They keep on coming. I went for a run at lunchtime, nice and easy, 30 minutes, walking interspersed, and it was a struggle. Worse, I felt the effects all afternoon, and feel them even now. I feel sandbagged.
What is it? Dehydration? Lack of sleep? Heavy pollen? Am I that out of shape?
Mostly the latter, I’m afraid. I’ve run very little over the last six months, and it’s been only—what?—three weeks since I started up again. I’m 52 years old, and I weigh 211 pounds—15 pounds over my fighting weight. I should just be thankful that my knees are holding up. I’m lucky I can run at all.
Can I let go of impatience? Can I accept the reality of where I am and embrace it? Can I just keep doing the work, day after day, time after time, humbly and patiently and without straining? Can I be satisfied with incremental progress, not despair and throw in the towel?
I’ve got big dreams, and that’s good, up to a point. But day to day I need to let go of expectations and just be with what’s real. That’s the only way to keep going. Enjoy what’s real.
There were brief stretches today when I felt good, took pleasure in movement. Let me not neglect to appreciate these moments, even as I work to make them last longer. Let me remember strong, sure runs in Spokane and Tallahassee and Bloomington and State College, and dream of repeating the feeling of those runs, without trying to force it. Let me, in the words of the WWII hero Dick Winters, “hang tough” and keep going out there.
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Money to Burn
I’m itching to buy something. Just got paid for some freelance work, a tidy sum for a fun project that I put a lot of time into, and now I’m looking for a tangible reward.
No, I can’t just put it in the bank. This is extra money, for extra work, and I have to use it—some of it, anyway—for something extra. Something I would never otherwise purchase.
Disposable income, they call it. For a long time, when L wasn’t working, I didn’t have any. Things were tight; whatever extra I got went into the kitty. Now, though, I can hold some back, in a separate account, to do with whatever I please.
Over the years, depending on the interest du jour, it has pleased me to reward myself with a Conga drum, an MP3 player, a camera, a sautee pan, a mountain bike, and a ukulele. Objects of good or even excellent quality, a level of quality that I would otherwise deny myself. And they have brought me much joy.
Sometimes it will be something small—a bottle of fine whiskey. And sometimes large, like a wood stove—a thing I have dreamed of for many years but would never spend the money on. What pleasure that stove has given, and not only to me, in the months since its installment!
Nor does it have to be something for me. I’ve bankrolled vacations and donations, concert tickets and clothes, splurges on L and D and others that have done my pinch-penny heart a world of good.
This time, not surprisingly, given the recent renaissance, my focus is on running gear. And that puts me in a bit of a quandary, because I have always been philosophically opposed to such accoutrements. My pure, spiritual, Zen-of-running side, in other words, is currently rolling up and down the barroom floor in a fierce and enduring clinch with my gotta-getta-Garmin side.
There’s no telling how this tussle will come out right now; there’s too much dust in the air. But the pleasure of searching and learning and dreaming is starting to give way to exhaustion.
No, I can’t just put it in the bank. This is extra money, for extra work, and I have to use it—some of it, anyway—for something extra. Something I would never otherwise purchase.
Disposable income, they call it. For a long time, when L wasn’t working, I didn’t have any. Things were tight; whatever extra I got went into the kitty. Now, though, I can hold some back, in a separate account, to do with whatever I please.
Over the years, depending on the interest du jour, it has pleased me to reward myself with a Conga drum, an MP3 player, a camera, a sautee pan, a mountain bike, and a ukulele. Objects of good or even excellent quality, a level of quality that I would otherwise deny myself. And they have brought me much joy.
Sometimes it will be something small—a bottle of fine whiskey. And sometimes large, like a wood stove—a thing I have dreamed of for many years but would never spend the money on. What pleasure that stove has given, and not only to me, in the months since its installment!
Nor does it have to be something for me. I’ve bankrolled vacations and donations, concert tickets and clothes, splurges on L and D and others that have done my pinch-penny heart a world of good.
This time, not surprisingly, given the recent renaissance, my focus is on running gear. And that puts me in a bit of a quandary, because I have always been philosophically opposed to such accoutrements. My pure, spiritual, Zen-of-running side, in other words, is currently rolling up and down the barroom floor in a fierce and enduring clinch with my gotta-getta-Garmin side.
There’s no telling how this tussle will come out right now; there’s too much dust in the air. But the pleasure of searching and learning and dreaming is starting to give way to exhaustion.
