I Was On a Truly Average Track Team For One Week!

What’s scarier than the Burger King “King”? Colonel Sanders in Japan, that’s what!

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, I ran the anchor leg of an international relay as a member of an astoundingly average track team. In 1988, I was in graduate school at San Francisco State University imitating someone who was going to actually write a thesis and get an M.A. in English that year instead of fifteen years later. Hard as it may be to believe, I got sidetracked by other things like playing music and driving around Alaska for 4 months (where, by the way, I saw Russia and Joe Sixpack!) and so on. By “sidetracked,” I mean leaving my main direction and branching into other things that have nothing to do with my original plan and line of thought. Not that I ever do this anymore.

Where was I?

Anyhoo, I was knee-deep in Shakespeare and D.H. Lawrence when a friend who worked for SFSU informed me that there would be open tryouts to be on the relay team that would compete at the International Women’s Ekiden in Osaka, Japan over the week of Thanksgiving. I had no idea what she was talking about, but it sounded important. More importantly, it sounded like a really great excuse for getting out of some classes and having a tedious paper delayed for a couple weeks. Thus, my love for running led me to the track for tryouts.

Let me preface this next part by saying that the SFSU women’s track team in 1988 was average. By “average,” I mean not very good. And by “not very good,” I mean bad. The tryouts consisted of running a 5k on the track. The top 8 (I think) finishers would get to go to Osaka. Historically, nobody other than track team members ever competed for these places. Why? I don’t know for sure, but the fact was that you had to be an SFSU student and have a burning desire to go to Japan with a bunch of strangers and be able to run a 5k in at least a non-laughable time. All this plus giving up Thanksgiving turkey and fat-soaked vegetables for raw fish and tea for 5 days. This seemed to narrow the walk-on field substantially.

In any event, my 5k time back in Ye Olde 5k Days, was around 19:00…a good time, but not stunning. Certainly not a time that, I thought, had a chance of beating all but one person on a university track team. (I repeat: by “average” I mean “bad”). But there it was. I came in 2nd and was on my way to Osaka. My first thought was that everyone on the team would hate me. After all, I had denied one of the real team members a place. I had invaded their inner sanctum of runnerly teamhood. Focus would be skewed and competitive worries would mount.

In reality, the primary team worry was that I not tell the coach that they would all be secretly drinking Bacardi on the flight over. As soon as I let them know that I would not only not tell the coach, but also join in, I was totally part of the team. Training methods? 5k strategies? Flats or trainers? No one cared! I had never been around a group of runners who had such utter disregard for and disinterest in running.  It was a nice breath of fresh air.

Coach Whatever-His-Name-Was was a nice guy but not even remotely coach-esque. He looked like Buck Owens, had a wicked combover, and spent most of the time sleeping. His idea of a motivational speech before competition was: “Well, here we go.” He laughed at jokes five minutes later. I’m fairly certain that every team member could have worn one of those headgear things with two bottles of Bacardi attached to tubes that ran directly to their mouths, and he wouldn’t have noticed. But he was nice. He gave everyone a pack of Juicy Fruit for the flight over. Nice.

The San Francisco State Lady Gators had placed in the bottom five of 60 international teams for years on end at the Ekiden. What a grand tradition! And there were few worries that this tradition would be marred in 1988. While other teams practiced and fine-tuned once in Osaka, our illustrious team spent a lot of time shopping for Hello Kitty items, cracking up at the Japanese menus at McDonalds and KFC, posing for pictures in front of beer vending machines (those were cool), riding the bullet train and screaming, and making our Japanese guide pronounce our team captain’s name. (Her name was Trish. He pronounced it “Trash.” Hours of entertainment!).

The night before the relay, all those teams that intended to do something insane, like actually compete, were in bed by 9:00. Meanwhile, Trash and a couple other Lady Gators who had packed their skateboards (really), woke up Coach What’s-His-Face around 10:30 to ask if it would be okay to do a little skateboarding down in the alley behind the hotel. In a rare display of vehemence, the coach barked, “Probably not. I’m tired. What time is it? Good night.” As a result, the girls simply decided to skate around the hotel hallways while the rest of us clapped. This was all fine and dandy until about midnight when a gigantic female coach of one of the German teams slammed her door open and thundered something in German (of course) at us.

After a shot or two to calm our frayed nerves, we all retired around 1:00 a.m. Wake-up calls came in at 4:30.

Ah, the lovely and long-gone resilience of youth. I woke up 3 hours later feeling totally ready to run a 5k. I had been assigned the anchor leg. Apparently, between naps and rearranging the 12 hairs on his head, our coach had determined that, next to Trash, I was the fastest person on the team. Trash began the relay, six other team members would run distances between 2 and 4 miles, and then I would finish with a 5k. As with most races, I don’t remember too many details. However, the crowds of cheering Japanese people were tremendous…all of them chanting something over and over again that I couldn’t understand. Flags from all over the world lined the entire race route. I do remember feeling more psyched than I ever had felt for a race.

Between the adrenaline and the Pop Tart I had had for breakfast, I managed to pass 5 other teams in the anchor leg. And as I ran into the stadium for the final 1/2 mile, I could see a Japanese runner not far ahead of me. The track was on a jumbotron up ahead, so the Japanese runner could see me gaining on her. It was one of those slow-motion, surreal moments as I pulled up behind her. The crowd, naturally, was screaming for her to pick it up (I don’t know if they say Pick it up! in Japan, but anyway..). They were waving at her wildly and pointing to me as if she was not acutely aware of my presence. We were less than a quarter mile from the finish when I passed her. It was bittersweet. I could hear her crying as I passed, and there was an audible hum of disappointment from the crowd.

