1 Runner, 3 Teams, 6 Words

A found this great website, 6 Word Stories.  Inspired, here are a few based on my experience organizing and running on two long-distance relay teams. 

She wrote emails no one read.

Runners seem Type A, but no.

Silence means the news is bad.

‘Twas death that left us stranded.

His jokes made no one laugh.

She expected her coffee paid for.

Thirty open bottles, each nearly full.

Hair and make-up before you sweat.

Everyone was nice.  Nicer than me.

A and I are co-captaining a third team in July, this time for a trail relay in Tahoe.  Even though we’ve been through it before, organizing our motley crew hasn't gotten any easier.

No repeat performance for the diva.

He promised, yet she knew better.

Sometimes better the devil you don’t.

Sexagenarians

This month my beloved little guys turned twelve years old, as we humans measure such things.  In honor of that milestone, I’m sharing a picture of when they were still tiny enough to both sit atop my size six-and-a-half shoe.  I can’t believe I’ve been a runner for over sixty-four cat years.  It really hasn’t felt that long.

A Good Read for Your Post-Run Muscle Soak

As someone who obsessively checks out other people’s race results, and as an appreciator of in-depth articles about twisted individuals, I’m sharing this interesting story from yesteryear:

MARATHON MAN

A Michigan dentist’s improbable transformation.

And since The New Yorker really does the best long form journalism out there, I’m also linking to this fascinating article even though it has nothing to do with running because the story is just so damn good.  You’re welcome!

SpeedometerMan

Some people just know shit.  Like I knew when our neighbor huffily moved out from the apartment she shared with the co-subject of her self-published erotica memoir, something told me that that wasn’t the end of this tempestuous twosome.

A has an amazing ability to inherently know what pace we are running at any given moment.  He is somehow hardwired to be able to correctly gauge our speed.  Often I’ll ask him how fast he thinks we are going, and he’s inevitably within a five second margin of the pace calculated by our running watch.  It’s incredible, especially since I usually have no idea whatsoever.  There are runs where I feel like we are flying, and they’ll clock in at ten seconds slower than average.  Then there are runs where I’m struggling the whole way, and those are typically our fastest to date.

I can’t even tell how fast other runners are going.  There are people who look like they are running at a fast clip, and we’ll easily blow by them.  Conversely there’s the sap plodding along who we can seemingly never catch up to, which is beyond irritating.

Being able to intuit one’s own speed really won’t make you a better runner in this day and age of fancy tech watches and pace-monitoring smart phone apps, but I still think it’s a pretty cool superpower to have.  It’s certainly more useful than being able to correctly predict the outcome of one’s neighbors’ romantic entanglements.  (And yes, lo and behold, not but one month later did he join her in her new apartment.  Last I heard they have resumed their implausible dom/dom romance and I’m sure a follow-up memoir is in the offing.)

It's a Miracle

It wasn’t on 34^th Street, we’re not on the 1980 US Olympic Hockey team, and we didn’t teach Helen Keller the meaning of water, but make no mistake, yesterday was a milestone.  A and I finally went on a trail run in foreign territory and managed to stay on route the whole way.  I couldn’t believe it.  A prouder moment have I had not, save when I made a coffee gateau that actually resembled and tasted like an edible, if not delicious, dessert.

In truth, the run wasn’t technically on foreign soil.  In fact, the only thing foreign about Ojai is its pronunciation.  It’s only ninety minutes north of us, although an unwelcome freeway detour added an agonizing forty.  Even at seven thirty on a Saturday morning, Southern California traffic will always find a way to make you question your sanity.

Despite the holdup, we were still able to start our run early enough before the sun got too high, and many parts of the trail were nice and shady.  There was a ranch at the trailhead and we encountered a few people horseback-riding.  We also encountered the detritus that accompanies said activity in various degrees of decompose all along the trail.  I tried to stay fairly light-footed, but considering the path was rockier than the Philadelphia Museum of Art, sometimes stomping squarely into a pile of horseshit was the best or only option.  At first I was disgusted, but then I began to embrace it.  I am a trail runner.  Shit happens.

I can’t take much credit for not getting lost.  The trail system was so well marked that every crossroads was labeled clearly with names and arrows.  Just to be safe and because I am paranoid, we did ask a few hikers if we were headed in the right direction.  They told us that it would be impossible to get lost.  We’ve heard that before, but fortunately yesterday it was true.  I’m hopeful this is the beginning of a welcome trend, but I still have my doubts.  As I’ve read elsewhere: once is a fluke, twice is a coincidence, third time’s a habit.

Never thought trail running would be habit-forming, but I am already planning our next one.

Paradise Lost

I am continually amazed by my and A’s confounding ability to become completely lost while trail running.  I don’t know that we’ve successfully navigated a trail yet without losing our way in one capacity or another.  It can be scary at best, annoying at worst, and confusing at always because I usually have a decent enough sense of direction when I’m running anywhere else.   Even in foreign cities that don’t have good enough manners to print their street signs with English subtitles, I get around just fine.