Monday, May 02, 2011
Old Men Running
I’ve reached the point in running where I look to the old guys for inspiration. One of them, George Sheehan, has been inspiring me since I was young: I first ran across his tough, philosophical running columns in a journal called The Physician and Sports Medicine when I was in my twenties. His writing, and his personal story of starting to run when he was 47, pushed me to get out there and try. Then I found Joe Henderson and Long Slow Distance, “the humane way to train,” and more encouragement to run honestly, at my own pace. Then the other Runners World stalwarts, Burfoot and Yasso, both my age or older and refreshingly human. And Hal Higdon, another old goat with unflagging optimism, wrote the training plan that helped me run a marathon.
Then there are the personal gods at the end of my street. George E., another late bloomer, is 88, and he still runs the Mount Washington ascent every year. Truman H., the same age, is a traffic guard at the local elementary school, and one of the “Old Men of the Mountains” 50-mile relay team. E. didn’t start until he was 48; how can I possibly think I’m washed up at 52?
Tops on my list, though, is Arthur Walker of Portland, Oregon, who I met at the Steamtown Marathon in 2008. Walker is retired military; at 69, he had just stepped away from a physical therapy practice to travel the country and run in a marathon in each of the 50 states. By the grace of God, I sat down next to him on the pre-dawn bus to the start at Steamtown, a nervous first-timer unsure of what lay in store. He immediately took me under his wing, encouraging me to relax and have fun. He seemed genuinely delighted to help.
I saw him twice more—once before the start, a cape of foil around his shoulders to keep him warm, and once early on the course at a porta-potty. Each time he yelled my name and fresh encouragement, a true comrade. We finished within a few minutes of each other.
I have Arthur’s finish photo tacked to my bulletin board at work. He looks strong in his cap and sunglasses and his barrel chest, flashing a grin and a peace sign. He ’s there to remind me what I have to look forward to.
Then there are the personal gods at the end of my street. George E., another late bloomer, is 88, and he still runs the Mount Washington ascent every year. Truman H., the same age, is a traffic guard at the local elementary school, and one of the “Old Men of the Mountains” 50-mile relay team. E. didn’t start until he was 48; how can I possibly think I’m washed up at 52?
Tops on my list, though, is Arthur Walker of Portland, Oregon, who I met at the Steamtown Marathon in 2008. Walker is retired military; at 69, he had just stepped away from a physical therapy practice to travel the country and run in a marathon in each of the 50 states. By the grace of God, I sat down next to him on the pre-dawn bus to the start at Steamtown, a nervous first-timer unsure of what lay in store. He immediately took me under his wing, encouraging me to relax and have fun. He seemed genuinely delighted to help.
I saw him twice more—once before the start, a cape of foil around his shoulders to keep him warm, and once early on the course at a porta-potty. Each time he yelled my name and fresh encouragement, a true comrade. We finished within a few minutes of each other.
I have Arthur’s finish photo tacked to my bulletin board at work. He looks strong in his cap and sunglasses and his barrel chest, flashing a grin and a peace sign. He ’s there to remind me what I have to look forward to.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Doing the Work
Walking in today, I passed a young woman running hill repeats. She was focused and deliberate. Her form was good. She looked athletic and strong.
Doing the work. That’s what I thought when I saw her. She is doing the work that is necessary. Paying her dues. I was inspired. You start where you are, you rein in your expectations, and you do the work. That’s all. There’s no room for vanity, or self-condemnation, or greed. There’s no rushing it. There’s a comfortable tension, neither slack nor strain. You come to live within that tension, to understand when you can push it and still maintain control, and when you need to back it off. You learn to feel, and to be honest--not to cheat yourself.
At the top of the hill was another young woman, run-walking. She was a bit overweight, no athlete, but she too was focused and deliberate. She too was doing the work.
It begins with a commitment, and that, since the marathon, has been hard for me to muster. It requires a stripping down to what’s important, and immediate. Discipline is remembering what you really want.
Doing the work. That’s what I thought when I saw her. She is doing the work that is necessary. Paying her dues. I was inspired. You start where you are, you rein in your expectations, and you do the work. That’s all. There’s no room for vanity, or self-condemnation, or greed. There’s no rushing it. There’s a comfortable tension, neither slack nor strain. You come to live within that tension, to understand when you can push it and still maintain control, and when you need to back it off. You learn to feel, and to be honest--not to cheat yourself.
At the top of the hill was another young woman, run-walking. She was a bit overweight, no athlete, but she too was focused and deliberate. She too was doing the work.
It begins with a commitment, and that, since the marathon, has been hard for me to muster. It requires a stripping down to what’s important, and immediate. Discipline is remembering what you really want.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Long Road Back
I almost didn’t run today. My knees are tender—from starting up, from carrying too much weight—and the road ahead seems daunting. To get to where I want to be, which is simply in decent shape, able to run up to 10 miles, say, in reasonable comfort, is going to take a considerable and steady effort. For a moment or two, it didn’t seem worth it. More accurately, it didn’t seem possible. The goal was too far off.
