Need

We did a good hilly 16-miler last Saturday. More on that later.

I haven't had my running shoes on since then. It's been a whirlwind holiday in OKC with family, food, friends, family, food, games, family, and food. All good--excellent actually--but they should be taken in moderation with outings for exercise, which my body and brain are starting to really need.

Add to the mix a trip to the hospital, where we have now spent the majority of the past two days. Waiting. My grandmother woke up with a heart attack yesterday morning and by 10 a.m. had been in and out of surgery to have two stints put in. All in all, a mild event (as mild as a real live heart attack can be) not requiring major surgery, but serious enough for a few days' stay here and also enough to prompt the calling of big family meetings. It's time for the obligatory dialogue about getting she and my Papa Cleo some home health or other assistance. He is 85+ years old and has prostate cancer, heart disease, and diabetes. She is 83 (I think?). She is his main caregiver and can't really continue that at the rate she has been despite fierce determination and independence. She's pretty willing to have the conversation, but there are a lot of chiefs in the room today.

From my perspective, all is well, really. We're hanging out here at the heart hospital, grandfather-dad-mom-sister-aunts-uncles-cousins, just like we'd hang out at her house if this weren't going on. People are getting along and cracking jokes. Waiting on the doctor to come around and release her or not. Waiting since 9 a.m. It's 5 p.m. now.

I'm also waiting to see if I will drive back to AR today. It's looking like not. I miss J and Shiloh and am ready to get home.

AND READY TO RUN.

And I thought those days when I can hardly wait to get out of the office make me antsy.

I.
Need.
To go outside and run.

Insatiable

Today, 4 easy miles with Shiloh from Murray Park to NLR and back on the Big Dam Bridge. No time recorded.

I went in search of a long, quiet run on this Winter Solstice night. The park was nearly empty. An overcast sky reflected bright lightning far off in the east, but no rain fell. I had been anticipating this particular run all week. Maybe because of that build up, it took a while to get my head clear. I ran along the dark River Trail path sorting through thoughts, looking for signs, expecting some epiphany to happen.

There's a million pages of stories to be written here about where my head goes when my soul is ready for a spiritual experience. Solstice seems like a night for starting over. So, on this night my mind raced, recounting the amazing and ongoing journey of forgiveness I've been on in dealing with anger, pain, and disappointment that linger from church conflict more than a decade old.

Sure, there's also plenty to be said about how conflict builds character, and I recognize that the person I am today is a result of overcoming and moving on. The passion I feel about inclusivity and liberation theology are born right out of life experience. But I didn't particularly come here to solve those issues tonight.



I came to hide out in the longest night of the year and peer with hope into the darkness of the unknown future.

So by mile 3, I'd worked through days' worth of that old stuff, in fast forward, and found myself trotting along the span of the Big Dam Bridge.

I believe in things way bigger than me. I believe if you seek peace, it's there and comes in its own time. A pause came into my mind and suddenly I was in the moment. Not trying to be somewhere else in time or space or wherever inside your head is, but right there, aware of my surroundings. Aware how much my body enjoys the meditative rhythm of running. Aware of how strange it feels to be so hot I'm dripping with sweat but have a cold nose, ears, and legs. Acutely aware of the three sounds filling up the quiet:

my breathing

Shiloh's claws on the pavement in syncopation with my footsteps

water rushing in the river far below

Beautiful. Thoughts came to mind that don't really bear description...but if I had to pin them down I'd call out words like love and calm and peace and gratitude.

"...May the long Solstice night hold you tenderly, with owl’s sweet lullaby and the faithful stars overhead. May comforting darkness quiet troubled dreams and hold the certainty that our own dark places carry peace within them as well."

--from friend and fellow interpreter Chris Heeter, TheWildInstitute.com

Now, as another friend Tina told me today,

"Now to experience the energy of ever increasing light."

