The phrase itself - "the long run" - is uttered daily by thousands, nay, TRILLIONS of human beings inhabiting our fair Earth and a small quark on the outer reaches of the Milky Way Galaxy (please note: Most things typed in this blog are pulled from the galaxy known as "My Ass").
(Guy with Powerpoint presentation): "So you see, that if the spending trend continues over the long run, by April, most of our users will turn away and effectively..."
zzzzzzzzzz.
"The long run" is the barometer with which we gauge something's sustainability. As a distance runner, sure, I can comply. But the concept that in "the long run", something can be tested and then categorically listed as "failure", well, that doesn't hold very much water. Unless water is selling, in which case, SELL SELL SELL!
Take my long run of 20 miles yesterday:
By mile 8 out on the trails, I was feeling horrid and certain that this was going to be a painful experience. And in the moment, sure it was. But by mile 12, I was back in gear and feeling like a million, muddy bucks. Why? I will now reveal to you my new favorite song on my iPod playlist:
Clicky
Hate me yet?
This plucked me out of the doldrums and suddenly, I was transformed. No, not into a young Alberto Salazar, but a 14 year old in the year nineteen hundred and eighty four, when parachute pants disgraced the face of fashion and the Chicago Cubs clinched the division for the first time since the year 1258.
I cannot properly map out the ups and downs experienced during a long run...yet, here I am, attempting to do just that. Patience and hope (and if you're sick of the word "hope", which I hope you are not, replace it with "bravery") help to expose all that can be experienced in "the long run", in just about every arena in life. If, at mile 35 you think all is lost, keep pressing forward and see how mile 36 feels...and 37...and so forth.
I guess I'm writing this with much on my mind. It's probably more therapeutic for my brain and self than anything else in these uncertain days. I have to trust that in the long run, the bad and scary patches will ebb and flow, just as in happier days.
Okay, NOW you have to admit that you hate me, even just a little bit.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
My runs this week were as follows:
Tuesday: 8 miles at 8:51/mile pace
Wednesday: 4 miles at 8:39/mile pace
Thursday: 8 miles at 8:51/mile pace
These paces are all assuming a flat, road run, which none were. So my splits on the 8 milers were somewhere in the 9:20 range. As for the 4 miler...uhhh...
See, it started out mellow enough: I arrived at the trail with plans to run an out and back of 4 miles. Then, she came whizzing past me as I locked my car. She being a 40 something woman in amazing shape, cruising by and uphill at a pace I assumed was somewhere in the neighborhood of my proposed pace.
So I gave chase. And then realized that she was somewhere in sub 8 minute miles. Naturally, I slowed and backed off, reminding myself that my pace was to be about 1 minute/mile slower than muscley, fit woman's trotting pace.
KIDDING I PASSED HER AND KEPT UP THE PACE FOR ANOTHER 3 MILES AND RAN 7:18/MILES
It's this competitive side of myself I'm nurturing. In a previous entry, I talked about how even in kindergarten I was non-competitive. It's time for this to change.
In the sport of ultra running, I've gotten quite used to the fact that yes, while I'm fast in big distances, I'll likely never finish in the top 10% of the pack, so I've grown content at hanging somewhere in the top 25% of finishers and having fun in the outdoors with the other crazies. But somewhere within those confines, I have to remind myself that it's totally acceptable to "compete" against others. It doesn't take away from the other elements of the sport that I enjoy. It adds to them.
Tuesday: 8 miles at 8:51/mile pace
Wednesday: 4 miles at 8:39/mile pace
Thursday: 8 miles at 8:51/mile pace
These paces are all assuming a flat, road run, which none were. So my splits on the 8 milers were somewhere in the 9:20 range. As for the 4 miler...uhhh...
See, it started out mellow enough: I arrived at the trail with plans to run an out and back of 4 miles. Then, she came whizzing past me as I locked my car. She being a 40 something woman in amazing shape, cruising by and uphill at a pace I assumed was somewhere in the neighborhood of my proposed pace.
So I gave chase. And then realized that she was somewhere in sub 8 minute miles. Naturally, I slowed and backed off, reminding myself that my pace was to be about 1 minute/mile slower than muscley, fit woman's trotting pace.
KIDDING I PASSED HER AND KEPT UP THE PACE FOR ANOTHER 3 MILES AND RAN 7:18/MILES
It's this competitive side of myself I'm nurturing. In a previous entry, I talked about how even in kindergarten I was non-competitive. It's time for this to change.