The only way forward, of course, is to put on blinders and take it one day at a time. What this requires is, first, humility, facing the truth of where I am, accepting the reality that progress happens in small increments; and second, faith that those small increments will eventually add up to something.
I have the experience of having successfully trained for and completed a marathon to bolster my faith. What may be harder at this stage is to maintain a true humility, that is, the ability to face and accept what is right now without becoming discouraged. I am challenged every time I look in the mirror, by things that I can control (albeit with difficulty) and things that I can’t. Let me accept what I must with grace and equanimity, and let me also be resolute in changing what I can.
The only way forward, of course, is to put on blinders and take it one day at a time. What this requires is, first, humility, facing the truth of where I am, accepting the reality that progress happens in small increments; and second, faith that those small increments will eventually add up to something.
I have the experience of having successfully trained for and completed a marathon to bolster my faith. What may be harder at this stage is to maintain a true humility, that is, the ability to face and accept what is right now without becoming discouraged. I am challenged every time I look in the mirror, by things that I can control (albeit with difficulty) and things that I can’t. Let me accept what I must with grace and equanimity, and let me also be resolute in changing what I can.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Turning Point
I have started running again, after a long absence. As I look back at my records, it’s been longer than I thought. I ran not at all between mid-January and mid-April. Before that, I missed all of October and November and most of December. So I’ve run at most four weeks out of the last six and a half months.
There are reasons for this drought, and some of them are even legitimate. I had a month or so of mysterious episodes that first looked like they might be cardiac. That was scary; I even spent one night in the ICU. Before that (and perhaps related) I had my annual mid-winter sinus problem, which seemed to linger even longer than usual. And before that, I succumbed to inertia: settled into a new department, a new office, a new routine, I fell out of the habit of running. The comfort devil took me over.
The most obvious, and painful, result is that I’ve put on weight—at 215 pounds, I’m 15 pounds heavier than I was during my last serious training, and likely as heavy as I’ve ever been. My pants are too tight. My paunch is noticeable. I can’t stand my image in the mirror. And there are other tell-tale signs: I feel old and achy in the morning, and I labor to walk uphill.
Worst of all, it hurts to run, and after running. I huff and puff. My back and hips have stiffened up. Most worrisome are my knees, which hurt and threaten to give out.
Running is not fun right now. It isn’t pleasant. But at 52, I feel like I’ve reached a crossroads. Stick with it, endure the suffering, slowly and painfully climb back, or give in to comfort and begin the downhill slide in earnest. For now I’m committed to hanging tough, but the decision isn’t as easy as I wish it would be.
There are reasons for this drought, and some of them are even legitimate. I had a month or so of mysterious episodes that first looked like they might be cardiac. That was scary; I even spent one night in the ICU. Before that (and perhaps related) I had my annual mid-winter sinus problem, which seemed to linger even longer than usual. And before that, I succumbed to inertia: settled into a new department, a new office, a new routine, I fell out of the habit of running. The comfort devil took me over.
The most obvious, and painful, result is that I’ve put on weight—at 215 pounds, I’m 15 pounds heavier than I was during my last serious training, and likely as heavy as I’ve ever been. My pants are too tight. My paunch is noticeable. I can’t stand my image in the mirror. And there are other tell-tale signs: I feel old and achy in the morning, and I labor to walk uphill.
Worst of all, it hurts to run, and after running. I huff and puff. My back and hips have stiffened up. Most worrisome are my knees, which hurt and threaten to give out.
Running is not fun right now. It isn’t pleasant. But at 52, I feel like I’ve reached a crossroads. Stick with it, endure the suffering, slowly and painfully climb back, or give in to comfort and begin the downhill slide in earnest. For now I’m committed to hanging tough, but the decision isn’t as easy as I wish it would be.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Marathon Man?
I have half-heartedly committed to run in the Steamtown marathon in October. This is something I’ve wanted to do, toyed with doing, for a number of years. This year I’ll be turning 50. Seems like an added reason to try it.
I say “try it,” not “do it.” That’s a problem. I’m not fully on-board with this yet. Still testing the waters. What if I get tired of the training? What if I lose heart?
My cover now is injury. That’s a legitimate excuse for dropping out, right? I say to myself doubtfully, well, I’ll try, if my joints hold up, but I’m not sure they will. This weekend I said this to my parents, half to cover myself, and half to ease them into the idea of me running a marathon. I hadn’t planned on telling them anything. I had told Lori of my tentative plan, and sworn her to secrecy, but she forgot and told my mother!