Still, it was sweet to see our track team excited about something that, oddly enough, had to do with running for just those few minutes as I finished. Coach Buck Owens actually exerted the effort to stand up, walk over to me, pat me lethargically on the back and say, “Well. What a run. Yes sir.”

As it turned out, by passing that last runner in the stadium, I ruined the long-standing tradition of the Lady Gators’ finishing in the bottom 5 at the Ekiden. But I guess there were no hard feelings. Later that evening, Trash bought me a Sapporo from a vending machine and let me sign her skateboard. Good times. It had been a magical week.

Dead Horse Topics!

I love this time of year! As the fall marathon dates creep ever closer, suddenly everyone enters the Severe Panic Attack Zone (excellent acronym). Suddenly, things that no one really gives a flying rip about most of the year become topics of inane scrutiny. And as we reach our highest-mileage weeks or enter into the unparalleled arena of self-absorption also known as The Taper, who can resist returning to topics that have been worn out and beaten within an inch of their unimportant lives? Here are some of my fave dead horse topics, complete with my extremely important opinions:

Real Runners Don’t Race With Music.   Next to the running skirt debate, this topic works people into a greater state of apoplexy than any other important debate. Apparently, something as harmless as enjoying a perky tune or two en route to 26.2 miles is terribly upsetting to some. It suggests that somebody isn’t taking the race seriously enough and that there might be a terribly inappropriate moment of fun… even at mile 23.

Yes, yes, we all know that the U.S. Association of Running Doofwads (or whatever it is) passed the law against running with any electronic devices during races due to the number of disasters caused by people running with cake mixers, box fans, and the like. Unfortunately, this also ruled out all portable musical devices. Sorrow.

Psssst….Deep, dark secret time….I like racing with music! I’ve only stopped wearing music in races recently due to my own spineless wishy-washy (I’ve always hated that phrase, and yet I’ve just used it. How wishy-washy can you get?) paranoia of being looked at as not being a “real” runner.  But the fact is, I prefer hearing music over Mr. I-Can’t-Stop-Breathing-Like-a-Horse-Right -on-Your-Shoulder. As delightful as it is to hear “YOU”RE ALMOST THERE!!” screamed from the sidelines 20 times before I’ve even reached mile 15 of a marathon, I, oddly enough, find Lenny Kravitz singing “Bring It On” to be more inspirational.

The argument goes that one can’t really focus on the race with the distraction of music. Hello? I find the exact opposite to be true. The music blanks out the distractions. That includes things like a blister the size of Paraguay on my right foot or the distinct sensation of having cinderblocks in my quads at mile 24. I still say that I would not have qualified for Boston by more than 18 minutes if I hadn’t had a nice array of cheeseball tunes choreographed for the last 6.2 miles. Music, in fact, distracts me from the distractions.

I’m not entirely sure what that last sentence really means.

In any event, I’m carrying music in my next marathon. It’s either that or a cake mixer.

Runs Under 20 Are Not Long Runs. Unless You Do Numerous 20-plus-Mile Runs, You Will Fail. Ah yes, this boring and tiresome debate gets placed under the microscope right about this exact time every year. Why? you may ask. Isn’t it obvious? Because everyone is either biting their nails to the nub with worry over having not run enough OR they’re nearly peeing their pants with nervousness over the possibility of over-training. And now it’s too late to do anything about it. HA HA HA HA! (Sorry. Outburst.)

As much as it pains me to say it, I think you can get away with no 20-mile runs and still do well in a marathon. It pains me because I force myself to do at least a few 20+ every marathon season anyway. Apparently, I have absolutely no regard for my own opinion on this matter. But the fact is, the fastest marathon I ever ran was on long runs no greater than 16-17 miles. However, that was nearly 20 years ago, and now I can’t convince myself that it was my training, not youth, that gave me that time. And I’m too afraid to try a marathon on 16-mile long runs now.

So, mostly, I stress over overtraining chiefly because I’m too scared to be brave. I’m so freaking wishy-washy.

Tapering Is Overrated. Please. You finally get a chance to actually sleep past 5:45 a.m. on Sunday mornings and live, if briefly and awkwardly, like a normal person. You can go a whole week without uttering things like “Was that a pace run or a tempo run?” or “Well, my heart rate monitor says…”  You get to eat Pop Tarts and drink Yazoo Beer—Possibly, hopefully, in tandem. You get to enjoy phantom pains all over your body. You have an excuse to be the world’s biggest ass to those you love the most.

How can anything like that be rated too highly?

 

Happy marathoning everyone!!

It’s Two..Two..Two Race Reports in One!

 

Too young to remember the Doublemint commercials?  Bite me. 

Yes, the startling rumors you’ve heard are true; the same “JK” (totally random name) that I beat at a 5k six weeks ago, beat me at a 5k two weeks later. For those of you who really could not care less and have no desire to read all the self-involved and tedious details, here’s the synopsis: We ran. We actually raced. Changed leads 6 times. JK finally won by 2 seconds. I hurled at the finish. It was caught on video. Posted on  YouTube. Laughter for days. Revenge sworn.

Want more details? Then….

Smyrna Parks 5k, August 9th

The madness began at 7:00 a.m. Everyone was warming up on a big loop, some people going in one direction, others going in the opposite direction. I was feeling pretty good. In the distance, I saw JK headed toward me. As we got closer, there was no polite waving or words of encouragement. In fact, no words were spoken at all. Nearly simulataneously, we flipped each other off as we passed and calmly continued the warmup. I then changed into my racing flats, because (as I’ve tirelessly pointed out in my blogs) I’m a dorkwad who truly believes that shiny shoes can make you faster. (They worked for Michael Johnson, so cork it.)