Doing the Splits

Wednesday, 12.20.2006:
Per the training schedule, three flat miles. Did 'em on a treadmill at the gym, with--wow!--negative splits.
Mile 1--11:00
Mile 2--9:00
Mile 3--8:30

"Negative splits," when you complete a later lap (or mile, in my case) faster than earlier ones in a race or training run, is a term rarely used in my vocabulary--at least, not to apply to me anyway.

I didn't really mean to run mile 3 that fast, but I was wearing headphones and got suckered. At precisely 20:00 my mP3 player, set to random play, served up some Michelle Shocked, "Making the Run to Gladewater." A fast song with a lively tempo. It was no trouble at all to stay on pace with the song. One of my feet was hitting the ground with every bass beat. I've never been a dancer (Ok, that's not true, once in kindergarden--so we're talking 25 years ago--there was a ballet recital in which I was dressed as a sparkly yellow butterfly--yes Kim I said SPARKLY). So, I've never really been a dancer, but I felt like one tonight. Unfamiliar territory.

It will sound strange if I say I felt like a giraffe running, because that doesn't likely conjure up images of sleekness and finesse for most people. It's also odd because the song is about a beer run on the backroads of Texas and here I was imagining I'm a wild and free animal on the savannahs of Africa, running not from a predator but just for the joy of moving gracefully.

No snickering. I felt graceful and who cares what it really looked like? I can't explain it. Just reporting.

On a dare with myself I stayed at that pace after the song ended and through the next, slower song too, until the treadmill display read 3.0 miles. I can't remember the last time I ran only three miles. It felt strange. I wish I had words to explain to non-runners, who get all freaky about how long and intimidating the training distances seem, how very short three miles seems after you get used to running five+ all the time. I don't say that to diminish the accomplishments of those just getting started. For those doing three miles, maximum, right now, super. I'm a fan of anybody that's up off their couches doing something. We all start with that first step and build up from there. But really, my current addict mindset caused me to stay on the treadmill for an extra mile, walking at 15: pace, just because 3m didn't seem long enough,

Monday, 12.18.2006:
Six hilly miles, 56:00. Up Markham and Kavanaugh to Mount Saint Mary's, around the school, and back through the neighborhoods down to Kavanaugh and return. Nice. Hot.

No one was selling Christmas trees at the School for the Blind today. I wonder why?

Indecision

The week before last I took what I thought was one last run in shorts and t-shirt. That day it was 75 degrees, but a front was predicted and we soon had arctic temperatures. It's been outstanding to run in the cold lately.

Short-lived, though.

Saturday morning, I kind of thought I was going crazy. It was December 16. In December, you're supposed to put on tights and at least a couple layers of shirts. And gloves. And a hat. I had frozen sweat last weekend, after all. On this day, though, I checked the outside thermometer and it said 58.

?!?

That's hot. To a runner, hot is anything over 40. Ok, so I conceded to shorts, and based on the thermometer, figured I should just wear one short-sleeved shirt on top. "It's freaking December, though!" hollered a voice somewhere in my brain. Ok, I'm a sucker. Just out of principle, for the sake of December, I couldn't resist layering a long-sleeved shirt under my short-sleeved shirt. It is just not right to wear shorts and short sleeves the week before winter solstice.

This called for further research. (For those who are familiar with my low status in the category of "morning person," I realize you may be laughing right now as you picture me attempting serious decision making at 5 a.m. on a Saturday. That's fair. It probably is funny. I wouldn't know, I wasn't really awake). So I went out and stood on the front porch to evaluate the atmosphere for myself. Yup, hot. "But!" the little voice was back, "It's a little windy...you could get chilled in the wind. It's bound to be colder down near the river anyway..go ahead, wear two shirts. Better safe than sorry." By this time it was 5:30 and I needed to get going, so I stayed dressed and headed out.

This week we met at Murray Park. It was a huge relief, when I got there, to see that I wasn't actually going crazy, that my first instinct had been correct, that lots of people also opted for shorts and t-shirts. Not that I'm always quick to do things"because everyone else is," but well, I admit, I don't often seem to grasp what is common sense to others. Case in point: Even after seeing nearly everyone else dressed in short sleeves, I was unsure what I should do. I jumped out of the truck, stripped off the long-sleeved shirt, thought about it, worried if I'd get cold, put a different, lighter long-sleeved one on, stood around a few minutes, thought about it some more, walked over and asked Tom his opinion, heard him (standing there in shorts and t-shirt himself) confirm that short sleeves ought to be fine.