My mother’s reaction was surprisingly positive, considering her propensity to worry. “Well, it’s a goal,” she said. “If you want to try it I’ll support you.” I don’t think she even said “Be careful.” My father’s reaction was similar. They respect my running, and have for some time. My father has even asked me in the past whether I ever thought about running a marathon. The idea intrigues him.
I wouldn’t even have considered it up until about two months ago. For the past several months, maybe a year, until then, my running had been desultory; I had felt heavy, sluggish. I wasn’t enjoying running much at all. Of late, though, there’s been a change for the better. I don’t know what occasioned it—was it slowing down my pace? Losing a few pounds? For whatever reason, I began to feel a marked improvement and, well, I ran with it. As I started to feel better and better, Steamtown began to seem like a real possibility. I looked up Hal Higdon’s training plan for novice marathoners on the Web and saw that I was just in time to start training, so I fell into it.
Already, I’m in the middle of the fourth week. It hasn’t even grown hard yet, but already, I’ve had to fight off some internal resistance. What do I want to do this for? I’ve asked myself. It’s too much of a commitment, I’ve complained. I don’t feel like it. I’ve anticipated other people voicing the same thoughts. But so far, I’ve made the effort to stick to the training, and I think that with every week I put in, my commitment will grow along with my investment.
I say “try it,” not “do it.” That’s a problem. I’m not fully on-board with this yet. Still testing the waters. What if I get tired of the training? What if I lose heart?
My cover now is injury. That’s a legitimate excuse for dropping out, right? I say to myself doubtfully, well, I’ll try, if my joints hold up, but I’m not sure they will. This weekend I said this to my parents, half to cover myself, and half to ease them into the idea of me running a marathon. I hadn’t planned on telling them anything. I had told Lori of my tentative plan, and sworn her to secrecy, but she forgot and told my mother!
My mother’s reaction was surprisingly positive, considering her propensity to worry. “Well, it’s a goal,” she said. “If you want to try it I’ll support you.” I don’t think she even said “Be careful.” My father’s reaction was similar. They respect my running, and have for some time. My father has even asked me in the past whether I ever thought about running a marathon. The idea intrigues him.
I wouldn’t even have considered it up until about two months ago. For the past several months, maybe a year, until then, my running had been desultory; I had felt heavy, sluggish. I wasn’t enjoying running much at all. Of late, though, there’s been a change for the better. I don’t know what occasioned it—was it slowing down my pace? Losing a few pounds? For whatever reason, I began to feel a marked improvement and, well, I ran with it. As I started to feel better and better, Steamtown began to seem like a real possibility. I looked up Hal Higdon’s training plan for novice marathoners on the Web and saw that I was just in time to start training, so I fell into it.
Already, I’m in the middle of the fourth week. It hasn’t even grown hard yet, but already, I’ve had to fight off some internal resistance. What do I want to do this for? I’ve asked myself. It’s too much of a commitment, I’ve complained. I don’t feel like it. I’ve anticipated other people voicing the same thoughts. But so far, I’ve made the effort to stick to the training, and I think that with every week I put in, my commitment will grow along with my investment.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Indoor track
Ran inside today, for the second time this week. There was no getting around it. We had snow last night, and this morning freezing rain. By noon it had warmed up enough to be just rain, and the roads and sidewalks were covered in slush. It was run inside or don’t run at all. Even the big boys, the Boston Marathon boys, ran inside, which made me feel less of a wimp. That left only the monotony to deal with.
I’m grateful for the indoor option on a day like today, but that doesn’t make it pleasant. I go around and around that old banked track like a hamster on a wheel, breathing the stale dry air at the top of the old gymnasium, trying to find my rhythm.
It was easier today than on Wednesday. I felt better, for one thing, a little lighter, a little less duck-footed and clumsy. My new shoes felt spongy. I put myself in a sort of a trance and just ran the minutes down, where on Wednesday I was fighting it. It didn’t hurt that there was a shapely young baton twirler practicing on the deck below in short shorts and a tube top, a welcome sight at the end of every oval.
I have taken to praying when I run on the track, as a way to pass the time. Some days I pray for other people, devoting a lap to each one. I move from family to friends to enemies to special cases, accomplishing a kind of giant rosary, and sooner run out of laps than out of names. Today, though, I lacked the extra energy to be specific. I just tried to be open, receptive to whatever message God might have for me. There didn’t seem to be anything in particular, but that was okay. I was determined to be patient, even as I fretted over the monstrous lack of humility in this attitude. Me being patient with God! Ah, but God will understand, I thought. God just shakes his head and laughs at my childishness, as I sometimes laugh at Danny’s. He indulges me. He knows that I’m a helpless mess and he gives me points for trying.