At the startling line, I could not escape JK. He kept appearing right behind me. My “tactic” was to lose him in the crowd at the start, find him, and then tail him for most of the race. At the last minute, I was able to hide behind a gaggle of screaming teenagers wearing grass skirts and wigs. This was not relaxing.

The gun went off. I mostly saw a friend of mine who is not particularly fast blazing away like a freaking meteor way ahead of me. This was my First Moment of Panic. As the crowd thinned out a bit, I noticed that JK had not started off as quickly. I top-secretly got right behind him and ran this way for the next mile or so thinking that I was being truly wise and sneaky. (After the race, I discovered that JK had known I was there the entire time. Sheesh.)

The first mile went by in about 6:30. Second Moment of Panic. This would have been a nice first mile when I was 28. At 47, it was monumentally not nice.  I saw JK look at his watch about 3000 times for the next half mile and wondered if he, too, was worrying about that first mile being too fast. At about a mile and a half, we began changing leads. I kept thinking that if I could just get ahead by 20 yards or so, I could beat him. This is where I discovered that being in the lead is harder and requires not only strength, but also confidence. So, naturally, I fell behind JK.

Mile 2 went by in about 13:15. Less panic, more nausea. At about 2.3. miles, we were running side by side with a young man wearing only running shoes and tightie whities right in front of us. No sarcastic comments were made, not even a quick eye roll. Yes, it had become so deadly that even a teenager running in undies directly in front of us could not alter our focus.

Around 2.8, JK made what I think was a “move.” He blasted ahead for about 3 and 1/2 feet. Although this didn’t really move him too far ahead, I have to admit that it made me nervous since I could have absolutely in no way done anything close to a blast of even 4 inches at that point. Let’s call this the Third and Final Moment of Panic. Shortly following this was my realization that JK had enough left to pull ahead in the final .1 and beat me. Oh, the horror.

As the finish came into view, the clock was at 20:00 and I said, “Looks like we’ll both break 21:00,” and JK just said, “Yes.” We were still nearly side by side. Then I said “Hold hands over the finish line?” making a terrific effort to sound sarcastic and failing entirely. Then everything became a blur because, mostly, I think we were both trying to finish under 21:00. But I vaguely noticed, as though he was a thousand miles away, JK reaching out his hand to me just before the finish and saying “Come on!” Big stupid sappy JK.

In the end, JK finshed 2 seconds ahead of me–21:01 to my 21:03—a PR that I would never have come close to if JK and I hadn’t been racing. I semi-hurled at the finish, but nothing particularly substantial or impressive. Still, it was something I hadn’t done since I was in the heyday of my 5k and 10k days two decades ago. It felt just like old times. It was great.

This was, without a doubt, one of the most memorable 5ks I’ve ever run. Even if my nemesis did beat me (by only two seconds after I beat him last time by three making me the overall winner timewise. Thanks).

Franklin Classic 10k, September 1st 

(Synopsis: Hot.)

Don’t you just love it when a truly wretched song is stuck in your head for the entirety of a particularly grueling race? Labor Day dawned like a big damp washrag. Humidity on a bun and HOT. I walked out on the deck at 4:45 a.m. and here was my thought process: Hot. Hot here and hot in the city. Hot Child in the City.

And there you have it. The anthem for that day’s 10K would be mind-numblingly atrocious 1978 song by that freak, Nick Gilder. If you’re not familiar with that song (because you either have good taste or you’re under 40), you really owe it to yourself to trundle on over to YouTube and torture yourself.

Anyway, Cheryl and I zipped out to Franklin as the big, red, hot sun was coming up. Last year, Cheryl hated this race more than words can accurately describe. It was a living hell of humidity and fat chicks in running skirts passing her at mile 5.9. So, of course, she signed up for it again this year. We got there early enough to sit in the car sipping AMP and asking in a monotone, “Why are we here so early?” about 8 times. It’s a nice tradition.

I warmed up. It was nearly 80 degrees with 80% humidity already. But I WARMED UP. Hilarious. I was drenched just in time to start the race.

I’ll admit that the first mile wasn’t bad. It was sort of downhill, a nice cemetery ( I love cemeteries) on the left, still in the shade, adrenaline. But just as quickly, we rounded a corner into massive sunshine and a series of uphills. Hot. Hot Child in the City. Running Wild and Looking Pretty. (Not.)

I passed the 5k mark around 22:20 and immediately did the “How much can I slow down and still not have a worse time than last year?” calculation. I had hoped to do this 10k under 45 minutes, but I had already sweated out all my confidence. I was, in fact, beginning to look behind me for the Large Hotdog Man. This is a man who dresses up like a hotdog in a bun every year and, even so, runs a halfway decent race. Still, one does not want to get passed by Large Hotdog Man. One feels that having a Hotdog Man zip by you in the last mile of a 10k is demoralizing.

    At mile five, I wanted to perform a self-decapitation to get the Nick Gilder song out of my head. But way off in the distance in a blurry desert-esque oasis of shimmering heat and cattle skulls and tumble weeds was the finish line. A very fat man on the side of the road looked at me and blared, “You know you can do it if you just TRY!” I can’t be certain that if I had had an anvil at that juncture that I wouldn’t have hurled it at him.

