On (Sort Of) Shaving My Legs

Did I used to have hair there?  I think I did.  I kind of hope so because that would look really odd if I didn't.  It looks like I shaved.  How the heck did this even happen.  Liz will know.
"Liz come here for a minute."
"What's up?"
"Did I used to have hair right here on my legs?"
"I don't know."
"I think I did."
"Okay."
"Isn't that really weird?"
"No.  Not really.  Will you please get dressed."
Apparently the sudden alopecia of my thighs is not as universally fascinating as I suspected.  Nor is it an excuse to hang out in my boxers all day.

I am comfortable to admit that I have shaved (parts of) my legs before.  I am not one to suffer needlessly, so, after sustaining some rather vicious gashes out on the trail I shave the area around it because, honestly, I hate to pull the band-aid off.  This summer, while experimenting with some spray-on glue to keep kineso-tape in place, I also shaved prophylactically, for fear of the ripping that would result post-tape.  So any manscaping of the legs that is done is strictly utilitarian in nature (I swear!).  The newly shorn vastus medialis (on both of my legs!) however, were not intentional.

It was this past Saturday.  A frigid morning, maybe 9 degrees.  It was dark.  I had gone to bed the night before feeling as if I might be catching my older son's cold, but I still had diligently filled my handhelds, set out my gear, and set the alarm for o'dark o'clock.  The plan was to run a hilly 50 miler on a 2.82 mile out-and-back (5.64 miles/lap) on the roads near my house.  Five weeks out from my next race, this was a key workout, a last long effort.  The alarm went off.

Fortunately, the signs of sickness had passed.  Yet as I lay there, close to an hour earlier than I get up during the week I had to will my body to get up.  Motivation was low.  It got lower when I looked at our outdoor thermometer.  Alas, I had mixed up two servings of GU Roctane Brew the night before, and did not want them to go to waste.  I dressed, body-glided, made sure there was as little exposed skin as possible, shut the door and started running.

"I am here." This was my mantra.  "I am here." I want to be back in my incredibly comfortable (and warm) Tempur-Pedic.  "I am here." I want waffles.  "I am here." Am I really going to run this same section of road 16 more times? "I am here." I really need to use a bathroom . . .

Mercifully the Starbucks at the start/finish of each of my laps opens around 5:00.  After my first lap, my neck warmer frosted, I was able to make a pit stop.  Feeling much relieved, the mind started coming around.  My course took me to a great view of Boston, and as the sun rose over the city, my mantra started to make sense. "I am here." I have chosen this.  "I am here." I am moving.  "I am here." The next climb does not exist.  "I am here." There is not the beginning of the run.  The end does not exist yet.  There is only this step.  "I am here." Up the biggest climb.  "I am here." Eat one of my homemade "ginger energy balls." Take a sip of Roctane Brew . . .

A funny thing happens when you have 20 ounces of liquid outside on a day with single digit temperatures: it freezes.  "I am here." I've run 15 miles and haven't had a sip to drink. "I am here." 20 miles, no liquid.  "I am here." 22 miles.  "I am here." Why don't I stop, unscrew the top and see if I can get something out.  Roctane Brew slushy?  GOOD!  "I am here." Forward.

It was probably about 40 miles into this process, when the temperatures seemed to have rebounded, and might have been approaching freezing, my energy was high (fueled exclusively by my homemade energy balls and Roctane slushy) that I noticed I was sweating a bit and both of my quads had some superficial "burn" to them.  This was not the typical "I'm getting really tired" burn.  This felt like having a lukewarm towel on them.  Nothing serious, though I imagine this is when my legs became silky smooth.  I did not think about it any more until I got home and out of the shower and noticed these unfamiliar bald patches.  Even tonight, I remain unsure if I did, in fact, loose any hair (I think there are some prickly hairs growing back, a clue that, indeed, I did have hair there on Saturday morning).  Despite my incredible fascination with this great mystery, I think I can resist the urge and not shave the rest of my legs to match these strange patches.  If I do feel that urge, I'll just put my running tights back on and go for a longer run.

Wrestlin' Grizzlies

It started on Friday, December 21, at around 7:15 PM.  As Chris Martin dubbed it, we were embarking on the first annual "Shortest Day - Run Long" event on the new TARC 100 mile course.  The plan?  Run through the night and complete two laps of the 25 mile course, finishing before the sun rose on the 22nd.  Unfortunately, those eastern Massachusetts grizzlies thwarted our efforts.