I’m grateful for the indoor option on a day like today, but that doesn’t make it pleasant. I go around and around that old banked track like a hamster on a wheel, breathing the stale dry air at the top of the old gymnasium, trying to find my rhythm.
It was easier today than on Wednesday. I felt better, for one thing, a little lighter, a little less duck-footed and clumsy. My new shoes felt spongy. I put myself in a sort of a trance and just ran the minutes down, where on Wednesday I was fighting it. It didn’t hurt that there was a shapely young baton twirler practicing on the deck below in short shorts and a tube top, a welcome sight at the end of every oval.
I have taken to praying when I run on the track, as a way to pass the time. Some days I pray for other people, devoting a lap to each one. I move from family to friends to enemies to special cases, accomplishing a kind of giant rosary, and sooner run out of laps than out of names. Today, though, I lacked the extra energy to be specific. I just tried to be open, receptive to whatever message God might have for me. There didn’t seem to be anything in particular, but that was okay. I was determined to be patient, even as I fretted over the monstrous lack of humility in this attitude. Me being patient with God! Ah, but God will understand, I thought. God just shakes his head and laughs at my childishness, as I sometimes laugh at Danny’s. He indulges me. He knows that I’m a helpless mess and he gives me points for trying.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Examination
What are my motivations for running?
On a good day, it makes me feel good, both while I’m doing it and after. I enjoy the feeling of using my body and being in shape. Feeling good physically makes me feel younger, and gives me hope that I can stave off aging. Being in shape makes me feel more attractive. This raises my spirits.
I enjoy running. I would not do it if I took no pleasure in it. However, that pleasure can be elusive. There are some days when I have to force myself to get out and run; I just don’t feel like it. And there are some days, not always the same ones, when running feels plain lousy, no matter how much I take it easy. If there were more days and times when it felt lousy than there were days and times when it felt good I would stop running. It is harder to get back out there after a lousy day, easier after a good day.
Running requires effort. There is no guaranteed immediate reward. But there is the possibility of immediate reward. And there is a sort of guarantee that if you stick with it, you will get better at it. You may not become a good runner, but you’ll become a better one: the harder you work, the better you’ll become.
Are the same things true of prayer? Not exactly. Ultimately, improvement at prayer is a matter of grace, not of effort. Yet effort is required. Prayer, making yourself open to grace, is a discipline, in that it’s easier not to do it. One must be dedicated. And there is no promise of reward.
If I’m honest, I’ll admit that I pray mostly because it makes me feel good. But again, feeling good is not guaranteed. Grace will come when it comes; I can’t control it. I have only to put myself in the way of it, be patient and humble waiting for it, and be thankful when it comes and accepting when it doesn’t.
On a good day, it makes me feel good, both while I’m doing it and after. I enjoy the feeling of using my body and being in shape. Feeling good physically makes me feel younger, and gives me hope that I can stave off aging. Being in shape makes me feel more attractive. This raises my spirits.
I enjoy running. I would not do it if I took no pleasure in it. However, that pleasure can be elusive. There are some days when I have to force myself to get out and run; I just don’t feel like it. And there are some days, not always the same ones, when running feels plain lousy, no matter how much I take it easy. If there were more days and times when it felt lousy than there were days and times when it felt good I would stop running. It is harder to get back out there after a lousy day, easier after a good day.
Running requires effort. There is no guaranteed immediate reward. But there is the possibility of immediate reward. And there is a sort of guarantee that if you stick with it, you will get better at it. You may not become a good runner, but you’ll become a better one: the harder you work, the better you’ll become.
Are the same things true of prayer? Not exactly. Ultimately, improvement at prayer is a matter of grace, not of effort. Yet effort is required. Prayer, making yourself open to grace, is a discipline, in that it’s easier not to do it. One must be dedicated. And there is no promise of reward.
If I’m honest, I’ll admit that I pray mostly because it makes me feel good. But again, feeling good is not guaranteed. Grace will come when it comes; I can’t control it. I have only to put myself in the way of it, be patient and humble waiting for it, and be thankful when it comes and accepting when it doesn’t.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Money in the bank
Okay, so the honeymoon’s over. For the entirety of my lunchtime run today, I struggled as though I was carrying a cannonball. I huffed and I puffed and I felt like quitting, even though I was wearing a brand-new pair of shoes. Why the change from the time before? The day was cold, but no colder than it’s been. Had the glass of rye whiskey I sipped before dinner last night suddenly made me turn old? Serious runners talk about the “running gods,” who giveth and taketh away, without explanation. Some days you just feel lousy.