Somehow the finish line floated ever nearer. One more quick check behind me for Large Hotdog Man. Brief consideration of how tragic it is to be racing a hotdog. And suddenly it was over. 10k in 46:21–30 seconds better than the year before, but no joy in it. I know you’re supposed to be happy with any PR, but I had hoped for maybe a minute or more faster. It was a PR, but not a peak (more on this stuffy, elitist terminology later).

The race was well-organized and efficiently run, but it was, as always, a hell of heat, hills, humidity, and human hotdogs. This year’s added bonus was the lovely 1978 anthem. And yet…I know I’ll run it again next year. The allure of this race, oddly, escapes me.

The Final Miles

 

“What do you think about when you go out and run for three hours?”

What distance runner hasn’t been asked this question by non-runners? I don’t know about anyone else, but I don’t have a clue what I think about during a long run. Mostly, it’s a lot of fleeting stream-of-consciousness mumbo-jumbo mixed in with some tedious math equations involving dividing miles by minutes. Sometimes there’s the intermittent mental diatribe about speeding cars, 5-across-walkers, fat crabby cyclists, or leashless dogs, but mostly it’s blah blah blah blah. Near the end of a 20-miler, however, it’s blah blah blah beer blah blah beer blah.

The final miles of an actual marathon, however, are a different story. When I ran my first marathon in ‘92, I found that I had to have something focused and simple to wedge into my brain from miles 24-26.2. Otherwise, lots of extraneous instructions and announcements bounced randomly around in my head.  (Examples: “Stop. Now.” or “Don’t hurl. Everyone’s watching.” or “This proves nothing and you look like death on wheels.” or “Your body has now transitioned to eating its own muscle.”) So, from ‘92 to ‘97 I tried to focus on a mantra, a song, or even a visual to get me through the final 25-30 minutes.

Then everything changed in 1997.

My dad was diagnosed with leukemia a week before Father’s Day. It was a terrifying, heartbreaking, and surreal time, of course, for the whole family. But, as everyone knows who’s been through something like this, the worst thing you can do is do nothing at all. So, one of the things I did was to raise money through Team in Training while training for and running marathons for a patient—my dad. Over the course of the year, I raised $10,000 (thanks to generous people, not my stellar fundraising skills), and signed up for both the Disney and Inaugural San Diego Rock-n-Roll marathons. Four weeks before Disney, I gallantly tripped over my own foot, so that marathon was out.

Next, I set my sights on San Diego in June of ‘98. During this whole time, I had watched my dad struggle through chemo, transfusions, bone marrow transplants, endless drugs and visits to specialists. He rarely complained. He lost his hair, his eyebrows, and even his whiskers. He felt like throwing up about 50% of the time. He knew his chances of surviving for more than a couple years were really slim. Still, he pushed forward with everything he had, never even hinting at giving up. He continued to make plans and notes for his classes (an English professor) and cut back only slightly on his endearingly horrible puns and jokes. There was honestly never anything in his demeanor that suggested that he didn’t believe he could overcome this obstacle, this struggle.

Eight weeks before San Diego, though, my dad died. In the haze and sadness that followed, I completely lost track of when the marathon was, though I kept running. Only a week before leaving for San Diego, I realized that this marathon would be held on Father’s Day.

Most of that marathon was a blur. I remember that it was way too sunny (everyone had insisted there would be fog. Not.) and that a man in a red dress handed me a beer at mile 16 and that even though the beer was totally flat, it was oddly refreshing. (Trying to think of when a beer hasn’t been refreshing. Not coming up with any specific memory.) I also recalled overhearing an inane conversation between two men who were debating whether or not running makes your feet bigger. One man insisted that running spreads your feet out about an eighth of an inch a year. I clearly recollect calculating that my feet, then, should have grown nearly three inches since I started running and will be roughly 22 inches long if I run until I’m 65.

However, as I entered the final miles, I thought of my dad. At mile 24, when my legs were logs and I was feeling that pre-wall queasiness, I considered my dad’s struggle. Mine, obviously, was nearly nothing in comparison. I was not in the best of shape for this marathon, and when mile 25 descended upon me, I wanted to stop and walk more than any other time in any other race. Then I thought of the walk my dad took with me a few months before he died and how he walked up the hill by the Congaree River and didn’t complain even though I know it was hard, very hard, for him. I kept on through mile 25. And when I could see the finish, I had the distinct feeling that my dad had been with me for the final miles.

As any runner knows, it’s very hard to run and cry. Still, I have continued to think of my father during miles 24-26.2 of every marathon I’ve run in the past decade as a way to carry me to the end. And I’ve been crying in every freaking finish line photo since 1998. It doesn’t make for a pretty picture, but it always makes for a memorable finish.

Ha ha ha ha ha HAH!

Me No Like Being Beaten.

BWAH HA HA!

   

     It’s a sad fact that I have never really raced against other people in races. I’ve raced against the clock, checking my watch a moronic 58 times over the course of 3.1 miles. But other humans? Whatever. If I pass them or they pass me, what do I care? Maybe once, when I was in 4th place and was miraculously getting closer to the 3rd place chick, I actually made an effort to pass a live human being rather than gluing my eyeball to my watch the entire time.

      That’s what made this past weekend’s 5k so much fun. I actually raced a person. Let’s call this other person “JK” (utterly random name). Some months ago, I found myself betting JK a beer that my time at Boston would be better than his time at the I-Can’t-Qualify-For-Boston-So-I’m-Running-The-Lame-Ass-Country-Music-Marathon. (Note: Please ignore elevation charts when comparing these two.) I was so certain that I’d beat his time that I upped the ante to a case of beer. Any kind at all. Sure! Go ahead and pick Corona if you want! Loser.

