Category: Running

Went for a run today, starting off heading north on 1st ave. This is not an uncommon road for me; it starts with the most miniscule rise, then drops a bit to 145th, and then a lot to 155th, where I hit the one mile mark. 145th is a bit of a busy road, and depending on time of day and how long my run is going to be, I’ll either stop and wait for the walk signal, or run up 145th a bit until there’s a gap in traffic. Today I did the latter.

Bluetooth bone-conducting headphones playing Emancipator (moody DJ type music), to encourage a slower run. Phone on my arm, using Runkeeper, so I can get those 5-minute updates. These are useful if I’m trying to run “slow” because if I don’t check in I tend to speed up.

Relatively, of course. I realize running 9 minute miles instead of 9:30s is hardly “speeding” up. But if I run too fast, my feet start to slide around in my shoes, and it takes longer for my legs to recover. I need to log some miles for the next 7 days, since Ragnar is in two weeks.

At 155th I made the left turn, to Meridian, and the up to Ashworth. And I do mean “up.” That’s a 7% grade over almost a quarter mile. On a very good day I can trot up it and lose only about 15 seconds per mile. Today was not a very good day. But it wasn’t terrible– I’ve had worse.

At Ashworth I went right, to 160th. Lots of huffing and puffing. By this point my feet were hurting pretty bad, something that’s been happening more lately. I want to blame my shoes–andI will– but it’s also that I am spending WAY too much time sitting in my office these days. Also, I could stand to lose ten or twenty pounds. I’ll rationalize it like this: fighting through the pain is good training for future runs where said fight will yield a more triumphant finish.

Yeah. Sure. Anyway. To the Interurban trail, and south on that. Feet and legs feeling better as I finished mile two. Over those bridges, and then the one-third uphill part back to 145th. This is one of those uphill stretches that isn’t so bad, if you don’t let it get to you and don’t attack it too hard. Summer is here, and with it, the various homeless people who hang out along the stretch. I think there’s some kind of social service nearby. And a McDonald’s. But they’ve every right to sit outside and enjoy the sun, and I’ve never known them to be anything but regular people.

At 145th, a left to Aurora, wait for a gap in traffic, then cross. That’s 3 miles done. Drop down to Roosevelt, and the “last hill” of the run. I don’t know where my head was at this time– thinking about my shoes, maybe– but I didn’t even notice it. Down to Meridian, and up again, but this up part really is one of those rises that never feels like one.

And back at 1st ave, 4 miles done. A beer, a shower, some yogurt. Given the aches and pains in my legs and feet, I’ll give this two stars out of five.

Posted at The Loop, the blogs at Runner’sWorld.com

It’s a little after seven in the morning, not quite light but not fully dark either. I’m two minutes into a run, chugging up a minor incline, on the left side of the road, no sidewalks, not even a decent patch of grass to skim along. Headlights appear ahead, and I glance behind me to see if there’s anyone approaching from behind. There’s no one else—just me and the oncoming car. It’s still a quarter mile away but the driver nevertheless eases into the other lane. I wait until he’s a hundred yards away, and then lift my hand in thanks.

Do you wave when you run? I do—my theory is that every runner is a running ambassador, and it is our duty to spread goodwill to those who have to interact with us. I’m lucky in that the neighborhoods where I run are mostly run-friendly: sidewalks, running trails, plenty of crosswalks at the busy intersections. But sometimes I wind up on a road without a sidewalk, and so I run in the street. I always run on the left side of the road, so I can see any cars coming, and most of the time they make a point of giving me as much space as possible.

And want them to be glad they did it. I want them to know it’s appreciated—so I wave, knowing that they’ll come across another runner someday, and that we’re grateful for the consideration. Sometimes if the traffic is a bit busy, I might come across three or four cars in a row. But they each get a wave, even if it looks like I think I’m in a parade or something.

I wave to other runners, too, and pedestrians if we’re sharing a sidewalk. (I don’t wave to bikers, because I don’t want them to think they have to take their hands off the handlebars and wave back—to them I give a very obvious head-nod). I figure that as lonely a sport as running can be, it’s god to acknowledge others as much as possible.

I guess it comes down to this: I don’t have to run. Running is a luxury, an indulgence, and if someone has to adjust their activity to accommodate me, they’re doing me a favor. Some guy in pick-up truck, on his way to a job, didn’t wake up in the morning expecting to have to deal with a potential deadly situation on the asphalt. And maybe it’s not big deal to turn the wheel a few degrees for a few seconds. But it’s no big deal to hold my hand up for a few seconds and smile, either.