This story necessitates a bit of background.  My birthday is December 24th (and, despite what everyone thinks, I've always enjoyed having my birthday the day before Christmas.  I owe much of this to my mom, who made sure I had a "special" day every year (and continues to do so)).  For the past several years, I have sought to celebrate my birthday with a "big" run.  It started four years ago by running from my folks' house in Waterbury, VT up to the old log cabin (built by my parents) where I grew up at the base of Camel's Hump in Duxbury, VT.  I had been battling an injury, but survived this 20-miler with no issue.  The next year I was too injured to run, and then last year, Liz suggested I run from our place to New Hampshire to meet her and the boys at a Burger King off the highway.  This 37-miler ended with me unable to walk the last 8 miles, and hitchhiking on a back road in rural New Hampshire, with the temperature hovering around 5 degrees.  I couldn't run for over a week after this.  So it was with a certain amount of trepidation that I approached this year's birthday run.  Naturally, given my proclivity for hurting myself on these runs, I decided to be conservative this year and run through the woods, overnight, for 50 miles.

Improved judgement aside, what made this year different than the previous three was that I decided to make it a social gathering.  I've been rather fortunate over the last couple of years to become friends with a great group of people through running.  So, about two or three weeks before the "birthday" run, I sent out an email to those crazy folks who live near me with two options for the run. Plan A was to start at a reasonable hour on Saturday morning, running the 50 miles and getting home before dinner.  Plan B was to put the kids to bed, meet up at 7:00 PM and run through the night.  In a demonstration of their foolhardiness, Plan B was the unanimous pick from all those involved.  So it was that I found myself, on the longest night of the year, making Ramen noodles and stuffing them into my kids' thermos, and dropping them off with homemade "Ginger Balls" (recipe available upon request - they are actually quite good), Coke, water, and energy gels at various points in the woods of Weston, MA.  50 miles or bust!

Friday morning, I faced a bit of a dilemma.  It was supposed to rain very hard.  My bike was at school.  I wanted to get as much sleep as possible, knowing I would be running 50 miles overnight, but, alas, after many crashes on my bike, I am truly scared of riding in any sort of inclement weather.  So I ran the 7.5 miles to school (more miles, more smiles!), and even  managed to stay dry.  The dry weather did not last, and for several hours that day the skies unleashed a deluge.  Liz and the boys kindly picked me up at school, and in the time it took them to drive from Arlington to Charlestown, the skies cleared and the sun came out.  I merely laughed at the emails and texts I had received throughout the day concerning the night's run, asking things like, "Is this thing still on?" or "Any second thoughts?" Pah! 50 miles or bust!

Of course, I was the last to arrive at Burchard Park.  The other 7 guys were ready to go: C1 (C-uno), C3, Huss, McBuffie, Anthony, Jeff, and Justin.  I was truly amazed that these guys were willing to run through the night.  I at least had winter vacation to look forward to - I could sleep in and take naps as I wished.  These other guys all had regular work to return to, and Jeff and Justin both have young kids at home!  Yet, they were all there, and after waiting for about 20 minutes to speak with the Weston Police (to ensure our cars were not towed), we started out into the cold, dark (and rather wet) woods.

The miles themselves passed fairly easily (although by 22 miles C3 was complaining of cramps, and, not to be outdone, C-uno said he was on the verge of a heart attack.  Sandbaggers.).  The trails were wet, but the weather was pretty mild (several folks were running in shorts), and I think we were all a bit relieved that we were not facing the rain from earlier in the day.  I managed to keep us (mostly) on track (a feat I am rather proud of given the circuitous nature of the course), and the time was punctuated by a lot of flatulence-based discussion (funny how the conversation of eight grown men is not much different than the conversation of my 4 and 6 year old boys.  I think the main difference is that the 8 men can produce a much higher volume of methane than the 4 and 6 year old.), the occasional Superman fall, a run in with, what I thought to be, some sort of blood thirsty cult/pagan worshipers (turns out it was just some Weston residents out celebrating the winter solstice with candles.  What were they thinking?  Out in the woods in the middle of the night!), and C1 trying to turn this into a biathlon by swimming through one of the stream crossings.  Still, we managed to finish the first loop about 2 minutes before midnight, at which point we all held hands and comforted each other before the impending Mayan apocalypse, and, when that failed to materialize, swore to never mention the tears we had all shed in fear.  Some folks said goodbye at this point to either embrace their families, avoid cardiac emergency, and/or try to capture at least a few hours of sleep.  Four of us remained (Justin, McBuffie, Anthony, and myself - all who happen to be running 100 miles at the Double Top 100 on March 2 in Georgia).  After a wardrobe change by the other three (seriously, it was like something out of a Broadway production, with changing pants, shirts, jackets, and probably shoes and undergarments too).