     April came and I ran 3:40:16 at Boston. Two weeks later, JK cranked out a 3:38* something. I really can’t be bothered to remember the exact time.

      Humiliation. Despair. And, worst of all, a serious dearth of the Sam Adams I thought I would be enjoying in May. What if we had actually been in the same race? I brooded over a tragic Natural Light. What if I could have kept an eye on him? What if I could have employed race tactics (as if I know what any are)?

What if, what if, freaking what if.

      Finally the chance rolled around this past Saturday. A tiny 5k on the absolutely worst 5k course in middle Tennessee. 150-foot climb in the first half mile. Wretched humidity and a non-closed course littered with dog walkers and angry housewives. What a delight.

      To be fair (damn it), I should mention that JK was at the end of a ridiculous (some might say “stupid”) Drinking/Running Challenge that involved running 100 miles and drinking 100 beers in 7 days. Race day was day 6 of the Challenge, and he was admirably close to the goal. It pains me deeply to be fair, but let’s face it—if it had been a normal week of running and beer for JK, I probably wouldn’t have beaten him.

    Even so…

     JK blasted ahead of me at the start, and I watched him get further ahead for the next mile. It was a quagmire of a course, as I have mentioned, with countless turns and even a couple of hideous switchbacks. Therefore, I’d lose sight of JK on and off. However, at about a mile and a half, I noticed that I seemed to be gaining on him. I might as well have not been wearing a watch, because this race was all about racing. Fascinating!

      Just before mile 2, the course headed up a terrible hill. As I turned the sharp corner to head up, I noticed JK walking. Walking. Honestly, I was bummed because I thought the race between us was over. But as I passed him, he said, “I hope this tactic works.” Tactic?!  Why I oughta…. With less than a mile to go, I tried to pick it up as I crested the hill. I could hear his footsteps behind me. Getting closer. Maybe if I pick it up just a little more…?

      At the last switchback, I was ahead by maybe 5 seconds. As we passed each other in opposite directions, JK said, “Nice race!” In acknowledgement of that compliment, I flipped him off. It was the defining moment. It was my “tactic.”  The rest of the race was a suicidal downhill, and I could hear JK RIGHT BEHIND ME. Cripes! I tried to think about all those nerdy pointers for running downill efficiently, but mostly I felt like a flailing goon on the verge of implosion. Finish line in sight. Still ahead. Maybe 8 more seconds to go. Can hear his big feet flapping behind me. Twenty more yards…

      In the end, I beat JK by 3 seconds. And, I know, in a normal week, he would have beaten me. Still, that may have been the most fun 5k I have ever run. Okay, “fun” may be pushing it, but it was memorable. Who knew that racing in a race could be that exciting?

      Thanks, JK!

* “JK” has informed me that it was 3:37 something. Whatever, asshat.

That Age

The field in Golden Gate Park where I felt superior 22 years ago.

 

I have a very clear memory of a 10k race back in about 1986. It was held in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, and the finish area was in a lovely grassy field. I was hanging out with a few friends, all of us in our mid-twenties, as we waited around for the awards. I had won something in my age group (even as a sub-40-minute 10k runner back then, I was rarely fast enough to place overall), so I was feeling pretty good and probably just a tad superior to all the peons around me.

As the top awards were handed out, I watched the 40-something Masters winners walk up to get their awards, and I remember thinking what a bummer it must be to be that age. At that age, all their best times are behind them and they’ll never get them back. At that age, they must feel a little sheepish about winning an “overall” award since, after all, they’re not as fast as a lot of people in the race (i.e. “me”). I thought of the Masters division as a sort of an obligatory polite nod of recognition for old people who still exercise. Because, obviously, they couldn’t really compete anymore what with being over 40 and all. Basically, I felt kind of sorry for all those doddering old fartleks since racing could no longer be exciting for them.

Isn’t it fascinating how time changes your point of view (particularly when it’s to your advantage to have your POV changed)? Twenty-two years later, I am That Age. And I couldn’t disagree more with myself.

It’s true that, short of imaginary bionic surgery, I’ll never beat my old times. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard people say that I can run my times of my 20s if I train a billion times harder, take a wheelbarrow full of supplements every day, cut my hair, and wear a running skirt. But let’s be realistic. Running is still a hobby for me—sometimes an obsessive hobby, but nonetheless, a hobby (say “hobby” 50 times. It’s a weird word). I don’t want to become what one of my younger friends refers to as An Old Running Freak. You know the type; he or she most closely resembles a piece of old shoe leather with string arms and legs flapping around. Nothing important exists outside of running. Nearly 89% of all conversation with them begins with the phrase, “I remember the time I ran…” They use Ben Gay as a moisturizer and wear running shoes to weddings. They’ll randomly bark out phrases like “Yasso’s 800s!” in the midst of polite dinner conversations about window treatments.

Anyway, I’m really getting away from the original pleasant and thoughtful tone that I had intended for this blog.

My point is that, at 47, running and racing may have changed in terms of time elapsed from point A to point B, but it hasn’t changed at all in terms of the experience. I feel the exact same fear, excitement, dread, and lightheadedness 30 seconds before the gun goes off in a race that I did back when I pitied those poor all-the-excitement-is-gone Masters runners. I play the same mind games at mile 22 of a marathon and feel the same intense anger at the entire *&%$#* universe at mile 2.5 of a 5k. It’s true that I can’t run as fast as I once could, but when I run as fast as I can now, the feeling is still the same. The joy at the finish line is identical. Recapture youth? Thanks to running, there is a part of my life that makes me feel as though I’ve never lost it.