And sometimes they wave back, and smile too. And to me that’s pretty cool.

Posted at The Loop, the blogs at Runner’sWorld.com

By the time you read this I will have flown to North Carolina, and hopefully I will have run in a new place. Not an official race or anything, just a set of streets I’ve never been on before, in a city I’ve only visited for the first time.

(Of course, strictly speaking “by the time you read this” I could be dead and in my grave for a few hundred years. I have no idea when it is that you’re reading this. That’s the trouble with looking ahead to the future- there’s probably more future left then there is past. Or not, I don’t know, I’m not a chronoastronomist).

I could wait until I’ve actually been there and done the running before posting about it, which would make a kind of sense, but what if I go and don’t run for some reason? We’re going there for a baby shower, and who knows if I’ll have time to strap on my Nike Frees and pound some asphalt for 30 minutes or so. Writing now, this way, I get to talk about it even if I don’t do it.

For me, running is about the adventure. It’s about exploration, going from here to there, it’s about streets I haven’t been on, finding new ways to connect where I’m at with where I want to be. A few months ago I was at my sister-in-law’s place, looking out their window at the gorgeous view. I spotted a distant hill, and decided I would try to find a way to run to it.

I hopped onto Mapometer.com to see where I was and where I was going. I love maps, love looking at routes and puzzling out how to defeat rivers, elevations changes, busy streets with no sidewalks. I figured out how to get to that hill, then took off running– and got lost.

I have a horrible memory (my excuse: I have an excellent imagination). You’ll have to decide if that’s a blessing or a curse, when it comes to exploring while on a run. But, for what it’s worth, I still had an excellent run, and I did make it up that hill. The view was fantastic.

So by the time this weekend has past, I’ll have run around a bit of Greensboro, North Carolina. I’m looking at Mapometer right now, trying to figure out what streets looks the most interesting. We’ll be near Buffalo Lake and Philadelphia Lake, so maybe I’ll trot down and see those. Greensboro Country Park isn’t too far away.

Most likely, whatever I plan, I’ll get lost, and have to call my wife to come find me (she’s never been there before, either). Talk about an adventure! If I survive, I’ll let you know. I mean survive my wife’s wrath. Pretty sure I’ll survive the run. Pretty sure.

Posted at The Loop, the blogs at Runner’sWorld.com

There’s a phrase that uses a color, combined with a word which itself is a metaphor for a part of the male anatomy. This part of the anatomy is always referred to in pairs, and so the latter word is a plural word, while the former, the color, is closer to the shorter-end of the wavelength spectrum. I hope you know what I mean– I’m trying to be delicate here, but I can’t think of any other phrase that captures the frustration and disappointment of a lack of fulfillment, as well as the connotation of it being a wilful decision to desist from the activities that would otherwise fulfill.

And I want to apply it, this metaphor, to a run I had the other day, making it into another metaphor. Maybe, when we’re done, we can come up with a new portmanteau, and then I won’t have to resort to vulgarity or obtuse euphemism.

So there I was, on the treadmill, running at my usual treadmill pace, which according the screen was about 6.7 mph, but according to my watch with the pace-counter was at a good 8:45 minutes per mile. And I felt fantastic. I was listening to some seriously exquisite hard rock instrumentals, with the guitar and the drums and the everything. This was synergy, this was full immersion, this is what Yuri Vlason calls “the white moment.”

Not exactly runner’s high, if I may. This wasn’t euphoria, as such (although I have to confess, I relate euphoria to taking a few vicodin and having a glass of wine). We’re each of us, we runners, different, so maybe this would have been a runner’s high for you. I’m just saying– I was in the zone. I inched the speed up a few tenths of a MPH. The song ended and another, even better one, began.

And then the clock on the treadmill- which never, alas, disagrees with my running watch, told me my time was up. I was done. 40 minutes. That’s what I had planned for. Not all that long, really. I could have kept going. I wanted to keep going. But did I need to keep going?

No, not really. In fact, I wanted to be able to run well the next day, and I knew from experience that no matter how great I felt, pounding above my usual speed for even another mile would leave me sore later. Not a bad sore, but sore nevertheless. So I dropped the speed and started to walk my cool-down.