In the sport of ultra running, I've gotten quite used to the fact that yes, while I'm fast in big distances, I'll likely never finish in the top 10% of the pack, so I've grown content at hanging somewhere in the top 25% of finishers and having fun in the outdoors with the other crazies. But somewhere within those confines, I have to remind myself that it's totally acceptable to "compete" against others. It doesn't take away from the other elements of the sport that I enjoy. It adds to them.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
As you may know, or not, but will be finding out....nnnnnnnnnnnow!, I received my running coach certification last autumn, which I've done very little with, but I *have* altered my own training, so I figure that's my money's worth right there.
And as you may know, or again, not know, but will after a few more splashes of verbs, nouns, and more commas than your eyes care to deal with, I'm also registered to run Hundred in the Hood this September. This is my second 100 mile run endeavor and - for reasons unbeknownst to me - I want to train properly for it.
Go figure.
I really enjoyed the wisdom and humor possessed by the teacher of my running coach certification course, so in a sweeping act of irony, I went to the very website where I myself am pronounced as a certified running coach, grabbed his email address, and sent off to see what he could do for me.
He's building me a training program that I believe, in my heart of hearts, is going to kick my ass like the guy who rearranged Leroy's face in Croce's chart-topping "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown". Having never run on anyone's schedule but my own (waking up, hungover, delaying the long run until the following day, etc), this has lit a bonfire beneath my ass. The last two runs he scheduled for me I ran to the nearest 1/1,000th of an inch. I clocked and logged my times on the interactive site. I've written down trail conditions and how my body felt while out there. In other words: I STARTED PAYING ATTENTION.
Right now, my weekly running totals hover between 40 and 45 miles. When training for San Diego 100, my mileage topped off around 63 miles in a week. My coach has revealed his plans to get me up around (are you sitting down? Relaxed? Take a deep breath...now exhale...goooooood....goooooooooooood. Woop, I digress...) 80 to 85 miles per week.
Ulp.
I have complete faith in his knowledge (having run probably dozens of 100 milers himself, and placing in the top 10 usually) and in my capabilities to train at this level. Who knows? I might surprise myself out there.
And so it begins: My obsessive blogging about training for another 100.
And as you may know, or again, not know, but will after a few more splashes of verbs, nouns, and more commas than your eyes care to deal with, I'm also registered to run Hundred in the Hood this September. This is my second 100 mile run endeavor and - for reasons unbeknownst to me - I want to train properly for it.
Go figure.
I really enjoyed the wisdom and humor possessed by the teacher of my running coach certification course, so in a sweeping act of irony, I went to the very website where I myself am pronounced as a certified running coach, grabbed his email address, and sent off to see what he could do for me.
He's building me a training program that I believe, in my heart of hearts, is going to kick my ass like the guy who rearranged Leroy's face in Croce's chart-topping "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown". Having never run on anyone's schedule but my own (waking up, hungover, delaying the long run until the following day, etc), this has lit a bonfire beneath my ass. The last two runs he scheduled for me I ran to the nearest 1/1,000th of an inch. I clocked and logged my times on the interactive site. I've written down trail conditions and how my body felt while out there. In other words: I STARTED PAYING ATTENTION.
Right now, my weekly running totals hover between 40 and 45 miles. When training for San Diego 100, my mileage topped off around 63 miles in a week. My coach has revealed his plans to get me up around (are you sitting down? Relaxed? Take a deep breath...now exhale...goooooood....goooooooooooood. Woop, I digress...) 80 to 85 miles per week.
Ulp.
I have complete faith in his knowledge (having run probably dozens of 100 milers himself, and placing in the top 10 usually) and in my capabilities to train at this level. Who knows? I might surprise myself out there.
And so it begins: My obsessive blogging about training for another 100.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Flushed and Itchy
No, this is not the name of my sophomore album release, the one poised to follow "Flaccid Banana". It's a reality I'm facing:
Certain India Pale Ales cause me to break out.
I've found I'm not alone, as a regular customer at County Cork also experiences this emotionally traumatic reaction. Thing is: I love the very IPAs that cause my face to blow into a reddish hue and send creepy-crawlies to tingle my skin. The exact same ones:
Pliny the Elder,Broken Halo, and my beloved Tricerahops.
Perhaps part of love is knowing when to say goodbye.
Certain India Pale Ales cause me to break out.
I've found I'm not alone, as a regular customer at County Cork also experiences this emotionally traumatic reaction. Thing is: I love the very IPAs that cause my face to blow into a reddish hue and send creepy-crawlies to tingle my skin. The exact same ones:
Pliny the Elder,Broken Halo, and my beloved Tricerahops.
Perhaps part of love is knowing when to say goodbye.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Leftovers.
Ugh.