And then there’s this too: For the past decade or so, I’ve looked at older runners and often thought, “Damn! I can’t believe he/she is 50 (or 60 or 70…).” Regardless of all the warnings about running causing knees to explode, boobs to sag, and faces to hang slackly, it actually makes you look younger as you get older . As a result, I’m honestly looking forward to turning 50 in a few years. (Is it too Old Running Freak of me to look forward to it, too, because it puts me in a new age group?)

All in all, it’s much cooler to be this age than I thought it would be when, all those years ago in Golden Gate Park, I was that age.

The Armor of Running

Look! No fuel belt!

Recently, the following was posted by a virtual friend (he’s not “virtually” a friend; he’s an online friend. In other words, we’ve never met. But he’s not an imaginary friend, even though I don’t know who he is in real life. Crap.).  Anyway, he was responding to #4 of my 7/1 blog, and he brought up a point I’d never considered, but have always experienced: feeling safer when running.

Like a lot of the things people  yammer on about, it had never even occurred to me that I should be afraid or carry weapons while running. Honestly. I’ve run probably 25,000+ miles in my life in all sorts of places. I’ve run in all the sketchy neighborhoods of Boston. I’ve run in all kinds of cities where I had no idea where I was going and got lost in the hoods of Los Angeles, Oakland, Chicago, Miami, Dallas, Houston, Philadelphia, Tucson, Washington, New York and many others. I’ve high fived gang bangers and traded playful cat calls with hookers doing the walk of shame at 6 in the morning in Atlanta. I’ve run on main streets and back roads. I’ve run on roads, sidewalks, trails, fields, highways, frozen lakes, bridges, tunnels, aqueducts, dry river beds, golf courses, industrial parks, college campuses, zoos, hospitals, military bases, beaches and everything else.

I’ve never once felt threatened on a run unless you include the mostly-harmless random high school kids yelling out the windows of their moms’ cars to try and impress their dumb little buddies in the back seat. I HAVE felt threatened while walking around certain places in street clothes or with my laptop bag over my shoulder. But on the run? Never. Even driving slowly through some sketchy parts of town can get a bit unnerving. But not running

But also–and maybe I have too much faith in my fellow man–I always get a calming sense of running being the great equalizer. Somehow when I run I’m not looked at as “whitey trying to keep the poor man down from the safety and comfort of his fancy car” or anything else. I’m out amongst the people, unprotected, unpretentious. I’ve sometimes felt an almost strange level of mutual respect from the most random people when out running. I’ve had crackheads look me in the eye and nod approval. I’ve had rednecks hoot encouragement from the front porch. I’ve never once felt the slightest bit of animosity. Maybe it’s just me and I’m the naive one, or maybe running puts me in my happy place but for some reason I feel safer when running than doing just about anything else.

So true. In all my years, I cannot recall a single time I’ve felt honestly threatened when on a run. I’ve been yelled at, honked at, had water balloons and beer cans thrown at me, been flashed twice by guys with really tiny weenies (one guy was actually wearing a trenchcoat!), been chased by drop-kick dogs, had snippety verbal exchanges with fatass cyclists in their Flags ‘o The World spandex costumes, and been forced into a roadside ditch due to the moronic stubborn refusal of the 5-across Desperate Housewives On A Walk to make any room for a runner coming in their direction.

Annoyed, amused, or wishing I had a small hatchet? Yes. Threatened? No.

I can think of one time that I felt only the slightest twinge of threat. I was running alone on the trails in the park nearby (the terror!), and I heard a runner coming up behind me. As always, I slowed down a bit and moved to the side so that he/she could pass me. But this guy slowed down and stayed right behind me for a minute or so. I glanced behind quickly and noticed he was wearing tube socks, a button-down shirt, running shorts, and tennis shoes. I won’t lie. This was startling.

We trotted along for another couple minutes like this. Then he suddenly pulled up alongside me and said, “Your stride is pretty good, but did you know you pronate?”  I was too stunned to respond with anything but “Um. Okay.” In hindsight, this was not the snappiest comeback. But then he was gone, tube socks and all. This is the best thing I can come up with that might be considered a “threat” in more than 30,000 miles (Quiz: How many times since this blog began have I gratuitously inserted either how many miles or years I have run ?).

Meanwhile, in boring day-to-day life, I have often felt threatened or concerned.  There are places I have run (mall parking lots, unfamiliar backroads, a trail in Alaska, a yucky treadmill in a scary motel) that I would feel nowhere near as secure if I were simply walking or hanging out. But running seems purposeful enough that the rest of the world will leave me alone while I’m doing it. And I never feel awkward or dorky when running, though I often do in non-running life.

Is this sense of security and confidence naive or delusional? Of course, to some extent. After all, let’s face it— I’m still a dork even in the midst of a 20-miler (come to think of it, I may be at my dorkiest around mile 18).  Even so, I can’t argue with the facts. I’ve never sensed real ill-will from another human being, not once, in all my thirty years of running.*

 

*Eight times so far for those of you who are curious but don’t want to go back and read every tedious blog.

Horrible Things That Can Happen To You If You Run

  

Ladies, feeling a bit of a five-o-clock shadow? Then stop running!

 From time to time over the course of my thirty years of running, I’ve found that some people just cannot wait to let me know how inherently dangerous running is. Typically, however, these people are unable to announce their warnings as quickly as they’d like since they are often delayed by such things as a slow-moving line at the McDonald’s drive-thru or an interminable wait for their blood pressure meds at Walgreens. Nonetheless, they are determined to impart their pearls of sedentary wisdom. So here I present the Top Five Horrible Things That Can Happen to You If You Run list. The list goes from mildly unsettling (#5) to truly abominable (#1).