The pace picked up the next 4.5 mile section and when we got back to the cars, Justin was ready to fall asleep (the dude has a 6 month old, and as a teacher in Grafton, wakes up at 4 every morning.  Hard-nosed), so he made the reasonable choice and called it a day (night?).  Justin had been the first to say "50 miles or bust" so  a bit of the steam was taken from my sails.  Although I felt gfine physically, mentally, I started thinking that the next 20 miles were going to take us at least 4 more hours, and I wasn't getting home much before 6 AM.  So, when McBuffie, Anthony and I reached the next aid stop 2 miles later, I was rather happy to see three enormous grizzlies there, snacking on our vittles.  Anthony or McBuffie had not run that fast all night, as they both hysterically fled into the woods.  Being the calm, incredibly tough person that I am, I stood to face the grizzlies alone (do not concern yourself with the fact that at this time of year bears are hibernating or the fact that grizzlies tend not to live east of the Mississippi outside of zoos).  I dispatched of them quickly, saving my prized "Ginger Balls" (considered by many to be the source of much of the night's flatulence) and then ran back into the woods to gather my two companions (their shrill cries made them easy to track).  After this unexpected ursine encounter (and after calming both Anthony and Michael down), we decided it would behoove us to return to the cars and call it a run.  I stopped the clock at 33.6 miles, a figure I was pleased with, as I turned 33 a couple of days post-run.

And so it was that I managed to survive a birthday run injury free (in the 5 days since, I've been in Vermont and have managed to run up a mountain (albeit slowly, in some deep snow) and run from my folks' to my sister's, a back road journey of 25 miles (into a headwind, which froze my eyeballs and water bottle).  But the birthday/overnight run was quite memorable as I also got to share some good miles with some great friends.  Perhaps we have hit upon another great TARC tradition, the "Shortest Day - Run Long" (SDRL), which may grow to have a DRB-like following.  Afterall, the course is equally as confusing and, as of the first running of the 50 miler, there is a 0% finishers rate.  Registration for next year's run will be open soon.  The fee will be a bottle of Gas-X.

Stone Cat 2012: Diesel-san's Psychic Network

In the days leading up to Stone Cat 2012, an online conversation began between Bob “Diesel-san” Crowley, Sam “T.I.M.” Jurek, and myself.  Diesel-san initiated by sending T.I.M. (which stands for The Invisible Man, a moniker, which, after Stone Cat, speaks for itself) and me an inspirational video.  Naturally the electronic “conversation” turned to how we were feeling, strategies for race day, and other such pre-race perseverations.  At the end of the ruminations, in his zen/Yoda-esque wisdom, Diesel-san said:

I've a really good feeling for both of you.  You're relaxed, approaching this as fun - not a task - and I'll think you'll both enjoy each other's company and push each other.  My prediction?  You go 1 and 2 and both break the record.  Who pants who to take the top podium spot?  I'd go with rock, paper, scissors . . .

Diesel-san is currently enjoying a winning streak in Vegas.

For many reasons Stone Cat 2012 was an important race for me, personally and as a runner.  As such, this write-up is going to delve into my own personal running psychosis.  Brevity has never been a strength (heck, I run ultras!), so be warned.

As I’ve written before, at the conclusion of Western States in June, I was in a complete running funk.  My body was lethargic all summer, my running confidence was crushed because of unmet expectations at Western, and my personal spirit/energy were thrown into our new house and time with the family (not a bad thing at all).  10 milers were daunting.  My GPS told me my pace was slow.

September marked a gradual change in the winds and my thoughts turned to tackling Stone Cat once again.  My running was coming around and my body had a spark.  I stopped running with a watch and simply ran by feel, for joy.  After my last big training run on the course, two weeks before, I was legitimately excited for the whole Stone Cat experience and decided to run the race sans-watch, a first for me.  Sam and I made a plan for race day: run much more conservatively than last year by complete the first two loops in the 1:35 range (last year we ran these in 1:28), plug into music for the 3rd and 4th loops, wear the slick new TARC singlets, and he would drive me to the race.  On Saturday morning he was early.  He was clearly ready to go.

The most memorable part about the drive up to Ipswich was how the night before we both had been thinking that we might as well just “go for it” and chuck our conservative game plan out the door.  Why not just run hard from the start?  We laughed at ourselves.

Pre-race at Doyon Elementary is always fun, like a family reunion of sorts.  I got a kick out of handing RD-extraordinaire, Marty, a loaf of bread and some cheese (I had been ribbed for my mind-boggling consumption of grilled cheese at the finish last year and had promised Marty to make amends).  As Sam and I set out our extra bottles and gear for quick ins/outs at the start/finish, we caught up with Sebastien, who, in his first 50, placed 2nd at Stone Cat last year, and had just run some fast marathons and 50s.  Despite the convivial mood, my mind was focused on besting my 6:29 from last year and, hopefully, running under Ben Nephew’s course record (6:24).

As we lined up to go, I noticed my headlamp seemed weak.  I asked Sam if it was on, and he told me it wasn’t.  I was pretty sure I had already turned it on.  I tried again.  As we ran down the field it was not a big deal, but when we hit the woods, I noticed my lamp, again, was not on.  For the third time, I turned it on.  Seconds later it went out.  Curses! I had even thought about switching the batteries the night before.  I asked Sam if I could just follow him.  He graciously said yes, as, on the first hill, Sebastien made an early move and put a bit of a gap on us.  I tried my headlamp again.  Seconds later it was out.  I decided not to try it again.  (Two little asides about this.  First, at one point both Sam and Sebastien got off course.  I must be eating a lot of carrots because I, the one without the headlamp, was able to see the trail.  Second, when I got home, I explained the technical difficulties to my family and took out my headlamp to demonstrate.  Wouldn’t you know, the thing burned brightly, without fail, as I shook and tossed it, for about ten minutes before finally shutting it off.  My mom, who was visiting, told me it was my Uncle Norm (who recently lost a battle with cancer), ever the trickster, just reminding me to not take myself too seriously.  Thanks Uncle Norm.  Your misadventures continue and I appreciate that you didn’t send a buck charging at me.).