I haven't had ten great years with J without learning a few things, including the fine, fine art of compromise. Shorts and one short-sleeve shirt, it would be, but also, a pair of gloves. If (when) I got hot, I could take 'em off and tuck 'em in my FuelBelt pocket. For whatever reasons, this solution worked. The voices in my head either went back to sleep or agreed the compromise was fair.

While I was having my little crisis, I'd failed to notice the number of cars coming into the parking lot. I'm used to there being anywhere from 40-100 runners and walkers on any given Saturday. Now, it was 6 o'clock and the parking lot was nearly full, with a line of headlights still streaming in. That line snaked back down Rebsamen Road for as far as I could see.

Tom climbed up on his car and did his usual, "Gooooood morning, crackheads!" and made jokes and announcements in an attempt to stall until most of the traffic got in. I later heard a runner bitching about how slow people were driving on Rebsamen. "They were going, like, 35 miles an hour!" That is the speed limit there, by the way, and I can't even count the number of tickets I've seen people getting on that road. The complainer is the same person whom I've seen yell at and almost hit cars with her hand if she thinks they're driving too fast past us runners in a neighborhood. People are fickle. Me too, often. J says so.

By 6:10, there were easily 150 present, with cars still rolling in. Tugboat Mike, who didn't run Saturday because he'd run long on Friday, showed up for the post-run camaraderie and said he counted the names on the sign-in sheet while we were out, and it was over 150. Plus, I know several folks that were there that never sign in. Looks like there may have been 175 or more.

The run itself was good. The River Trail loop. 14 miles. 2:25.

My legs were happier on the first half, when a group of 6 or 8 of us trotted along at 11:, and then 10:30/ miles. We turned left out of Murray Park and ran along the road past the golf course, apartments, Winrock, and Alltel, then turned left on Cottondale. That took us back around the Discovery, Jr. Deputy ballfields, the Exhibit Shop strip, then under the scary Cantrell bridge and up in front of Episcopal School. Right on Cross, left on 3rd. Third becomes Markham, which we stayed on until the Main Street bridge where we crossed the river. Around here, someone decided to pick up the pace. (You can count on it not being me). On the NLR side, it was River Trail all the way to the Big Dam Bridge, 7-ish miles. Somewhere around the Burns Park golf course, someone picked it up even more. We were running 9:30's by then and I was hanging in, but sucking wind. A bunch of times...around a hundred times...I thought about dropping back. Knew I'd regret it if I did. Thought a lot about why I wanted to slow down. Tried to pinpoint what good reason I had to let myself do that. Injury? No. Suffocating lack of oxygen? Uncomfortable, yes, but not dying yet. I realized it was really just because I wasn't having 100% fun. I wasn't getting to traipse along and notice how nice the day was and have chipper little conversations. This was work. It was requiring focus and discipline.

I began to dread our arrival at the Big Dam Bridge, because experience told me that all four of the runners I was hanging with are hill lovers and they would probably kick it up a notch up that huge ramp, not take it easy. An accurate prediction. As we headed up, I didn't slow down, but they did all speed up, leaving me 10-20 yards behind them. Across the crest, I worked on breathing to get back some of the oxygen debt, and then on the descent, gravity worked in my favor and I nearly caught them by our stopping point.

Tom showed me his splits. That last mile, he and Chris were running at 8:40/ pace. I was hauling butt to catch up, meaning I was probably in the 8:20 range or less. Hoo rah.

Felt it today. Stiff. 1500 yards in the pool helped.

One final note: The run was hot. I ditched the gloves after two miles.