And boy was I mad. I was furious. I clenched my fists, gritted my teeth, and cursed under my breath. So unfair. So uncool. So not right. We’re shoved onto this planet against our will, forced to grow, to get bigger, blobbier, take on stupid responsibilities, face down an utter pointlessness to it all, and when we finally get a chance to feel something approaching purpose, our stupid-ass brains remind us of our frailties and make us ration out the joy. A little today, a little tomorrow. Damn it all.

I got over it, of course. I went home and showered and got dressed and poked at the computer and had some coffee and went back to existing. And I did run the next day, too. And it was fine, nothing to complain about. Not quite as good.

But worth stopping for? Maybe. Probably. I want to think so. What’s the phrase about discretion being the better part of valor? Yeah, that’s what I’m telling myself. But the real take away is that I was the one who made the decision. I had a plan, and I stuck to it. I’m going to call that morality.

Totally sucks.

Posted at The Loop, the blogs at Runner’sWorld.com

So there I was, hurtling along at a sweet 7.4 mph, 2.5 ounces of 5 Hour Energy Drink dripping its way through a light dinner of salmon and broccoli fettuccine alfredo, itself already splashed with some kind of Bob Marley branded sweet tea, and all of it on a bedrock of a box of Entenmann’s donut bites that I was too ashamed to stop eating three hours earlier as I sat in front of my computer and dreamed of a day when I’d be skinny and fast. In my ears: Skeewiff, but not the new album that had just come out a few days before. In my heart: happiness, despite the gurgling in my guts, despite the snow or rain or sleet or whatever it was, despite the fact that mp3 player number one had run out of juice a few miles back, which is why I was not listening to the new Skeewiff album.

Yes, happiness, in the cold wet Seattle night, as I was running down hill, only a mile and half to go before I reached the bar where I planned on chugging a half liter of pilsner (Veltin’s, if you’re keeping track). I’m blessed with a collection of convenient coincidences: my wife goes to a dance gym that’s right next door to a beer bar and four miles (or seven if I take the long way) away from our house, and mostly downhill.

For me running and music go together like blood flow and respiration. Not long after having started this particular run, as I said, the mp3 player had crapped out, so I had walked a bit while I took off my running jacket, pulled my phone off my arm, attached my earphones, cued up an emergency playlist, set the phone back on my arm, and put the jacket back on. (Read my previous few running blog entries to see how this was not luck, but planning, as I always run with several gadgets, just in case).

So there I was as I said, running and smiling, and then the music stopped for a moment only to be replaced by a distinctive beep to let me know I had a new message on my phone. Or an email. Or a missed call. Or a friend’s Foursquare check-in (I know this guy who’s on Foursquare and visits at least twenty unique locations every day). Of course, I didn’t bother stopping to see what the message was. I could check it when I was in the bar. I just kept running, and waited for the music to start again.

And waited and waited as I ran and ran. The happiness in my heart started to leak out, and anger started to leak in. What the heck? Was this particular app that played music really going to be stymied by an incoming message? An inconvenience, to say the least, and relatively speaking, not even a minor one, as getting the phone in front of my face to re-start the playlist was going to involve stopping and taking off my jacket and etc. Curse this snow, rain, sleet, whatever– I had been afraid I was going to ruin my bluetooth watch, which I can use to control my phone remotely, so I hadn’t brought it.

You know what I did? I kept running. That’s right. Even though there was no music, even though I had at least 10 minutes left, which is an eternity, I decided to keep running. And it was pretty darn good. Not so good that I would willfully eschew music on a run, but I felt so good, in my body, in the night air, in anticipation of that beer, that losing the music wasn’t so bad.

Four minutes later, a miracle happened– the music started again! I guess the app or whatever had cycled through its issues and decided to grant me a reprieve from the silence. Did I say I was okay with the lack of music? I was, until it started again, and boy, did I love it. I increased my speed to 7.5 mph, that’s how much I loved it.

I’m not really sure what the moral of the story is, here. I finished the run, found my wife’s car, retrieved the dry jacket I had stashed there, and went to the bar to chug my half liter. It was glorious. And later, when we got back home, you’re darn skippy I charged up that mp3 player. Full juice.

I had a treadmill run to do the next day, and I’m not sure I could depend on the running-only euphoria to get me through a lack of tunes. Oh, and that message, the one that had stopped the phone? Yep, another Foursquare check-in. He was in a bar too. No idea if he had a Veltin’s or not.