The first loop continued as such, Sebastien a minute up on Sam and I, and Jack Bailey (who I had the pleasure of running with a bit with at the VT 100 this summer) running with us.  We came in to the start/finish, got a read on Sebastien’s lead (almost exactly a minute), and were back out without breaking stride.  The clock read 1:30.  As we started the 2nd loop Sam and I put a bit of a gap on Jack and were running together, strong.  We started joking that we were just as foolish as last year, but neither of us suggested we slow.  On the 2nd loop Sebastien maintained his lead.  Sam and I plugged away, and after the 2nd aid station I started to feel the pace a little.  I settled behind Sam and he did the work.  With about 1.5 miles before the start/finish I broke what had been a very quiet time and said, “Sam this is the least we’ve ever talked on a run.” He laughed and said, “We’re just conserving energy.” That was the extent of our conversation for the majority of those 12.5 miles.  We finished the loop in 1:29, 2:59 elapsed.  Sebastien had the exact same lead on us.  And then my wheels nearly came off.

As we grabbed our fresh bottles at the start/finish for some reason (that I am yet to figure out) I became a deflated balloon.  Sam quickly gapped me by maintaining our previous pace.  I knew the pace had been solid, and I desperately wanted to keep stride with T.I.M. (Sam = The Invisible Man, or T.I.M.  because of his speed), to help him close the minute lead Sebastien had.  By the top of the first hill T.I.M.. was, well, invisible to me.  The next 6 or 7 miles were what I will remember as my self-pity party.  I wasn’t bonking, my energy was good, but my legs just couldn’t keep up.  An emotional highlight came 2 miles into this loop when someone yelled at me, “Your brother is just a minute ahead.”  I know it was to do with our TARC shirts, but Sam and I have shared a lot of miles and everything that comes with that (he was the reason I finished Western States), and whoever said this does not know how meaningful his comment was to me.  Just coasting it in the last two loops sounded really appealing, but I couldn’t let my “brother” down.  Yet my legs just weren’t responding.  And then music saved my day.

After never using it before, in August I started listening to music while running (Liz gave me the gift of a new iPod Shuffle - it weighs less than half an ounce!).  I have to admit, it is great.  And, as I plodded along, pitying myself and my slowing legs, all of a sudden a remixed version of John Denver’s classic Country Roads pumped through my tiny iPod.  It wasn’t the song itself, but the image of my younger son, Jacoby, singing along to one particularly upbeat section.  This thought put a smile on my face and I remembered that my family was going to be at the finish line.  The idea of finishing with my two boys made me, in a word, happy.  My legs seemed to respond.  I dropped the negative thoughts, which had been a near-constant companion for the first 8 or so miles of the loop, and told myself, “It is going to hurt, but simply enjoy it.  Sam is up there.  Sebastien is up there.  Go.”  The last 4 miles or so went a lot better.  I also knew that my friend (and winner of many TARC races), Eric Ahern, was going to be running the 4th loop with me.  I saw Sam and Sebastien on the out-and-back section at the start of the course.  Sebastien was about 6 or 7 minutes up on me and Sam was about 40 seconds behind him. I shouted my encouragement to both (although tempted to tell Sam to wait for me, I saw he was ready to crush it).  Seeing him moving so well buoyed my spirit further, and, when I met Eric at the edge of field, things picked up.  The loop was slower than I wanted, but not as bad as it had felt: 1:39.  

I have run a bunch with Eric.  I’ve noticed something each time: he literally floats.  The plan was for him to just be a few feet in front of me and basically drag me through the 4th loop.  At first his graceful stride annoyed me as my feet clopped along.  But it quickly inspired.  He was a machine, and my mind was on autopilot.  It was just what I needed.  The negative thoughts were gone.  It was just a matter of how fast we could get it done.  I said all of 5 words the whole loop, but grunted a lot.  We were moving well enough by the first aid station that I started thinking we would be closing on Sam and Sebastien.  When we would see runners up ahead I immediately thought it was one of them.  We pulled into the 2nd aid station and Bill Howard (who, if you don’t know him, is currently in the running for one of the top-ten greatest people in the world) told me they were just minutes up (the simple fact that he understood my incoherent inquiry speaks to his greatness).  It was on.

