Monday, November 28, 2005

Mourning

I've taken several days off from running and this blog. I wish I could say it was turkey day hang over. One of my closest friends was killed thanksgiving night in a car accident. Dave was 47 and leaves a beautiful wife and three young children.
Although my inclination has been to just pull the covers over my head and try not to think of anything, my wife and I went up to see the family the day after the tragedy. There were lots of tears and hugs ... and there was one story that I think is appropriate for this space. As we sat in the bedroom of one of Dave's kids, we talked about his life. His younger sister, Mary, had one particular memory that involved running. "When I was about 9, my dad entered us in this mountain run," Mary recalled. "I had no idea what I was getting into, but when my dad told us to do something, we did it." So, with seven siblings Mary began the run and quickly fell behind. "Dave (who was 4 or 5 years older) got to the top and began looking for me. When I wasn't there he told my dad he was going back for me.
"He came back and ran the rest of the way up the hill with me, encouraging me all the way."
"He came back for me, that's the way he was."

I ran 6 miles today, thinking about Dave most of the way, that kind of funny stride he had, that boundless energy. Yeah, he was a guy who would come back for you, I loved him for that.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Run for the Turkey

My daughter and I ran together this morning for the first time in about five months. We've gone from me worrying about her keeping up to me worrying about keeping up with her. That girl pushes the pace on me now.
But there's nothing like a thanksgiving run, makes my brother-in-laws BBQ turkey taste that much juicier, my mother's creamed onions that much creamier, my sisters stuffing that much more flavorful and the pies and the cake my mother-in-law and wife made yesterday morning ... well, maybe I should have made this morning's 6-miler a half-marathon.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

holiday madness

I'm on vacation this week, taking time to spend with my family. I started the week off seeing plenty of time for training. Funny. Out of the routine, it's become even tougher to train. The dog woke me up at 6 a.m. Monday and I thought about going for a run first thing, but then I crawled back into bed, it's vacation after all. I wound up sleeping til 10. After that one thing after another seemed to keep me from running. It's frustrating, because there really shouldn't be any excuse. So Tuesday morning I went for a run early, before the events of the day began crashing in, and I went on the long side, just because (11 miles). This morning a workout at the gym with my daughter is on the official Kellogg family schedule, and tommorrow is the imperative Thanksgiving morning run. I don't think I can face the turkey without one.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Spoiled rotten

While I was driving to work today I thought of my son in Montreal. I pulled out my cell phone and called him. When I got his voice mail, I said, "Listen to this," and put the phone out the window for a moment. "That's the sound of me driving your car with the sunroof wide open. It's 80 degrees out here." Rumor is it's snowing in Montreal. He hasn't returned my call.
I ran 11 miles today, mostly because I took a couple of wrong turns and got a little adventerous, exploring some new trails. I also became a little dehydrated because I didn't pack any water (I was originally just going for six). As I thought about stopping to walk I realized how lucky I was to live in a place I can run year-round, and run on a warm day in November. As a California boy who lives on the NorCal coast, I can't imagine running in snow or in dry sahara heat. I must be soft. So I just kept running.
Oh, and as a tribute to the Shirtless Gang of Del Monte Forest (you know who you are, you of flat stomachs, no hair on your back and a college education ahead of you), I too took off my shirt. Don't worry, it was on a secluded trail during school hours. I wouldn't subject young children to such a sight. I did come across a young lady running the opposite way. To her, I apologize, I swear that spare tire around my waist is only temporary (at least that's what I've been telling my wife the past 15 years or so).

Friday, November 18, 2005

Wheels keep on turning

I kind of wish I could get it. I see these cyclists going by and envy the seemingly effortless way they crank up the speed, their cool, colorful clothes and the way they can wear tights and get away with it. And I think, well, that could be me.
I went for a ride today, about 18 miles. It was sort of out of necessity, the car's in the shop and running that far, well, I'm not at that point in my training just yet. It is a nice change from the pounding on the pavement, but after awhile my back began to ache, my hands started to tingle and other parts of my anatomy began to go numb. I found I'd work the hills, but would get in the habit of coasting when I could, looking at the scenery. Not exactly a disciplined workout.
One cycling acquaintance of mine told me of the joys of riding country roads, enjoying the scenery (while hopped up on endorphines). He told me of the challenging, yet peaceful (no traffic) roads winding through Fort Ord. I thought it would be a nice activity for my daughter and I to get into, but I never mustered the effort to get both bikes fixed. Instead, we started running together.
And so I run, at least until the next injury or trip to the auto mechanic.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Performance enhancing or cheating