Before I’d finished a mile, a pretty good definition of “discipline” popped into my head. A discipline is something you do whether you feel like it or not. Doesn’t that about cover it? A discipline is something you practice. You do it over and over, regularly, with dedication. It’s something you set aside time for, something you plan for and commit to. Something you do “for your own good,” that is, your long-term good, as opposed to your short-term inclination, what you “feel like” doing.
Sometimes near lunchtime I will for one reason or another not feel like running: Maybe I’m hungry, or my blood sugar is low, or I’m tired or under stress. I’ll be tempted by excuses. My calf hurts, and I might get injured. I’m coming down with something. I have too much to do. It really would be better just to rest. Sometimes I’ll actually talk myself out of running, or spend so long at trading pros and cons that the opportunity is lost.
On the days when I manage to override the temptations and get myself out the door, I am "exercising" discipline. Giving it a work-out. Making it a little stronger. And that feels good. Not like scratching an itch feels good. More like putting money in a bank feels good.
It helps to remember this.
Before I’d finished a mile, a pretty good definition of “discipline” popped into my head. A discipline is something you do whether you feel like it or not. Doesn’t that about cover it? A discipline is something you practice. You do it over and over, regularly, with dedication. It’s something you set aside time for, something you plan for and commit to. Something you do “for your own good,” that is, your long-term good, as opposed to your short-term inclination, what you “feel like” doing.
Sometimes near lunchtime I will for one reason or another not feel like running: Maybe I’m hungry, or my blood sugar is low, or I’m tired or under stress. I’ll be tempted by excuses. My calf hurts, and I might get injured. I’m coming down with something. I have too much to do. It really would be better just to rest. Sometimes I’ll actually talk myself out of running, or spend so long at trading pros and cons that the opportunity is lost.
On the days when I manage to override the temptations and get myself out the door, I am "exercising" discipline. Giving it a work-out. Making it a little stronger. And that feels good. Not like scratching an itch feels good. More like putting money in a bank feels good.
It helps to remember this.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Back on the trail
It was snowing today at lunchtime. When I went out for my run, my co-worker said to me: “Wow, that’s dedication.”
If it is, I thought, it’s dedication to pleasure. Heading out for a leisurely run around the deserted golf course, by myself, when there’s snow falling and the black tree branches jut across the gun-metal sky, is the highlight of my day. It’s solitude. It’s peace. It’s honest work. It’s cleansing.
I am used to thinking of running as a discipline, like writing, like prayer. It requires effort. You have to keep it up. There is at least some temptation, every day, to let it go. But damn I love it. Damn I miss it when I don’t do it. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to give it up.
I’m just coming back to it, after a month off because of recurrent colds and a stubborn sinus infection, so in part at least this is honeymoon talk. But I welcome the stiffness I’ve been feeling in the morning. I cherish the controlled effort of setting out from Rec Hall. I enjoy facing the cold, and coming in from it all flushed and invigorated and feeling like I’ve done something.
I think of Jim, our local astronaut. When I went down to see him at Johnson Space Center, where he was working his ass off to get ready for his Shuttle mission, he told me that his tightly scheduled four-mile run, alone through the scrub pine, with the good possibility of seeing a deer, was the highlight of his day. For Jim, running was an escape from discipline. It was his daily chance to chuck everything and break free.
If it is, I thought, it’s dedication to pleasure. Heading out for a leisurely run around the deserted golf course, by myself, when there’s snow falling and the black tree branches jut across the gun-metal sky, is the highlight of my day. It’s solitude. It’s peace. It’s honest work. It’s cleansing.
I am used to thinking of running as a discipline, like writing, like prayer. It requires effort. You have to keep it up. There is at least some temptation, every day, to let it go. But damn I love it. Damn I miss it when I don’t do it. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to give it up.
I’m just coming back to it, after a month off because of recurrent colds and a stubborn sinus infection, so in part at least this is honeymoon talk. But I welcome the stiffness I’ve been feeling in the morning. I cherish the controlled effort of setting out from Rec Hall. I enjoy facing the cold, and coming in from it all flushed and invigorated and feeling like I’ve done something.
I think of Jim, our local astronaut. When I went down to see him at Johnson Space Center, where he was working his ass off to get ready for his Shuttle mission, he told me that his tightly scheduled four-mile run, alone through the scrub pine, with the good possibility of seeing a deer, was the highlight of his day. For Jim, running was an escape from discipline. It was his daily chance to chuck everything and break free.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Getting a slow start
I continue to be surprised at how much difference it makes to start slowly. My bad runs, almost invariably, are those in which I am preoccupied or impatient and go out too fast.