Eric pushed me through those last 5+ miles.  And just when I thought third was my spot that day, we hit a long straightaway, just before you make a left on a little U singletrack, about 3 miles from the finish, and I saw someone 100 yards up.  “Eric, I think that’s Sebastien.” (My five words for the loop).  “You’re right.  Let’s go!”  We shouted encouragement to Sebastien, who had clearly hit a very rough spot, but I ran as hard as I could.  I didn’t look back.  I saw Eric check and asked how far back he was.  “He’s out of sight.”  We ran harder.  Visions of catching Sam and finishing together, in our slick new TARC singlets (seriously the most comfortable running shirt I’ve ever worn) now danced in my head.  As Eric and I turned onto the new singletrack leading to the car, Jeff Lane (who was a champion volunteer at that intersection all day) told us that Sam had just come through the other side.  I knew we wouldn’t catch him, but we still ran hard.  

We hit the field, the last 200 yards to the finish, and I let out a yell, a sort of cathartic release, my spirit telling my body that I had recovered from unmet expectations.  That I had found joy in my running, had run hard, and run well.  And, just as they had said, my family was there at the finish, my mom, my sister, my nephews, my wife, and my boys.  Running the last few steps with them was amazing.  I felt no pain.  It was pure joy.  Sam had waited at the finish (even though he came in 5 minutes ahead of me).  We had fulfilled Diesel-san’s prophecy, coming in 1 - 2, both under the old course record.  I may have lost the rock/paper/scissors for the win (at one point I tried to throw a real rock at Sam so I could catch up.  He was too fast), but I’ve never had a more fulfilling race.  

A father's greatest joy: finishing with my two boys, Cooper
(in red, with the Mohawk) and Jacoby (in stripes). 

The "TARC Brothers," all smiles (I might be grimacing -
hard to tell) at the finish.  Sweet new shirts!

Post-race, the joy continued, watching friends finish (many their first 50), joking around with all the incredible GACers, eating a slightly more reasonable number of delicious grilled cheese (thanks Chris - the one you made was extra special!), and enjoying everyone’s company.  Sebastien, who had traveled from Quebec without his family, came over for dinner (pizza and ice cream) and, just so he wouldn’t miss his kids too much, plenty of energy from my two boys and two nephews.  It is amazing the bond that is formed from such a shared experience.  I have only met Sebastien briefly before (twice at Stone Cat and once this summer as we were all leaving Storyland up in New Hampshire), but we hung out for several hours, talking about our lives, laughing about our toenails and the state of an ultra-runner's feet (for the first time ever in an ultra, I had no blisters, and, unlike years past at Stone Cat where I have lost 7 toenails, I am happy to report, not a one will be coming off after this year’s race!), and looking at pictures of his kids (and watching my kids tear around the house).  

Stone Cat 2012 will be remembered as being an as close to perfect ending to the 2012 competitive season as I could have wished for.  If Marty will have me, I’ll be back for sure (bread and cheese in hand!).  

Gear note: For those interested, I wore inov-8’s new Trailroc 245s.  Best shoes the company makes.  And, as I said, no blisters or lost toenails.  That speaks for itself!

Sisyphus Smiles

A few days before this school year started I read a book that my father gave me as a "housewarming" present, Buddha in the Classroom, by Donna Quesada.  It is her memoir of being a burned-out community college professor, returning to her learnings as a Zen practitioner to find a renewed passion for her work.  The book had collected dust for months, and I had simply picked it up as a means to not doing anything to actually prepare for the fast-approaching school year (burned out high school teacher much?).  It is a shame I let the book sit for so long, because there have been many lessons and ideas from it that have brought a renewed passion to my work.  Chief among them was a profoundly simple, yet incredibly powerful, image that has stuck in my head: Sisyphus smiling.

Several years ago I became fascinated by the Greek myth of Sisyphus - the king punished by the gods for his hubris and made to push an enormous rock up a hill only to watch it roll back down and then compelled to repeat the process, for all eternity.  It made me feel smart knowing the story.  I felt even smarter when I would glibly use "Sisyphean" in conversation.  There was nothing positive about Sisyphus's chore.  He was wretched.  The task was pointless.  It never ended and was always repeated.  It sounds a lot like training for an ultra (minus the endorphins and shiny new belt buckle at the end).  Misery comes to mind.  Until you picture him smiling.

The idea is so simple: here is Sisyphus, the wretch, interminably pushing his boulder up the hill, watching it roll down and repeating.  In my mind he was always completely defeated, hopeless.  And then, as I read this short passage, everything about the picture changed.  Imagining Sisyphus smiling, embracing his situation as his reality, not wanting a different past or a different future, but accepting the present, the scene totally changed.  He was no longer hopeless, but happy in his acceptance of the situation.  I discussed this image with my students.  They said things like, "Maybe he's happy because he's getting stronger," or, "It's kinda fun to push rocks down a hill." The point, for me at least, is that there is something to take joy in, to find happiness in, from almost any situation, if we simply accept it and smile. (A little aside here: the idea of imagining Sisyphus smiling originally came from the French absurdist/nihilist,  Albert Camus.  This past weekend I was on a run with some TARC friends and met a guy doing his graduate work in theology, Paul.  I brought up this idea created by, "Al-bert Cam-us," said just like that, with a nice American accent.  Paul was gracious enough to wait until later (when I suggested that I had butchered the name) to tell  me (very politely and with no pretension) that it is actually "Cah-moo."  I went home and also found out that his first name is pronounced, "Al-bear" with a sort of rolling r sound.  Freakin' French.).