Lightness Has a Call That's Hard to Hear

Five flat miles on the LR River Trail tonight. Quiet. Dark. Calming, after an obnoxious day at the office. Easy out-and-back through Murray Park from the parking lot Tom calls "Creepy" (for its lack of light prior to being a Big Dam Bridge terminus--it's somewhat better lit now).

What a treat, on the return trip with about a mile left, to have the bridge come slowly into view with its light show. I'd heard it was lit but this was my first time to see. A series of piers over the water are illuminated with slowly-changing beams of color. First, in the distance, I saw blue. Blue turned to purple. I looked down for a few seconds (acorn patrol), and when I glanced back up the whole bridge was dressed for the holidays in a pattern of red and green. That slowly faded to all green, followed by all red.

While tempted, I didn't go up and over the river tonight. It seemed more appropriate to stay in the shadows and admire the light from afar.

Oucho Gaucho

Saturday, 12.09.06, 6 a.m.
Weather: 29 degrees, sunny with cold breeze


"This is not a hill," I said out loud as I started up. "This is not a hill."

"This is not a hill."

"This is not a hill."

"This is not a hill."

"This....gasp....is.....not.....gasp.....a......hill."

Ok, it was a hill. A large one. The first of oh, a zillion that we ran up and down today. Originally named for the restaurant parking lot from which we start (Gaucho's Grill, which has since relocated), this run is infamous for its route through neighborhoods where you wouldn't want to live during an ice storm. Steep streets.

Tom and company were driving to Dallas for the White Rock Marathon, so I headed out alone. Well, as alone as a person can be in a herd of fifty or sixty runners, which is my best guess at how many showed up in Saturday's sub-freezing temps to take on the Oucho. We all start out together but it doesn't take long to spread way out, with the fastest fast runners in front and the slowest walkers in back and the rest of us in between. I pretty much stayed between clumps of people and enjoyed being alone with my thoughts. Running alone meant also meant concentrating on pace work, because I want to stay in the "fast" zone where I've been living lately.

This run was fun enough until around mile 8 or 9. Somewhere in there I got either tired or bored, I don't know, and started wanting to get done. Now, trying to think back on it, my brain is fuzzy about what my thoughts were, but I recall thinking about what I was thinking, trying to analyze on my feet what was triggering the bad attitude. Who knows.

On the physical side, I'm sure blood sugar has something to do with it. I continue to ride a frustrating gel-induced fast/slow pattern. No doubt during those low parts of the waves my brain is affected. A 14-miler is a 3-gel outing. Also, when it's this cold it's a challenge to drink enough. In wicking clothing, you don't always realize how much you're sweating. I try to stay on the :20/:40 routine, drinking a couple ounces of water every twenty minutes and eating a Gu on every other cycle (every forty minutes). Tricky today. Water bottles were frozen shut. Not frozen solid, just shut. Also, gel is usually, well, gel-like. Soft. Smushy. Today it was stiff, like the gum I used to keep on my nightstand overnight. Had to swish my cold cold water around in my mouth with the gel to get it soft and swallowable.

Another food note, on pre-run food. For a year, pop-tarts have been good to me, providing an easy-to-digest sugar rush for that first few miles. Before that I was doing half-bagels, bleh. I rarely wake up hungry though, so whatever I eat pre-run is always a chore to cram down. Just trying to avoid an empty sloshy stomach and lack of energy. Lately, I've been experimenting with half peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, with good results. A whole piece of bread, a smear of peanut butter, a generous spoonful of jelly...it seems to be a good blend of carbs and protein and thus sticks with me a little longer than the pop tarts. I hope it's not just novelty, but so far these sandwiches are working, and I actually like 'em.

I used to hate peanut butter. Funny, I used to hate running too.

Back to the hills. Big ones. Lots of them. One after another after another.

The chant comes from Tom. I first heard him utter it sometime last year, on some riduculously steep street somewhere over in the Heights or Cammack Village. A bunch of us had succumbed to walking up it, and here comes Tom from behind us, cheerfully sauntering up the incline, looking around innocently. "What hills? I don't see a hill. This is not a hill." We argued with him, he argued back. Before we knew it, we were at the top.

