2010 Marine Corps Marathon. Now, granted, most of the blame for this disturbing image must go to the photographer, and I am positive that I didn’t really look that bad. Bad, yes, but not that bad. This imposter has no neck or chin and a cone-shaped head, apparently… [Note: I’ll never know who took this shot since it came from the race photography company.]

Anyway, most of the time when I’m running I have a feeling I look pretty darn nasty. Especially toward the end of a long training run—like the 16-miler I did last weekend—well, you get the picture. Or, maybe you don’t so here are some key features of me at my running best and my photographic worst:

• A fuel-belt wrapped around my waist carrying four bottles of water and the remnants of sticky calories in goo form. An emergency napkin or paper towel sticks out randomly, too.
• Shirt and shorts soaked to the skin due to 2+ hours of profuse, but oddly soothing sweat. Even on a cool day, I sweat.
• Shirt tucked in on one side to keep the itchy part of the fuel belt away from my delicate skin.
• Shirt un-tucked on the other side so that I look partially stylish. I’m not kidding about this. No one tucks their shirt in anymore. No one.
• A ball cap on my head--to protect my scalp from the sun--which soaks up sweat and then drains drip-by-annoying-drip about four inches in front of my eyes. Like mosquitos I can’t swat away.
• A drooping lower lip that makes me look like I’m beaten, but actually indicates the complete opposite. When my lip falls I know I’m in a good zone (or at the dentist).
• Lower legs built like tree trunks due to poor circulation and sporting a few choice bulging veins. Wouldn’t it be nice if those bulging veins were muscular and not varicose?

And having revealed this reality to you, I have one more.

I. Don’t. Feel. Bad. At. All.

I can do this. I’ll do it as long as I can, and I don’t really care how I look. I feel just fine, thank you.

And it’s better this way.

3-4 Thursday .2

Don’t look too closely. This 3-4T was actually written on a Friday morning. Okay, but I thought about all this yesterday.

1: It Can’t Be, But It Is

My nephew graduates from high school in a few weeks. This is not possible. He is still two and wearing a denim blue hat, matching jeans, a white turtleneck, and a red Christmas sweater (on Easter Sunday). I’m sure of it. When he walks across the stage to get his diploma I know I’m going to see him reaching for Tata-Head.

2: Last Dance

Almost exactly a year ago I sent my brothers an email describing a day I had spent at the hospital with my parents. The day had been difficult, but as Mom and I readied to leave late in the evening Dad rallied, rose from the bed amidst a tangle of wires and lines, and offered his embrace to his wife who quietly accepted. Without moving, they stood together as if in a private and forever dance. No words were spoken. It was the sweetest thing I have ever seen.

3: The Second Time Is the Hardest

Yesterday, I ran up a 1/2 mile hill four times. This is what I do once a week to get ready for the hills of San Francisco in July. I will work up to five repeats in a couple of weeks and then stay at that level the for the rest of my training.

That’s not me in the picture, but it is a cool picture, don’t you think?

I can tell I’m getting stronger because when I’m not running on hills I feel better. Great. But, here’s the thing. The first time up the hill is fine, the second time kind of sucks bad, and the third and fourth times are okay. Why is that?

Seems to me that the last one should be the worst, but it never is. Wait, I kind of get that because the last one is THE LAST ONE, but why isn’t the third one harder than the second one. I know there is a simple answer somewhere, but I haven’t found it yet. I have an idea, though. I’m going to run them in reverse order next time to see what happens….