I tend to leave these plastic containers, Saran-wrapped, and/or tin-foiled-and-shaped-like-a-swan clumps of "I don't want to eat this anymore" to ferment in the rear of the refrigerator until poor Annie is forced to go in wearing Hazmat gear to coerce them out. And I may have discovered why...
Growing up in Chicago - where barbequing is referred to as "cookin' out" - my mother would try to squeeze summer's final bits of sunshine for all she could. So, religiously, every year, on one of the final pleasant summery/autumn days, she'd drag out the Weber grill, fire up some coals, plunk the industrial-sized box of frozen hamburger patties (or, as we say in Chicago, "'amburger paddeez") on the picnic table and begin the afternoon long process of "cookin' out".
Her reasoning - God love her - was that in the dead, frozen solace of a Midwestern winter, myself, my sister, and she would be ecstatic to have a little taste of summer thrown our ways (the "clunk" of a froze patty hitting a plate seconds before a microwave oven's whirring begins to this day haunts me. I can't even watch a hockey puck being dropped on the ice). What you instead win up with is a charcoal flavored rubber disk covered in ketchup and cheese with a side of chips.
Ahhhhh: SUMMER!
I appreciate the effort, I honestly do. It's actually a brilliant plan, if you don't consider the taste of the food you'll be consuming. I'm trying very hard to break this pattern, but it's a conscious as hell effort. Now I know how heroin addicts must feel...minus the withdrawal symptoms, alienation from friends and family, and track marks.
Ugh.
I tend to leave these plastic containers, Saran-wrapped, and/or tin-foiled-and-shaped-like-a-swan clumps of "I don't want to eat this anymore" to ferment in the rear of the refrigerator until poor Annie is forced to go in wearing Hazmat gear to coerce them out. And I may have discovered why...
Growing up in Chicago - where barbequing is referred to as "cookin' out" - my mother would try to squeeze summer's final bits of sunshine for all she could. So, religiously, every year, on one of the final pleasant summery/autumn days, she'd drag out the Weber grill, fire up some coals, plunk the industrial-sized box of frozen hamburger patties (or, as we say in Chicago, "'amburger paddeez") on the picnic table and begin the afternoon long process of "cookin' out".
Her reasoning - God love her - was that in the dead, frozen solace of a Midwestern winter, myself, my sister, and she would be ecstatic to have a little taste of summer thrown our ways (the "clunk" of a froze patty hitting a plate seconds before a microwave oven's whirring begins to this day haunts me. I can't even watch a hockey puck being dropped on the ice). What you instead win up with is a charcoal flavored rubber disk covered in ketchup and cheese with a side of chips.
Ahhhhh: SUMMER!
I appreciate the effort, I honestly do. It's actually a brilliant plan, if you don't consider the taste of the food you'll be consuming. I'm trying very hard to break this pattern, but it's a conscious as hell effort. Now I know how heroin addicts must feel...minus the withdrawal symptoms, alienation from friends and family, and track marks.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Yesterday morning, I volunteered to help with trail maintenance at Forest Park, my absolute favorite place to run here in Portland. I lent a hand for a variety of reasons, spanning from (have I mentioned that) I HAVE NO FULLTIME JOB, to wanting to give back to the park, to the fact that - for Hundred in The Hood - I have to put in 8 hours of trail work. I love this about ultra running. Many 100 mile races require at least a handful of hours helping to repair the trails we pound on day after day, mile upon mile.
The group was small and energetic, and, as I fell into a Zenlike state clipping, clipping, clipping, I realized I would walk away from that day with a sense of accomplishment I'd yet felt in, uh, years or so? Yeah, I suppose the day-in-day-out TV work was more a less a fantastic way to pay bills. Don't get me wrong: I met some of the most amazing people whom I consider my dearest friends and will for my entire life, and some of the experiences boggle my mind still, but that deep, down satisfaction of helping and healing yesterday really resonated. Particularly working on something so dear to my heart. Television isn't something I'd say I have ever held dear to my heart. Unless I wanted to hug an appliance and the fridge was busy.
The group was small and energetic, and, as I fell into a Zenlike state clipping, clipping, clipping, I realized I would walk away from that day with a sense of accomplishment I'd yet felt in, uh, years or so? Yeah, I suppose the day-in-day-out TV work was more a less a fantastic way to pay bills. Don't get me wrong: I met some of the most amazing people whom I consider my dearest friends and will for my entire life, and some of the experiences boggle my mind still, but that deep, down satisfaction of helping and healing yesterday really resonated. Particularly working on something so dear to my heart. Television isn't something I'd say I have ever held dear to my heart. Unless I wanted to hug an appliance and the fridge was busy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)