I’d like to posit our inability to stay the course is because we are running so lightning fast that we fly right off the trail, but I understand that for a lie to be believable, it needs to be in the realm of what’s possible.

Our last trail run was in the smallest canyon known to man, and when I say “man”, I really just mean me, a person who knows pretty much nothing about canyons other than there’s a grand one somewhere in Arizona.  We quickly found ourselves off of any beaten path, hatching our way through a thicket of what we later learned was (and A still continues to be reminded is) poison oak.  In the distance we spied an interesting-looking structure on a bluff that portended civilization, possibly a trailhead or ranger station.  Instead it turned out to be a gazebo in some wealthy person’s backyard.   Fortunately from our elevated vantage point we could spy the road we drove in on and were able to make our way back down without further trespassing.

Even though I hate being lost, A is a veritable Chet Baker.  And while one would think this dichotomy would create conflict – and make no mistake, there have been a few exchanges best left forgotten – for the most part it’s surprisingly calming to be with someone who is perfectly comfortable, in fact excited by, not knowing where he is.  His enthusiasm tamps down my anxiety, while my apprehension hopefully keeps him from wandering past a point of no return.  Ultimately I’ve found that if one is to get lost, at least it’s better to do it with someone who is contractually obligated to not part until death, even if you end up screaming at him repeatedly, “Where the fuck are we?”

A Race for Mt. Baldy

I have been scouring the wide web of the world to find an article I read almost a year ago about the rise in popularity of Orienteering.  These are races held in a secret location where runners use maps, compasses, and periodic clues to navigate their way to the finish line.  Sadly I could not find the original article (‘twould help if I could remember the name of the publication) but I did learn that this type of competition also goes by the dubious moniker of ROGAINE-ing.

According to Wikipedia, the word is derived from the names of three of the founders from the Australian Melbourne Mountaineering Club: Rod Phillips, Gail Davis, and Neil Phillips (RoGaiNe).  However, according to other random blog sites, it’s an acronym for Rugged Outdoor Group Activity Involving Navigation and Endurance.  Considering the reliability of the sources, I’m going to assume that both and neither are true because the internet is a magical place where all realities coexist, details don’t need to be fact-checked before publication, and usually no one from the passive masses will call a blogger out on her bullshit (thank god).  Whatever the case, I adore the unintentional poetry of naming an adventure race targeting the most virile and foolhardy among us after a medicated cream prescribed for hair loss.

I am hereby making a push for a new adventure race involving performance-enhanced competitors being chased by robots until they get to the finish line, like a hyper-aggressive game of tag.  I think it should be called Vein Injecting Athletes Getting Run Around.

Little Bunny Foo Foo

One nice thing about our increased trail running is that I see a lot more wild rabbits than I used to.  Specifically, I see their cute little white cottontails darting away from me as I tromp my way through their habitat.  (Sidebar: evidently I’m not alone in my appreciation for the bunny butt.)

I once drove to a weekend wedding extravaganza in a remote part of New Hampshire.  The two-lane highway had periodic Moose Crossing warnings, but nary a moose did I see.  A couple who arrived after dark in the pouring rain had a near run in with a moose on the highway.  When I expressed envy over their moose sighting, they responded, “Everyone’s so jealous!  Trust us…you do NOT want to see a moose.  Aside from being enormous, it held up traffic which is why we are so late.”  Of course I believed it was nerve-wracking, but I still secretly wished the moose chose me instead of those tardy ingrates who didn’t budget enough travel time to make it before the rehearsal dinner.

This summer we are doing a trail race in Tahoe.  I am told there is the possibility of bear and wildcat encounters.  I am both thrilled and terrified at the prospect.  I’ve been reading up as to what to do when you encounter different type of animals (mountain lion: stay calm, back away slowly; black bear: scream and yell; wolf: climb up a tree, assuming corporate America hasn't cut them all down).  I have tried to catalogue this information in my gray matter, but whilst one can intellectually know something, it does not mean one will instinctually do it.

In all honesty, I’m sure my only encounter in Tahoe will be with yet another shy woodland rabbit.  Assuming he doesn’t lead me to a hookah-smoking caterpillar, I think I’ll be okay.  Not to mention, I have already mastered what one should do when encountered with a rabbit on the trail: point, tug on your husband’s sleeve, and squeal, “Bunny, it’s a bunny!”

The Dangers of Two Wheels

This past weekend we went on a trail run in a small canyon not too far from where we live.  It was so small that whatever trail we found ourselves on seemed to inevitably lead to the same junction.  We ended up passing this crossroads at least four times.  Some might argue that this indicates we were running in circles and perhaps this says more about our sense of direction than the size of the canyon, but those people are haters whose mothers didn’t pack their school lunches and slip in encouraging notes telling them they are special and have an awesome day (mine didn’t either).