While I was wandering the grocery store the other day I happened by the caffeine section. Geez, who knew there were so many different types of energy drinks? From tiny vials of liquid itching to be pricked by the needle of a syringe to 16 ounce cans that would seem at home in a brown paper bag. Canned energy in every shape and size, perfect for those all-night study benders, or the times when you need a lift right at the start of your run.
Last year I found myself wondering the ethics of it all. I was wandering the infield of the Sea Otter Classic, the huge bicycling event here in Monterey, perusing all the vendors were selling. With the marathon on the horizon, I was probably an easy mark. I sampled the energy gels, bought in bulk, grabbed a handful of samples of the pill that's supposed to battle lactic acid build up (as I've noted, I'm lactic acid intolerant) and sipped on several sports drink cocktails. All in the name of science, or better performance.
Heck, I don't want to set any records, but I do want to feel like Steve Prefontaine when I hit mile 18.
Then it hit me. I'm the guy who puts all the BALCO stories in the paper (Who saved baseball? Victor Conte). I'm the guy shaking my head when I hear Barry thought it was flax seed oil, not steriods. I'm the guy who led the investigative project on creatine and told my son to stay far away from that "wonder" powder.
Yet, here I was, with a fistful of pills that promised to make me feel better around Mile 16.
It's not that I want to cheat, I just want to work smarter, not harder (isn't that what always comes up on your job performance review?) But where is that line you don't want to cross? Probably closer then I want to admit.

I ran 10 today, up and down the rolling hills near my home. Afterward, I drank a delicious glass of iced "power" tea. There was no mention of flax seed oil (or "the cream" or "the clear" for that matter) in the list of ingredients.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Found my heart on wounded knee

Wounded Knee is what I call the horse path/fire road that winds past my home into the hills behind us. I took a 7-mile run on it monday and it brought back memories of why I call it Wounded Knee. About six weeks back I was on about mile 5 of the loop, heading down hill and on my way home when I had one of those slow motion moments. You know, the ones where you can see the disaster unfolding before you, but there's not a darn thing you can do about it. For me it was a tree root. As I went down the hill, I was becoming aware I wasn't doing a very good job of lifting my feet (the side effect of fatigue). I thought to myself, gee, I really should lift my feet or I'll trip over a tree root and go .... arrggghhh.
There's about six inches of my skin now stretched over a rock and parts of that trail. I wasn't seriously hurt (well, when you're 47 every hurt seems like a serious hurt) but it stung. Pumped with adrenalyn (nice spelling), I got up and finished my run, cursing along the way. I did my best to clean and bandage the bloody mess and headed off to work. Needless to say, my leg stiffened that night and I had a difficult time hobbling around the office (you'd think they'd get used to seeing me limp). I had to take about five days off of running.
You know, you fall off the horse and they say you should get right back on. But why should I get on again when the darned thing is just going to knock me down? In my head, I couldn't justify getting back on that trail and running again. But something in my heart made me. And the next time I ran it I was a little frightened (and darned slow too), but I made it without falling. And I've made it six or seven times since then (although today I stumbled). I always run the trail with the utmost respect, watching where I'm going, picking up my feet, not being reckless. And for now it works for me.
So what is this thing in my heart that made me want to go back? Is it the same thing that drives me to take on Hurricane Point again (that Everest-like climb in the middle of the Big Sur Marathon)? Why can't I be happy with just conquering Wounded Knee?
Maybe I'll take a long run tommorrow and ponder this (or just think about the poetry of cheese sandwiches).