Should I ever get a tattoo (no plans to), I think it would be an image of Sisyphus smiling (maybe an emoticon instead?).  I have thought about it nearly ever day since coming across it in the book.  I have used it in my classroom when conferencing with students or trying to explain an assignment (for the 7th time).  I have used it while running when the legs feel leaden and tired (or fleet and spry!).  I have used it when I find myself wishing I were somewhere else than were I am (after-school meetings, stuck behind that insanely slow (I mean 10 mph slow) driver all the way to the Y).  I'm sure that I'm missing much of the nuance of the philosophical reasoning with my simply interpretation, but I'm okay with that because right now it makes sense to me.  It has helped me rethink situations and find deeper joy in tasks and activities that just weeks ago I struggled to get through (running and, to a certain extent, teaching).  Picturing Sisyphus smiling through his labor, I stopped wearing my GPS on every run.  With no watch, all of a sudden runs were not being judged "good" or "bad" based on a time.  Some are faster and at a greater effort because that is what happens at that time.  Some are slower.  Some I try to get lost on.  Some are direct to/from school.  I've come to embrace every step.  No run is good or bad, but it simply is and I am content with that.  It's amazing what a little change in perspective can do.

That's more like it.  Nice shades too!

Yeah, doing this once looks pretty awful.  Don't worry, only all of eternity to go . . . 

Aye! Tunes!

Beginning the new school year there was one thing that I dreaded more than anything: my daily run to and from school.  While I love running, this run is not the most scenic.  It follows a nearly arrow-straight, main-road through Somerville, MA.  There is no great way to avoid it on quaint side streets.  There are no great urban trails within more than a half dozen miles.  And I run all 7.5 miles of it every school day.  Twice a day.  Sometimes in the dark.  Both ways.  By my reckoning, I ran nearly this exact route close to 340 times in the 10 month school year.  I was gearing up to do at least that many times again.

So it was on the first day of school that when the alarm clock went off for the first time since the last day of school, I was a bit apprehensive about beginning my daily routine.  I was no longer in love with this route.  The completely sluggish feeling I had nearly every time I traced these steps at the end of last school year was still fresh on my mind.  My lackluster summer of running was even fresher.  My mind was totally defeated before I even started lacing up my shoes.  It was well before the sun woke up and I opened the door to begin a new school year.  Little did I know, my wife, Liz, had given me two incredible gifts, which have resuscitated my running in great measure.

Liz and I just celebrated our 9th wedding anniversary yesterday, on September 14.  We met during orientation week of college, so this time of year also marks our 15th year of sharing our lives.  Just as she continues to surprise me, the gifts she gave me, helped me find new joy in (what I used to refer to as) my daily "slog" (now happily called commute or run) to work.

The first was a bit silly: a rice cooker for my classroom.  It sounds odd, but, by committing to schlepping groceries (oatmeal, rice, various seeds, and other sundries) to school once a week on my bike, my morning runs are now freed from the burden of carrying each day's food on my back (I eat a lot).  Not only does this make the morning run easy, I'm eating a heck of a lot better at school (I'm making a very strange form of sushi rolls every day and have more variety than my old daily staples, cold oatmeal and 6 or 7 pears).  This makes the afternoon run that much easier - I actually have energy at the end of the day (it's amazing how key nutrition is). But the real game changer came in a package that weighed less than 0.5 ounces: an iPod shuffle.

I have considered myself a runner for eleven years (since finishing college).  Not once in those years did I ever listen to music on a run.  People would ask me what I thought about the idea of listening to music while running, and I would always have some verbose response that went on too long and likely made little sense (funny, that's what most of these blog posts are like . . .).  Then, this summer while we were up in New Hampshire, I kept talking about how I should try out listening to music (it seems like all the runners I know now listen to tunes at some point, and I cow to peer pressure all the time), especially since the new (I have no idea if it is new or not) iPod shuffle was so light and could hold all the music I own (about 6 songs).  After much hemming and hawing, Liz made the decision and surprised me when she went out one day (she is very thoughtful and probably knew I would never have spent the $35 myself).  I tried it as soon as I could.  In my fantasy I pictured myself floating through the woods with a Jerry Bruckheimer-worthy soundtrack playing.  In reality I found it infuriating.