Every time we came upon this intersection, we saw two men wearing bike helmets sitting on some rocks on the side of the trail.  On the first pass, I assumed they were resting.  On the second, we saw the scraped knees on the larger of the two.  On the third, we realized his injuries went beyond the nasty road rash and lacerations on his limbs and back.  On the final encounter, we returned in our car to give them the ice pack in our cooler.  We felt like beatified samaritans who Pay It Forward, however we've been the recipient of so much goodwill as of late, we're technically  Paying It Forward Negative Ten, so really it barely chips away at our cosmic debt.  Not to mention the ice pack did little in the way of comfort since judging by the way the injured rider was cradling to one side, A and I speculated he was dealing with a broken bone or two.

Bike riding is dangerous business.  I love riding my bike, but hazards are everywhere.  Just the day before our canyon run, we were talking to a friend who was knocked off his bike when he collided with a clueless pedestrian.  He told us he broke his collarbone and it was set incorrectly so now you can see the bone protruding from underneath his shirt.  The silent scream in my head made me unable to hear the rest of the conversation, but I certainly got the point.

We have another friend who was also permanently disfigured with the exact same injury when he got doored in the bike lane.  We met yet another man who biked across the United States on an officially designated cross-country bicycle route, and despite this heady distinction, he was still hit by a car on three separate occasions.

I myself broke my elbow falling off my bike a long time ago, and I know how terrifying riding in city traffic can be.  The dedicated riders we know get up before the sun rises and drive their bikes out of the city because it's so dangerous.  I love the idea of joining them, but in reality I can just knock out a run from my front door and be back an hour later without worrying about breaking any limbs or clavicles.  Maybe I should stick to the running and leave the biking to the gym.

Tank Girl

I felt better on last night’s run than I have in a long while.  I’ve been FIDO-ing through a malaise as of late, and prior to yesterday evening, I can’t remember the last time I felt good during or even after a run.

It’s hard to pinpoint the alchemy of this welcome turnaround.  It might be in small part because I departed from my standard running uniform.  There was a little cloud coverage on our late evening outing so instead of my usual cotton tee, I exposed my tan lines and wore a tank top instead.  I also went sans visor and let my hair down while a light breeze blew.  I felt like Fabio during better days.

Sadly, A wasn’t similarly affected.  Even though we did the exact same run, it was still a bit of a slog for him.  Evidently ennui is contagious but inspiration is not.  I would suggest he let his hair down, but sadly his hair has already let him down long ago.  I might, however, have a spare tank top he can borrow.

A Weird Conversation That Made Me Sad

I’m no fan of locker room conversation, but sometimes when it’s particularly crowded, people are particularly chatty, and I’m particularly naked, a little light banter can take the awkwardness out of an inherently undignified situation.  And then sometimes it can’t.

Although the sign advertises a room capacity of fourteen, the three of us were tripping all over ourselves thanks to the four duffel bags splayed across the floor spilling out what must have been the entire contents of one woman’s vanity.  Ignoring the obvious cause, instead we made conversation about how ridiculously small the locker room was.

Then out of nowhere, apropos of absolutely nothing, the woman who was responsible for the cosmetic sprawl on the floor turned to the two of us and asked, “Am I fat?”

It seems innocuous enough in print, but it was shocking because 1) it’s such an uncomfortably personal question to ask of complete strangers and 2) she was not remotely overweight in the slightest.  I was more pokerfaced than the other woman, but I identified immediately with her look of horror and sadness at even being asked the question, especially by someone who was older than both of us and should ideally have outgrown such crippling insecurity.

We both told her that she was not fat at all, and she wailed, “But my thighs are so huge!”  She was almost in tears.

The other woman motioned toward me and asked her, “Well do you think she’s fat?”

And I’m embarrassed to say that I had a moment of panic.  As I stood there in my bra and panties, I did not want to be a casualty of this woman’s body dysmorphia.

After a pause she said, “No.”  Sadly, a ridiculous wave of relief washed over me, from my head down to my thighs.

“Well, see, your body looks exactly like hers so obviously if she’s not fat, then you’re not fat.”

Then the older woman asked me how tall I was and how much I weighed.  And I’m ashamed to say I LIED.  I gave my true height and said I was four pounds lighter than I am.

“That’s what I weigh,” she replied.  I was disturbed that I did not weigh less than her, and then I was disturbed that I was disturbed.

The other woman in the room zipped up her bag and said kindly, “I think you’re both perfect the way you are.  I think we’re all perfect.”  And with that, she excused herself.

The older woman asked how old I was.  I didn’t see fit to lie this time and told her I was thirty-five.  She responded very nicely saying I looked much younger.  She told me she was fifty-three.  I responded very nicely saying that she looked much younger.

We were probably both lying to each other.   We might even be lying to ourselves.  But still, sometimes it’s nice to hear.