I was a lot less fit last year. I'd been running flats during the week, almost always out at Murray Park, so the weekend routes' rolling hills (in Maumelle, Hillcrest, Cammack) kicked my butt every time. Right then I decided to start training on hills and get strong enough to take them on. Weekdays saw me running the Kavanaugh loop route from work, rather than Murray's flat out-and-backs. Weekends, I walked less and less hills.

As annoyed as I was with Tom's stupid mantra, I tried it. His theory is that if you spend a whole hill telling yourself "This is not a hill," you'll be over it in no time. Roughly a year later, I can report that it works. Basically, it's a strategy for distraction; it keeps your mind off the burning lactic acid buildup in your legs and the rapidly increasing demand for oxygen your lungs are screaming for. I know it sounds dumb. I know. But I'm stronger now.

It's not a coincidence that our training team shirts say "What hills?" It's part smartass, sure, but it's part strategy, too.

The Oucho Gaucho course is not designed to let you down easy. The whole thing builds up to the giant, neverending, multiple-mile hill that is Taylor Loop/Rahling Road. It goes up, up, up, up, up. Most people just walked it. I started counting light poles and making little deals with myself, like "Ok, if you run past four poles you can walk to the next one." Repeat.

Finally, finally, I crested the top and sped downhill to the parking lot, which was now in view. 2:16. According to a bunch of people's Garmins, the course was short. Most said it was 13.5. I'd figured as much; there was no way I'd done 14 in 2:16 with that many hills. I didn't care. It was a grueling run and I'd done it in roughly 10: pace, with no stupid acorn injuries, no slipping on ice (some idiots had their sprinkler system on and the sidewalk and road were frozen), not too much whining, and no crying. (Yes, there has been crying before...I need to write about that.)

People's heads were steaming as we stretched. My head, hat, and faceBuff had ice crusted on them. Frozen sweat. Ahh, I love running in winter.

It's Cold Outside (I Really Can't Stay)

There's one window in my office. Strike that. There are NO windows in my office.

There's one window in my office area. When I'm in town and in the building all day, I can only get a glimpse outside during trips out of my little den--to pick up jobs from the network printer, visit others, get water, etc. I savor these little reconnaissance missions. I'm generally an after-work runner, and although I love my job, I value my personal time, too, and look forward all day to that run time. Run time is think time, prayer time, quiet time, unwind time. So, each peek out that window throughout the day is a little teaser of what's coming.

One day last week I noticed it had gone from being bright and sunny to overcast. No rain was falling quite yet, but it was foggy drizzly dark. A major cold front had been predicted, and here it was. I heard others talking about getting home and staying put. Plans were made to put on chili, watch movies, whatever, as long as it was indoors.

"Looks like great running weather," was the first thought through my mind. I could hardly wait to go.

I am not right.

Life in the Fast Lane

"Fast" is such a relative, subjective term.

It was the Saturday I was leaving for New Mexico. My alarm went off at 5:10. As usual it was confusing as hell and took me a few seconds to figure out who what when where why.

Oh yeah...Mind slowly comes into focus...Saturday. Run day. Mouth says damn and yay at nearly the same time. Brain and heart are excited. Body, nonetheless, remains poorly skilled at waking up.

I tenderly set my feet on the floor, hoping for a favorable report from the sore ankle. Acceptable. After two days off, I was giddy to go run, especially with the team. This would have been a hard week to miss; we were meeting at the River Market downtown and that's one of my favorites. It's easy to get to (as opposed to Two Rivers or Maumelle or Cook's Landing which are the furthest places from home that we meet), and the routes from downtown are usually fun.

Tom had promised hills since the last two weeks were more or less flat. He was good on his word. Ten miles: Right on President Clinton Avenue, across the bridge to NLR, the usual Karrot loop, back up over the bridge to LR. Wow, we crossed back over just has the sun hit the Arkansas River. Sun and sky were bright hot pink. This is the third or fourth time I've been fortunate to see a scene like this while we're out and I doubt I'll ever get tired of it. This is one of the big payoffs for doing the dragass out of bed.