Even a little bit too much pace at the start can be ruinous. It throws you off, locks you into a false rhythm of continued borrowing. Before you know it you’re too indebted to recover—and you can’t reset your equanimity. You can’t get it back, no matter how much you slow down. You’re spoiled, doomed to feel awful for the rest of the run
If I do hold the proper pace for at least the first mile, on the other hand, I am almost guaranteed a good run. It gives me some needed slack, allows me to sink past the early discomfort and uncoordination into a baseline that I can work from for the rest of the run. Once this groove is established, I am opened up to a reservoir of strength. I can push the pace when I want to, back it down when that feels right, and still feel that I’m running within myself, not straining.
The proper starting pace, it turns out, is slower than I want to go. So slow that I am conscious of holding back. It’s not an easy pace to hold; it requires attention and patience. I pay attention to the length of my stride, to my leg turnover, and to my posture. I try to be patient with my lack of coordination.
It’s remarkable to me how often I still make the mistake of going out too fast, even though I’ve been taught this lesson so many times. Used to be I would succumb to the temptations to keep up with people in races. The memory of pain makes me less susceptible now to these temptations. Now it’s a matter of getting burned by inattention.
The lesson is certainly translatable—to writing, to prayer. This is the value of any discipline, that by simplification and repetition it forces us to focus, moves us out of our numb habits and back to that relaxed state of attention that is the opening for grace.
Even a little bit too much pace at the start can be ruinous. It throws you off, locks you into a false rhythm of continued borrowing. Before you know it you’re too indebted to recover—and you can’t reset your equanimity. You can’t get it back, no matter how much you slow down. You’re spoiled, doomed to feel awful for the rest of the run
If I do hold the proper pace for at least the first mile, on the other hand, I am almost guaranteed a good run. It gives me some needed slack, allows me to sink past the early discomfort and uncoordination into a baseline that I can work from for the rest of the run. Once this groove is established, I am opened up to a reservoir of strength. I can push the pace when I want to, back it down when that feels right, and still feel that I’m running within myself, not straining.
The proper starting pace, it turns out, is slower than I want to go. So slow that I am conscious of holding back. It’s not an easy pace to hold; it requires attention and patience. I pay attention to the length of my stride, to my leg turnover, and to my posture. I try to be patient with my lack of coordination.
It’s remarkable to me how often I still make the mistake of going out too fast, even though I’ve been taught this lesson so many times. Used to be I would succumb to the temptations to keep up with people in races. The memory of pain makes me less susceptible now to these temptations. Now it’s a matter of getting burned by inattention.
The lesson is certainly translatable—to writing, to prayer. This is the value of any discipline, that by simplification and repetition it forces us to focus, moves us out of our numb habits and back to that relaxed state of attention that is the opening for grace.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Indoor track
I always feel a little ashamed to run on the indoor track. Not always. There are some days when running indoors is clearly the only sane option. It’s pouring down rain, or there are several inches of uncleared snow, or it’s ten below and the sidewalks are covered with ice. On all other days, my macho-meter tells me, running inside is a sign of weakness.
The track encircles the last row of seats at the top of the old gymnasium. I don’t enjoy running up there. It’s easier in some sense—it’s flat, controllable, there’s no wind. But the air is dry, and oxygen-starved. The hard-rubber track is short and banked. The walls are close, the scenery pale and dreary. I run awkwardly, my gait never quite falling in comfortably. I prefer even the treadmill.
The “real” runners—that loose group of a dozen master’s athletes who train together seriously, bound by a jokey humor—almost never run there. They don’t surrender to the elements. They look down at the rest of us weaklings, driven inside by a bit of a breeze. They laugh at us. Or do I only imagine this?
For 15 years I had a boss who actually gave voice to this scorn. Let’s call her Yolanda. She was far more macho than I was, and clearly enjoyed pointing this out to me. She defined herself by her fierce refusal to take the easy route, and by her superiority. The colder it was outside, the more she liked it.
I frequently hated Yolanda. I refused to compete with her, in part because I was afraid I’d lose. But I also admired her. Secretly, I sometimes wished I was more like her, that I had her toughness and ruthlessness and courage. She made me all-too-aware of my imperfections, and my tendency toward weakness. She made me ashamed of myself.
Yolanda returns whenever I’m faced with the choice of whether or not to run outside. She sits on my shoulder spouting ridicule. Those in-between days are the worst.