7 miles on Monday, Tuesday spent at the grocery store and running errands (in my running clothes because I was going to sneak a workout in between Costco and Albertsons, but it didn't work out). I hate it when life gets in the way of running.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

View to a run

This is how I felt around Mile 18 of last year's Big Sur Marathon. Someone yelled, "Keep it up, you're looking good." I knew their heart was in the right place, and I was grateful for their encouragement, but ... well, actually I was thinking, "I look like crap, I may break down and walk, again, at any time. From mile 14 on has been one big disappointment, one that comes with the added pain of blisters pulsating under my toenails and a feeling of knives being plunged into my kidneys. Thanks for your words of encouragement, but if you'd really like to help me, shoot me like a lame horse right here, right now."
With that in mind, I never quite know how to cheer on runners. You want to let them know that you appreciate their effort and respect the pain they're enduring, while at the same time wanting to give them strength in the only way you can, verbally. Geez, sounds like something out of one of those transcendental, interpersonal, sports through seance classes I took in college (needed to boost the GPA).And how do you express those feelings in five words or less (which is about all you have time for)? Appreciate, Respect, kick butt girl! Doesn't exactly flow smoothly off the tongue.
So as I watched my daughter run at a recent cross country meet, I stationed myself at the top of the last steep hill on the course. I stood there madly clapping and exorting her to pump her arms, to lift her knees . . . And I may have yelled "You're looking good, keep it up!" (But I meant it!)

Two days off, unless you watching a cross-country meet, doing landry, watching two dance recitals and walking the dog are things you can count in your mileage log ... didn't think so.

Friday, November 11, 2005

TJisms (just love it)

Stumbling down stairs, sitting down and getting up, walking after sitting for a period of time, in general, those times when my joints feel like rusty hinges I think of something TJ once said to me.
TJ was my son's football coach a few years ago. A guy built like he's been in a weight room or two, he is passionate about at least two things: football and his players. I loved talking to him because I always left the conversation feeling energized. He has a style reminscient of Herm Edwards, the Jets head coach - no wasted words; short, powerful phrases and dramatic pauses, where he looks you in the eyes to make sure you're focused on the conversation.
And I was thinking of him as I hit the road yesterday, my first run since the half marathon. It was a familiar six-mile up and down loop on the streets of the quaint little tourist town I live in. Pleasant enough, but dang, I was sore and stiff.
It was then I remembered picking up my son from his first day of varsity football practice. My son was a tall, skinny 15-year old offensive tackle with little football experience. He was banging heads with 18-year olds, young men whose physical maturity greatly outweighed his. As my son met me at the car, TJ came up and spoke to both of us.
"Your forearms are going to be pretty sore tonight," TJ said to my son. "You can rub them down with some ice, maybe even rub them down with some lotion, that should make them feel better.
"Or," and with this TJ locked eyes with me, "you can just love it."
As I go through this process of trying to become a runner, feel the discomfort of my lungs and heart as I demand more from them, feel my joints, not wanting to bend at first, slowly become more flexible, feel my feet and toes become a little tougher each day, I think of that TJism. I don't embrace the pain every day. I still ice, pop tylenol and put lotion on my feet. I listen to my body for telltale signs of impending injury.
But when I'm climbing a tough hill (hello Hurricane Point), or flirting with the idea of taking a walking break, I go to TJ for my mantra, "just love it."