My ears are large and, I discovered, lack the requisite cartilage to allow ear buds to rest in them (I'm not joking about either of these things).  I tried five different styles and could make it no more than a mile before the cursed headphones fell out.  Even the ones designed by an "Ironman triathlete and guaranteed never to fall out." They made it 3/4 of a mile.  Laughable.  I finally found a cheap pair at Radio Shack, the kind that wrap behind your head and literally squeeze the speakers into your ear canal.  Aside from the over-the-ear model I tried from the Dollar Store, they were the cheapest I tried.  Despite my poor expectations, they work brilliantly, never so much as budging or fading (even through one of the hardest rain storms I have ever run through).  And they have totally changed my daily commute.

That first morning of school, there I was: no eight pound pack full of food and water on my back, cell phone tucked perfectly into my handheld's pocket, iPod clipped to my shorts, t-shirt tucked into the waistband, headphones securely in ears, dreading that run down Broadway, until . . . a remix of Flo Rida's Whistle came on with that first step.  It was like crack to my groggy mind.  I flew up the little hill at the end of our street.  The first miles of this all-too-familiar route disappeared in a soundtrack of pop and hipster songs that would have made my two boys dance on our counter tops (it doesn't take much).  I got to school feeling happy.

I've since learned how to create playlists in iTunes.  I've since ripped many great songs from YouTube (and, yes, I may have "borrowed" a few songs from Timothy Olson's Western States Playlist because, well, I'm that lame).  I've since started to enjoy my runs to school (it's amazing how fast one can run to Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons.  And try not sprinting at full tilt while listening to the Dropkick Murphys Going Out In Style - seriously, try to.  It's not possible).  I've since PR'd on my run to school by about 2 minutes.  I've since run the 0.3 mile hill near school nearly 15 seconds faster (while doing 10 repeats, instead of just running up it once) than I was "in shape" for Western at the end of last school year.  I've since stopped wearing any sort of watch because I no longer feel the need to know exactly how many miles I've gone (I'm taking a few more detours now).

Do the tunes completely shut me off from the people I see on the streets?  Yeah.  Do the tunes make me feel like I am "cheating" some how while I run?  A little bit.  Have the tunes recharged my running and put a new vigor into my training?  Without a doubt.  So I must thank Liz, again, for continuing to surprise me and make me a happier (and better) person after nearly half our lives together - now, whenever asked what I think about listening to music while running I will have a simple, two word response: AYE!  TUNES!

The Misadventures of Uncle Norm

They say lightning never strikes twice.  Maybe that explains why my Uncle Norm's been struck four times.  There was the first time, when he was 18, bailing hay in a field, and it burned right through his work gloves.  There was the time, just after putting his youngest daughter in the car, when it launched him into the air across a parking lot.  There was the time on his boat when his friends saw it arch between him, the boat, and the water.  And, finally, there was the time in his garage/workshop, when he didn't take his boots off for several hours, convinced that they had been scorched and were no longer there.  Needless to say, no one in our family will go out on the water with him if there is the slightest chance of poor weather (fortunately it was all clear skies the day I caught my first walleye on his boat.  I can still hear the thunk his mallet made on the top of the fish's head when I reeled it in after Santiago-esque battle).

You sometimes hear fantastic stories of super-human feats, especially in the realm of survival.  If there is one thing that the outside world would say of Uncle Norm, it is that he is a survivor (among many other, more incredible things).  Once while deer hunting in tree blind, he fell while climbing down, breaking his back in three places.  For many, this would be a death sentence - his friends were all back at camp and he had gone out for another go at tagging a trophy.  Yet, impossibly, Uncle Norm managed to crawl the mile back to his truck and get to his friends.  The doctors said he was lucky to be alive and would probably never walk again.  I've never seen him in a wheelchair.  There was also the time when a tree fell on one of his friend's legs.  Uncle Norm lifted the tree off his friend, and carried him to the car.  Later, four men could not move the tree.  

The last Christmas I spent with Uncle Norm and my family in Michigan, about ten years ago, I noticed the large scar on Norm's thumb, and asked what happened.  He nonchalantly explained how he had nearly sliced his thumb off while hunting.  The story got much more interesting when he explained that this happened while wrestling a buck.  Being a runner I have become fascinated by the idea of persistence hunting.  My uncle, who probably never ran more than half a mile at a go his whole life, had lived this dream, in a way: he had shot a buck, which proceeded to jump over a log and collapse.  Uncle Norm gave it a few minutes before going to examine.  As he straddled the tree, the buck picked its head up and started at Norm.  Uncle Norm describes the next several moments of his life as a flurry of deer spit, antlers, sweat and adrenaline, before he was able to unsheathe his hunting knife from his leg, and slit the deer's throat (and his thumb in the process).  As he lay on the ground with the deer on top of him, its blood and his own covering him, he heard another deer running through the forest - sent to avenge its brother.  It took him a minute to realize this was actually just his heart thumping in his chest.  The only thing that made this story better was the fact that moments later Uncle Norm would scoop an enormous portion of wasabi, thinking it was guacamole, onto a tortilla chip.  I swear, just like in cartoons, there was smoke coming out of his ears!