If I listen to her, I feel cowed, and react against that. If I try to ignore her I end up feeling guilty. How crazy is trying to spite—or appease—a ghost?
Pretty damn crazy. In my saner moments I am able to kick out of this paralysis, make a choice and live with it. Real” runners be damned. If I run long enough, I know, the choice won’t matter at all.
The track encircles the last row of seats at the top of the old gymnasium. I don’t enjoy running up there. It’s easier in some sense—it’s flat, controllable, there’s no wind. But the air is dry, and oxygen-starved. The hard-rubber track is short and banked. The walls are close, the scenery pale and dreary. I run awkwardly, my gait never quite falling in comfortably. I prefer even the treadmill.
The “real” runners—that loose group of a dozen master’s athletes who train together seriously, bound by a jokey humor—almost never run there. They don’t surrender to the elements. They look down at the rest of us weaklings, driven inside by a bit of a breeze. They laugh at us. Or do I only imagine this?
For 15 years I had a boss who actually gave voice to this scorn. Let’s call her Yolanda. She was far more macho than I was, and clearly enjoyed pointing this out to me. She defined herself by her fierce refusal to take the easy route, and by her superiority. The colder it was outside, the more she liked it.
I frequently hated Yolanda. I refused to compete with her, in part because I was afraid I’d lose. But I also admired her. Secretly, I sometimes wished I was more like her, that I had her toughness and ruthlessness and courage. She made me all-too-aware of my imperfections, and my tendency toward weakness. She made me ashamed of myself.
Yolanda returns whenever I’m faced with the choice of whether or not to run outside. She sits on my shoulder spouting ridicule. Those in-between days are the worst.
If I listen to her, I feel cowed, and react against that. If I try to ignore her I end up feeling guilty. How crazy is trying to spite—or appease—a ghost?
Pretty damn crazy. In my saner moments I am able to kick out of this paralysis, make a choice and live with it. Real” runners be damned. If I run long enough, I know, the choice won’t matter at all.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
How I run now
Some years ago I became intrigued by the science of running. Tempted, you might say. I was in the best shape of my life, and I began dreaming of what more I could accomplish.
I began poring over training charts, which told me exactly what I needed to do in order to run a 40-minute 10K. On paper, the requirements looked reasonable. How pleasant it was to fantasize about completing that fail-safe recipe!
And how different the reality! As I threw myself into the training, every assigned workout became an obstacle. What had looked like like a hill I could easily climb soon seemed insurmountable. Most foreign to me, and most difficult, were the track workouts: repeated fast intervals around a quarter-mile oval. I began each session—each interval—with fresh determination. And ended each in failure and heaving anaerobic distress. After a handful of these experiences I grew discouraged and gave up.
What happened? First, I was ignorant. I had no experience in running track, and knew no one who could reassure me, or translate those cold numbers into human terms that I could digest. Second, I was too impatient to go back and puzzle out what I was doing wrong. I lacked respect, started too fast, expected too much too soon.
But I think I was also turned off by the reduction of running to numbers. The rigidity of the goal drained the joy from running, made it a grind.
For me running had turned from torture to joy on the grace-filled day when I discovered what it felt like to run at my own pace. Since then, it had been a perfect escape, the pursuit of lightness, a rhythmic grace.
I remain intrigued by the science of performance. But for me to bind myself to a performance chart was and is to violate that spirit of freedom.
I began poring over training charts, which told me exactly what I needed to do in order to run a 40-minute 10K. On paper, the requirements looked reasonable. How pleasant it was to fantasize about completing that fail-safe recipe!
And how different the reality! As I threw myself into the training, every assigned workout became an obstacle. What had looked like like a hill I could easily climb soon seemed insurmountable. Most foreign to me, and most difficult, were the track workouts: repeated fast intervals around a quarter-mile oval. I began each session—each interval—with fresh determination. And ended each in failure and heaving anaerobic distress. After a handful of these experiences I grew discouraged and gave up.
What happened? First, I was ignorant. I had no experience in running track, and knew no one who could reassure me, or translate those cold numbers into human terms that I could digest. Second, I was too impatient to go back and puzzle out what I was doing wrong. I lacked respect, started too fast, expected too much too soon.
But I think I was also turned off by the reduction of running to numbers. The rigidity of the goal drained the joy from running, made it a grind.
For me running had turned from torture to joy on the grace-filled day when I discovered what it felt like to run at my own pace. Since then, it had been a perfect escape, the pursuit of lightness, a rhythmic grace.
I remain intrigued by the science of performance. But for me to bind myself to a performance chart was and is to violate that spirit of freedom.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
The gamut part
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.
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 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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