To apreciate this list fully, please bear in mind that I am not making this up. All these things have really been communicated to me (some many times) by well-meaning friends and relatives in an effort to save me from running:

5) “You’ll injure yourself during a run and no one will ever find you.” The melodrama here is touching. Still, to be fair, I did actually partially rupture my achilles one time on a ten-mile run….(horror film music in minor key)… alone! The words of this warning echoed eerily in my head …”no one will ever find you…find you…find you..,  as I limped along, the wind whistling through the desolate alpine mountainside and a winter storm nipping at my injured heel. Somewhere amidst the dark trees, a wolf howled and I…. Wait a minute. This was a scene from “Lassie.” I was on West End Ave. and took a cab.

4) “You’ll get mugged.” It’s amazing how many thieves are looking to incorporate a tempo run with a robbery. I’m sure this has happened, but come on! Who carries anything worth stealing while on a run anyway? This was a favorite warning of a great-aunt who lived up near Scranton, PA. In her mind, any young woman who did anything more daring than playing pinochle was just asking to have her purse snatched away. In ‘94 I mentioned to my aunt that I didn’t even own a purse. This gave her something new to worry about.

3) “You’ll destroy your knees.” Please. True, my knees sound like an industrial cheese grater when I walk up stairs, but they can carry me through a marathon and still have enough strength to maintain my balance after I drink 4 beers at the finish line. Knees get stronger through running, not weaker, Beavis. But the “My knees just couldn’t take it any longer!” is still the preferred excuse of lame asses and current presidents (not that those two categories are mutually exclusive).

2) “Your reproductive organs will collapse.” Most recently, I heard this from a coworker who was shoveling a third Krispy Kreme into her mouth at the time. “You can just kiss yer uterus goodbye,” were her exact words when she overheard that I had run a marathon. Aside from that being a really lovely visual, it is one of the more bizarre fears of non-runners. I’ve been warned of this pending internal feminine collapse on and off for decades (always from other women, I should add). At least it’s nice to know that if and when I want a hysterectomy, all I have to do is crank up my racing distance to an ultra.

1) “You’ll grow a beard.” Yes, really. I had a roommate years ago who was certain that excessive running (“excessive” to her meant more than 3 miles a week) led to increased testosterone production in women. This, in turn, would lead to such terrifying aberations as larger muscles, a deeper voice, and a beard. Pointing out the myriad female distance runners who had miraculously avoided looking like Fidel Castro did not dissuade her. When I topped out at 40 miles one week, I could see her eyeballing me suspiciously. Eventually, I bought some Old Spice and a shaving mug just to freak her out.

Not Running in Tanzania

Above: Sunrise Over the Serengeti on 6/16/08

I’ve just returned from two weeks in the awesomeness of Tanzania, mostly in the vicinity of Arusha, Ngorongoro Crater, and the Serengeti. Before leaving, I fretted and huffed about the fact that I would not be able to run the entire time I was there. None at all. A vacuum in terms of running. Sloth on wheels. I probably haven’t gone two weeks without running since I had a stress fracture in ‘84. Even then, I swam or did something (I can’t remember what. To be honest, I’m sure it wasn’t swimming since I can’t swim). In any event, I haven’t gone two weeks without sweating since I was a dumbass slug in high school.

And so prior to leaving, I feverishly researched just how much fitness I might lose. After much hair-pulling and gnashing of teeth, the consensus was that I’d lose approximately 4%. That’s right—4%.  Of course, I had no idea whatsoever what this really meant, but I didn’t like it anyway. I actually sat with a calculator and tried to subtract 4% of the total number of seconds in my last 5k. This gave me a number that meant absolutely nothing. But it made me a little more worried, so I was satisfied.

Anyway, let me just say that not even 48 hours into Tanzania, the idea of worrying over not running seemed ridiculous.

We drove from Mt. Kilimanjaro airport to Arusha pretty late at night. Off in the distance, you could see the lights of the world’s only tanzanite mine, but that was pretty much the only light around until we got closer to Arusha. Then, strings of dimly lit, dusty, one-room buildings began showing up. In every one, people were crowded in the doorways or sitting around outside. More than that, hundreds of people were walking, running, riding ancient bikes–all going somewhere or doing something at 10:30 on  Friday night. They weren’t sitting inside typing an idiotic running blog or watching TV or eating Big Macs. Everyone was moving. Lots of movement.

I had thought this might be a Friday night thing, but it turned out to be an all-the-time thing. From Arusha to the Serengeti, the Tanzanian people seemed to be constantly going somewhere–mostly on foot, rarely in cars. As we drove up nearly impassable mud roads over mountains the next few mornings, we passed droves of people (from children to elderly women) walking down the mountain with baskets on their heads or carrying heavy containers or pushing carts full of something. Our guide explained that they were on their way to the market in Arusha, maybe 3,5, or even 6 miles away. They’d sell what they had and then walk and run back up the mountain another 3,5, or even 6 miles. This was how 80% of the people lived.

Another morning, near Ngorogoro where the dirt is bright red like Georgia clay, we passed a group of children walking to their dirt-floored, windowless school. Some of the children began running beside our vehicle when they saw us, yelling “white people!” in Swahili and waving. One boy must have run effortlessly alongside of us for nearly two miles. We were driving slowly because of the ruts and mud, and he kept with us, waving the whole time. His bare legs were bright red with dust by the time we made a turn and left him behind.