Back in LR the route continued west on one of the number streets, 3rd I guess, down Markham, up Kavanaugh to Ash (Cuff's Cleaners is the landmark), turnaround and back down to the River Market. Great route. Hilly. Busy. It was really 10.1 or 10.3, depending on whose Garmin GPS I believe. 1:40. All the way, I KNEW it felt fast.

This season I'm trying to stick with Tom, Chris, and their buddies who are just enough faster than me to make me work outside my comfort zone. Left alone, I'll usually do 10:45-ish to 11-ish min/miles. Also, on my own, I've noticed a fast-slow pattern heavily dependent on Gu intake. Start strong, gradually slow down as energy wanes, eat a Gu, notice about fifteen minutes later that I've been going strong for a while, then it all starts over. When I chase Tom or Chris though, we usually run right on 10:'s or slightly under.

I like not having to do the mental work of pacing. Just run. This doesn't mean my mind is clear. If the run is hard, I think about it being hard. I have to focus on keeping up and constantly make the decision to keep keeping up. I do a lot of arguing with myself about whether or not to drop back. But still, this harder running is easier than self-pacing because there is no requirement to make myself speed up even when I don't want to. Just keep up.

So that day, Chris and another girl took off, right from the start. Tom and I talked smack with them about slowing down, because we both like to take the first mile out pretty slow, maybe 11:-ish, as a nice warm up to ease down into the 10: groove. However, they ignored us and we tagged along like puppies anyway. It hurt. I felt stiff and creaky until somewhere around mile 5, when finally I settled into the pace. Later as we cruised down Markham in the last mile, we picked it up even more. I was sucking wind and thankful for Tom's routine of calling out all traffic warnings and intersection reports. I wasn't focusing too well, on anything but keeping up.

We finished, stretched, chatted...the usual. I didn't stay long because I had to get home, clean up, and hit the highway. I didn't think a lot more about the run, except that I was glad I'd gotten up to do it.

Later, just a few minutes before I was due to leave, my phone rang. Tom. He'd downloaded the splits from his watch and couldn't wait to give me the report. I don't remember the details, but I recall that the first mile was 9:45, and the remaining splits had a lot more 9:'s in his list than 10:'s or 11:'s. I heard a couple 9:30's in there, several 9:40's, and a 9:50. I shouted into the phone,"I FREAKIN' KNEW IT FELT FAST! WHAT DID I TELL YOU?" Tom laughed. He added that we even recorded "only" 12:something during the mile when we stopped to help a guy who'd fallen and was injured. (It was a non-life threatening but serious shoulder injury; turned out his buddy was already on the way back to his car and would take him to the hospital, so we waited till he got there, saw them off, and resumed our run).

I rode that high all the way to New Mexico. Mile splits that start in 9: and 10: are speedy for someone like me, who's real used to 11:'s. Taking a minute off a mile may not sound like much to a non-runner, but believe me, it's no easy task, particularly for a slow-twitch runner with my build.

So, two days later I was sitting at a sports bar in NM, having lunch with some colleagues. One happens to be a fast marathoner. I happened to be sitting by him. ESPN happened to broadcast the NYC marathon results, in particular cyclist Lance Armstrong's sub-three hour finish in his first 26.2 footrace. My pal throws his arms in the air and yells, "I beat him! My PR beats Lance!"

I just looked at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Wow," I said. "My first marathon was a 5:05, and I worked my ass off to get down to 4:37 PR (personal record) on my second outing."

I thought he'd respond with something encouraging. Instead, he snickered. "4:37?...what is that, like, 10:30 or 11:-minute miles?"

Uh, yeah. And I was damn proud of that nearly 1/2-hour reduction in time. And I'm going be damn proud again if I ever take any more time off that total. So I'll never be a 6-minute miler. Or 7. Or 8. But maybe a new PR will come this year, if I can keep on up with these niners.

I'm only ever in a race with myself. Fast as fast can be, can't catch me.