Thursday, November 10, 2005

About that cheese sandwich

One of the things about running is it leaves your brain with a lot of time on its hands.
Thud, thud, thud, isn't it pretty out, thud, thud, thud, thud, don't my knees hurt, thud, thud, thud, thud, how many miles do I have left, thud, thud, thud, thud. what time is it anyway? ...
That's how it goes some days. Other days are more productive
Thud, thud, I bet I could solve that problem at work by, thud, thud, then I could launch that project by using, thud, thud, and if I started a system to moniter my progress, thud, thud.
And what do you know, my run is finished, I feel great, energized and enthused about putting all those ideas into play.
But then there are also the days of the cheese sandwiches. It first happened to me last fall, about mile 6 of an 8-mile run. I craved a cheese sandwich. But not just any cheese sandwich. My aforementioned brain with the excess time problem went right to work illustrating a vision of the coveted cheese sandwich. Velvetta (that's not really cheese is it?) on Wonderbread (and that's certainly not bread, right?). That's it, straight, no distractions like lettuce or pickles.
Thud, thud, thud, cheese sandwich, thud, thud, thud, just bread and cheese, thud, thud, thud, beautiful in its simplicity, thud, thud, thud, a poem waiting to be devoured, thud, thud, thud.
When I got home that day I made my cheese sandwich (although I didn't have the tools to bring to life my vision of simplicity, rather it was cheddar on wheat). As gobbled my first bite, I realized cheese sandwiches are way over rated. After a run, they sit in your stomach like a bowling ball.
Now I know people think about different things when they run, according to "The Running Life" column in today's Herald, some people even think about sex while they run (let's see, my knees are aching, my lungs are burning and my eyes are stinging from the sweat pouing down my forehead, I wonder why I don't think about sex just then). But I have never heard of anyone thinking of a cheese sandwich. I'd take it to the Dream Doctor, but I'm a little afraid of what he would tell me.
So I just live with it. When I get far into a long run, the cheese sandwich will sometimes materialize, like that Oasis through the waves of heat.
Thud, thud, WonderBread thud, thud all soft and gummy, thud, thud, Velvetta, thud, thud all orange and gooey, thud, thud, what do we say to lettuce and pickles? thud, thud Hell no! That's what we say.
Ah, the cheese sandwich my running muse.

P.S. I went to the gym today, my first excersise since the half marathon. Half an hour on the elipitcal trainer and a little weight training. It felt good to sweat again and to feel the blood circulating in my legs. No cheese sandwich sightings.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Frankenstein, the runner

My co-workers kept asking me if I was limping. I told them absolutely not, they just weren't used to seeing my new, graceful athletic gait. That wasn't something I could pull on my daughter. She watched me walk down the stairs the Monday morning after Sunday's half-marathon. It was a step-by-step adventure in pain.
My rehab was a trip to the grocery store where the cart worked well serving as a walker. To tell you the truth, I was stunned by how stiff and sore I was. I think it was actually worse than the day after the marathon. I guess I should have hung around and got the massage. Lactic acid intolerant, that's what I am.
Today I'm feeling better, although going down stairs still isn't a pleasant experience.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Monday morning

Monday morning is the worst (well, sunday nights aren't great either). My achilles tendon is on fire, the bottoms of my feet are a little tender, as are some of my toes. I didn't really expect this level of soreness.
I wouldn't mind just spending the day with my feet up and a good book. Oh well, a couple of Tylenol, a few errands and then off to work. Remember that T-Shirt, "No whining allowed."

Sunday, November 06, 2005

The loneliness of a long distance runner

When I go for a run I almost always go alone. I prefer it that way. I can leave when I want, go as fast (or as slow) as I want, and not have to talk along the way. It’s a nice, solitary time to really think about things.
So why is it, when I’m involved in an organized race I crave conversation, or at least, some kind of connection.
You know what one of the highlights of Sunday’s Big Sur half marathon was for me? Slapping five with a runner I know as he passed me after making the turnaround way before me. You know what else I enjoyed? A five-minute conversation I had with one of my daughter’s former teachers at about mile 10.
And then there was the Big Sur marathon, when I spent about three miles chatting with a pair of ladies from Oklahoma, and when I hugged one of the volunteers at one of the last aid stops (“It’s going to be OK,” he whispered, comforting me with a gentle pat). Those are things I smile about (as opposed to climbing Hurricane Point).
The thing is, I’m not usually big on initiating conversations in day-to-day life. As a sports writer I often have to, but asking that first question, getting to that first hello is sometimes work for me. And, yeah, I don’t usually go looking for hugs.
I’m also not usually big on spending time celebrating successes. I like to just move on to the next thing.
But Sunday, after finishing the Big Sur Half Marathon in a faster time than I’d hoped for, I found myself looking for someone to celebrate with. I had told my wife the run was no big thing and that she and my daughter should just sleep in, I’d see them when I came home. But, you know, at the finish line I really missed them. I missed that gentle congratulatory kiss from my wife, I missed my daughter saying how proud she was of me. And, yes, I even missed that big, sweaty bear hug Jon Segal (he of the “longest mile” blog) gave me after we finished the Big Sur Marathon.
So there I was, a guy not usually enthusiastic about reaching out to others, in search of someone to hug.
I tell you, this running changes a man.