Then we began seeing the Masai tending their herds of goats and cows. Boys as young as eight tend them all day long. Dressed in the traditional bright blue and red cloths tied at the waist, these men and boys follow their animals for miles, part walking and part running. Miles and miles. Every day. Sometimes they were barefoot, sometimes wearing sandals, but always carrying a large stick, their only protection from the wildlife that can range from lions to spitting cobras.

And so you can see how the idea of putting on a pair of fancy-pants Asics and a Garmin to “go for a run” seemed inane. For two weeks, what I think of as “running” seemed unnatural, forced, ridiculous. To think that we (I include myself in this) actually have debates in all seriousness about whether or not strap-on heart rate monitors are integral training devices seemed atrocious. The recent message board war over running skirts that I witnessed was like the blurry memory of an embarrassing dream.  I was glad and relieved to not run. The entire time I was in Tanzania I never saw anyone intentionally running for the sake of running. Everyone just ran for the sake of movement and living day to day.

And we sit around and wonder why African runners always kick our asses. Sheesh.

I probably gained more insight into running by not running during those two weeks than I have by running in the past ten years. And that’s definitely worth losing that 4%.

Extremely Inflammatory Topics

           

Running skirts, fuel belts, Camelbaks, and cell phones. Got an opinion?

This blog should be prefaced by the words of my favorite bumper sticker: “I’m Not Judgin’, I’m Just Sayin’. (Roughly translated, this means: “I’m judging.”) With that in mind, the following things trouble me:

Running Skirts.  A skirt made for running. Why?  The very first time I saw one, I honestly thought that the woman’s shorts had collapsed or something since, clearly, no one would go running in a hot pink breezy nylon mini-skirt if they were sober or mentally competent. Some time later, however, I discovered that these skirts were intentional. Yikes. To me, the wearing of a skirt while running is the equivalent of sitting sidesaddle while riding a horse. It says: “Look! Look! I’m still feminine even if I’m doing something mannish! I’ll never look like one of those sprinters named Helga from East Germany, because goshdarnit, I’m wearing a skirt!”

I have an acquaintance who always wears skirts because, in her words, “It makes me feel pretty.” Certainly, there’s nothing wrong with that—but while running? I expect to feel a number of different things when out in public with my hair matted down, sweat in my eyes, a grimace on my face, and my nose running. Oddly enough, “pretty” isn’t one of them. I do enjoy the occasional skirt now and then when, say, sipping mimosas on a veranda or something, but for training for an endurance sport (or, God forbid, racing), they just seem wrong.

And apparently Putting Down The Skirt can create wrath and public mudslinging of a nature rarely seen outside the Jerry Springer show. (Time to waste? Click it, Sister! http://www.runningahead.com/groups/2000/Forum/b894cefb20b145a580b50ffef3d094d6  ). Personally, I don’t care if you want to wear a sequined ball gown and a pair of Crocs (the only fashion item more heinous than running skirts) out to the track to do interval training if that’s what floats your boat. Have at it. But your running skirt still looks like a pair of collapsed shorts.

Fuel Belts: Yeah, yeah, people need fuel on runs longer than 8.4  miles because blah blah blah. So thank goodness there’s a pink, studded rodeo-style tool belt packed with a dozen miniature plastic bottles full of bright blue fluids to strap around your waist and chafe you for the next two hours. Because stopping at a water fountain would be, you know, too much of an imposition.

I understand that in the ongoing quest to transform marathoning into a camping trip, more and more flamboyant gear is required. After all, how will anyone know you’re a distance runner if you don’t have the gear? Still, the advantages of hauling around a vast array of miniscule bottles with barely enough liquid in them to fill an eyedropper evades me. This being said, I can totally see wearing a fuel belt to dinner at the in-laws, a party, work, or any other destination where small bottles of Old Charter or Smirnoff would come in handy. That’s the kind of “fuel” I’m talking about!

Anyway, short of taking a run across three counties where no water or human life forms are present, a fuel belt seems a tad superfluous. (I just wanted to use that word.)

Camelbaks: Really, I don’t think 70 ounces of water sloshing against your back during your 14-mile long run is enough. I suggest pulling a Radio Flyer wagon behind you with a water cooler in it. Keeping the water cool may prove a bit tricky, but a remote generator could wedge in nicely behind the cooler as long as you limit the cooler size to 8 gallons. If 8 gallons is not enough, you’re probably going to need a fuel belt to supplement your intake.

Cell Phones on the run: I personally don’t know any women who lug their cell phones with them on a run, but recently I was updated on the fact that I am in constant and severe danger at all times as soon as I begin the motion of running. Apparently, there is just a tidal wave of inappropriate and unwanted attention out there waiting to crash down on me at any second. (Not that wearing a hot pink running skirt does anything to encourage this.) In any event, it’s been politely offered that I’m a moron for not carrying a cell phone when running alone whether it’s across the Australian Outback or around the block in Schenectady. A cell phone, it seems, is the ultimate key to safety.

And so it’s alarming to consider all those years I ran before cell phones were even invented! The foolhardiness of it all overwhelms me. When I began running, my parents still had a rotary dial phone—try carting one of those things around on a fartlek jaunt. It’s no picnic, I can tell you that.  In retrospect, I should have probably carried a walkie talkie and a blowtorch with me on those scary training runs around suburban Columbia, SC.

And so there you have it. Four items that I think are either dorky or unnecessary on a run. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to strap on my overblown, Dick Tracy 2-Way Radio-esque Garmin so that I can measure my run even though it’s on a course I’ve run 3000 times.