Sadly, Uncle Norm, my mom's baby brother, died this morning.  The man who had more lives than a cat, and lived each one of them full of nature, family, friends, and hard-work, spent his last days valiantly battling cancer.  When he was diagnosed, with stage-four lung cancer (he never smoked) his first doctor told him he had a few weeks to live.  That was almost two years ago.  Two years filled with trips, farming, hunting, spear-fishing, boating, the birth of grand-kids, and, typical for Uncle Norm, practical jokes.  

May all our lives be filled with the sort of moments that make us laugh and give us joy.  May all our lives be filled with misadventures like Uncle Norm.  

Smiling to the last - Uncle Norm enjoying a banana split a couple of weeks ago

Slackin' & Sufferin'

When one slacks, one usually suffers.  It makes sense - if you are concert pianist but never practice you will, likely, suffer from embarrassment.  If you want to run long distances, but don't run consistently or very far, well, you will likely suffer on some of your runs.  I discovered this to be very true on a run today.

As I continue to try to build myself back from a disappointing summer of running, I have completely slacked on being consistent (there have been moments of solid running, but nothing like what I am used to).  While there are perks to this (most notably, more time with the family to do things like hike up mountains in New Hampshire or play around on our new slackline - and in the end, this is more important than getting in solid training), the negatives were brought out in sharp relief when I met up with a couple of inov-8 teammates, Double J and Kevin Tilton, for an "easy" run tonight.  

After a long day at Storyland with the boys (this is typically its own form of suffering, but today it was quite fun, albeit, very long), and a short run to test some new earbuds (my ears are freakish and not designed to hold earbuds, even ones "guaranteed not to fall out," I discovered), Liz dropped me off at Cathedral Ledge for a 10-miler with Jim and Kevin.  These guys are exceptional runners: name a race in New England, and, chances are one (or both) of these guys have won it.  I was looking forward to running with them (as I don't race the shorter events, I've never seen these guys at a race) and getting to know some more of the local trails.  We took off from the bottom of Cathedral Ledge and meandered some trails that I was familiar with.  The pace was mellow, and we were chatting away.  About 7.5 miles in (at this point I was thoroughly turned around and lost), we made it to the top of Thomspon Falls, an impressive waterfall.  It was here that I knew things were going to be heading downhill (unfortunately, not literally).  I was thirsty.  I was very thirsty.  I started salivating thinking about drinking from the falls.  Or at least lying down in it; I was soaked in sweat).  One mile later I pulled up during a short incline, nauseous and dizzy.

As a runner, I think there are fewer things more embarrassing than running with some guys for the first time, bonking, and having to stop and hike, especially on a short, easy run.  It sucked.  I felt bad for slowing these guys down (they were both quite nice about it.  I would have mocked me mercilessly and fully expect to be, should they ever agree to "run" with me again!).  I felt bad because we were less than two miles from the car and I could barely lift my legs up an incline (flashback to the last many miles of Western).  I was frustrated because it was exactly one year ago when I had been floating up these trails with ease, sometimes twice a day.  The nausea didn't help things much either.  Neither did the slight spins.  I was thinking a lot about water.  This is what I expect in the late miles of an ultra if I've done a horrible job with nutrition and hydration. I'll chalk it up to not eating anything after breakfast and being completely dehydrated.  That's better than fully admitting I've been slacking on the running front and have a long way to go to get back to where I want to be.

There was a silver (or slightly less-precious metal) lining to this run for me (aside from the fact that Kevin and Jim were very gracious and let me suffer in silence - maybe it was all our talk of speedwork that made me ill . . .).  As strange as this sounds, it was turning down Kevin's (very tempting) offer of a ride back to my rental condo.  I knew it was about 3 miles, and that it would really hurt (mentally more than anything).  It did.  My legs were lead.  It was just me and my thoughts, which were few beyond, "One more step." I had missed dinner with the family.  I thought I was going to miss bed time (I made it back as Liz was finishing a reading of Captain Underpants).  These were some of the toughest miles I have run.  Ever.  But I got 'em done.  They weren't pretty and I knew I had earned all the suffering I got.  Which is where that silver lining came from.  

Today's suffering reminds me of my first foray into long runs, when I returned home after about 19 (unplanned) miles and was literally smelling water in peoples' homes.  That was almost ten years ago.  Today's suffering reminds me of descending off of Cayambe with my dad, and lying down at the refugio, body so spent that I could barely move, but my spirit in a state of euphoria (it could have been sleep deprivation).  That was about eight years ago.  It was a different suffering than what you feel at the end of most ultras even.  Today's suffering hurts (physically and it's a big-time ego bruise), but it's a special place, one that doesn't present itself very often, because, well, it's pretty ugly and actually takes a considerable effort to get there.  Today's suffering is a place that I don't readily want to return to (at least for several years!), but I know how to avoid it: stop slackin'!