I have seen a number of running blogs. They are very focused, very similar. Here’s what I did today: Got up at 4:30, ran 17 miles in the dark at 9:00 pace, through the woods with a headlamp. Startled a bear. The 40 m.p.h. winds were a bit rough, but I carried on, and got home in time to make breakfast for the kids ....
Bragging? No. In fact, there’s a pervading humility in the tone, an unspoken agreement not to take oneself too seriously. There’s a code of camaraderie—in the sharing of accomplishments and support, the seeking of validation and inspiration. I have been following a dozen or so of these sites for the last month, and have been inspired, entertained, and occasionally astounded by them. The ultra runners, in particular—these guys (and gals) who run regularly in 50 and 100 mile races—have challenged my cautious estimates of what the body can withstand. And the ones my age and older. How do they do it without breaking down? I’ve also enjoyed the vicarious experience of running in far-off places: Rome, Germany, Ireland, the Washington coast, the Arizona desert.
I keep a training log myself. It becomes a part of your life, a tool, a source of inspiration. These blogs are an extension of that idea. An extension into community.
But here I want to do something different. Here I want not to report, but to observe, explore, reflect—on running, an old love renewed, and on other loves as well; indeed on any topic that catches my interest. To examine these things, and in examining to come to understand their meaning for me.
Running is definitely a rich starting point, worthy of unpacking. But in this blog I want to run the gamut.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Volume 1, Number 1
Here's where it starts.
What is it? I don't know yet. This I know: One of my inspirations for starting this blog, reflected in the name, was running, a sport (activity?) I've enjoyed off and on since college days, that is, for 25 years.
About four years ago, mostly because of some pain in my knees that I took as a warning, but also maybe because I was feeling bored, I stopped running. Took up yoga. Just left my gym bag behind my office door and never lifted it again.
A year ago, however, I began to think about running, to remember it fondly, to miss it. Beautiful memories of my greatest runs--along the ocean, on lonely country roads, in far-off sun-kissed places, California, Umbria--welled up in daydreams. I found myself reading about running again, pulling out my old faded copies of George Sheehan's books, leafing through Runners World at the library, bookmarking running sites on the Web.
At first I was afraid to start back. A big-boned 6-foot-3, I'd never really had the body for it, and three years of relative inactivity had brought my weight to 215. My knees just won't hold up, I thought.
I started anyway, urged at last by the encouragement on Jeff Galloway's website, the example of Thaddeus Kostrubala, the middle-aged doctor who wrote The Joy of Running, the tiny woman on my hall at work who ran Boston. I started slowly, on Memorial Day, alternating a minute of running with a minute of walking for a period of thirty minutes.
I kept at it, every other day, then four times a week, building the run/walk ratio to 2:1, 3:1, 6:1, 9:1, then adding minutes, until I was running over 20 miles per week (though not tracking miles at all). I began to feel strong. I lost weight. By the end of the summer I had even started racing again.
The important thing is this: At 47 I realized how much I loved running, how much it had meant to me over the years, how much it could still mean. I began to appreciate the sport in a way I never really had. Where before I had often fought myself, forced myself to run, now I looked forward to it, built my days and weeks around it, cherished every opportunity to get out on the road.
In a life that had become more complicated, more weighted with responsibility and age and sadness, running became a singular, unadulterated joy. Part of what I want to do here is simply to explore that.
What is it? I don't know yet. This I know: One of my inspirations for starting this blog, reflected in the name, was running, a sport (activity?) I've enjoyed off and on since college days, that is, for 25 years.
About four years ago, mostly because of some pain in my knees that I took as a warning, but also maybe because I was feeling bored, I stopped running. Took up yoga. Just left my gym bag behind my office door and never lifted it again.
A year ago, however, I began to think about running, to remember it fondly, to miss it. Beautiful memories of my greatest runs--along the ocean, on lonely country roads, in far-off sun-kissed places, California, Umbria--welled up in daydreams. I found myself reading about running again, pulling out my old faded copies of George Sheehan's books, leafing through Runners World at the library, bookmarking running sites on the Web.
At first I was afraid to start back. A big-boned 6-foot-3, I'd never really had the body for it, and three years of relative inactivity had brought my weight to 215. My knees just won't hold up, I thought.
I started anyway, urged at last by the encouragement on Jeff Galloway's website, the example of Thaddeus Kostrubala, the middle-aged doctor who wrote The Joy of Running, the tiny woman on my hall at work who ran Boston. I started slowly, on Memorial Day, alternating a minute of running with a minute of walking for a period of thirty minutes.
I kept at it, every other day, then four times a week, building the run/walk ratio to 2:1, 3:1, 6:1, 9:1, then adding minutes, until I was running over 20 miles per week (though not tracking miles at all). I began to feel strong. I lost weight. By the end of the summer I had even started racing again.
The important thing is this: At 47 I realized how much I loved running, how much it had meant to me over the years, how much it could still mean. I began to appreciate the sport in a way I never really had. Where before I had often fought myself, forced myself to run, now I looked forward to it, built my days and weeks around it, cherished every opportunity to get out on the road.
In a life that had become more complicated, more weighted with responsibility and age and sadness, running became a singular, unadulterated joy. Part of what I want to do here is simply to explore that.
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