Short, Little Legs…Big Fathead

When A and I are running, occasionally we’ll encounter other runners headed in the same direction.  At the risk of sounding immodest, we often end up passing them, especially if we’re on a low-mileage outing and are really pushing the pace.

A and I went on a short run last night.  We saw a guy running on the sidewalk ahead of us, so we cut into the street and hopped back onto the curb once we overtook him.  I thought nothing of it until about a half mile later when I felt a presence hovering behind us.

Not recognizing him as the guy we ran by earlier, A dropped behind me in single file to give him room to pass on the narrow sidewalk.  Instead he said, “This is the pace I should be running, if you don’t mind,” and then fell into step with us.  He asked A how fast we were running and after checking our watch, A told him our average speed.

He said, “Yeah, when I saw you guys pass me, I thought I better pick it up a bit!”

I immediately thought, Um, why?  Because we look like such losers, how could we possibly be better than him?

Then he implied he normally ran faster but he had just come from a five hour bike ride.  A misheard him and asked, “Why were you biking five miles?”

And he said, “Five hours, dude!” and never answered the question.  He then said, “My body is also probably tired from running Central Park all weekend.”  To which we replied, what a coincidence, we ran Central Park last weekend, too!

The pavement was only the width of two people, so he and A were side-by-side and I was slightly ahead.  Eventually the conversation veered back to how fast we were running and he said to A, “She does pretty well, even with those short, little legs.”

That’s when it dawned on me why he caught up to us: he was upset he got passed by a girl.  I almost turned around and snapped at him that my short, little legs are better for running than his big, fat ones, but he turned off onto a side street before I could spit it out.

In running vernacular, being passed by a girl is called getting “chicked”.  I’ve chicked a few guys in my day, but I can’t remember the last time we were passed by anyone, male or female, while on a training run.  It’s a nice motivation to keep up the pace; I don’t want to be “cocked” anytime soon.

Some Kind Of Run-derful

A and I ran Central Park last Friday.  I don’t know if it was the brisk autumn weather or if the bleachers set up for next weekend’s marathon inspired me, but I logged my fastest time ever on the outer loop.  I shaved almost ten minutes off of my average time.  Granted that average was taken over ten years ago when I lived in New York City, but even so, we flew.

A said it felt long to him, but to me and it felt like the shortest six miles I’ve ever run.  Every turn, straightaway, and rolling hill was familiar, and I marked the distance by all the famous landmarks along the way.  The carousel, the boathouse, the Met and Cleopatra’s Needle, the Reservoir, the baseball fields, the swimming pool, the Delacorte Theater, Sheep Meadow…all these great places that never change.  It felt like we were running with an old friend.

Even though I could have strolled down memory lane forever, I was even more excited that I ran so quickly.  Now if only we could do it that speed three more times I would be all set….

A Capital Good Time

A and I just returned from a fantastic trip back east.  Sunday morning found us on the National Mall in Washington DC, cheering on the runners at the Marine Corp Marathon.

Considering it’s a political town, the spectator signs were particularly amusing.  My two favorites were “You’re running better than our government!” and “Faster!  The NSA is tracking your time”.

We did this race nine years ago and I could not have asked for a prettier course.  We ran through Rock Creek Park, passed a ton of monuments, and finished at the Iwo Jima Memorial in Arlington Cemetery.  I remember seeing our friends at the halfway mark near the Capitol.  Already exhausted, I promptly plopped myself onto the curb even though I had thirteen (point one) more miles to go.  I probably would have stayed there if A hadn’t yelled at me to get back up like a good soldier.

We’ve done many other races since, but never another marathon.  It would be really hard to top that one.  The route is amazing, the spirit of the crowd is infectious, and you’re in one of the best cities in the world.  Running the Marine Corp Marathon is just one of the many warm memories I have from DC and we’re pretty lucky we have such good friends there to keep us going back.

This One Goes to Eleven

A and I are toying with running a marathon but we haven’t pulled the trigger yet.  By that I mean we haven’t plunked down our money on the insanely exorbitant entry fee.   (Our last marathon was almost ten years ago.  When did the prices get so out of control?!)

We both agreed that it would only be worth committing to four months of training as long as we came in under a specific time goal.  Based on the half we ran last January we have a shot at it, but obviously there’s a big difference between a half and a whole – thirteen point one miles, to be exact.

We’ve been slowly increasing our mileage as the weeks progress.  This Saturday we ran eleven miles, and it was hard.  Our pace was slower than our half and barely under what we would need to run the full marathon at, and that doesn’t include when we paused the clock for water stops and traffic lights.  I found it very discouraging and made me wonder if I’m truly capable of reaching the goal we set for ourselves.

A is a lot more confident a runner than me.  His challenge is that, because we run together, he’ll probably have to mentally carry us both.  Even though registration opened three weeks ago, we still haven’t come to a firm decision.  I’ve informally decided that the first fee hike is a soft deadline for us to shit or get off the pot.  The Early Bird rate ends in ten days, and my bowels feel mighty empty.

Sock It To Me

Although you could never tell by looking, I am annoyingly particular about my workout wear.  True, I generally run in ratty cast-off t-shirts and pants that have faded from black to a mottled green, but don’t be fooled.  Every item in my workout wardrobe is prudently vetted for my specific needs, and no one garment collection is more carefully curated than the contents of my sock drawer.

It is very difficult for me to find socks that don’t piss me off.  I find that when I buy pairs specifically designed for running, they inevitably – and literally – fall short.  Workout socks tend to be ankle-length or lower, which I hate.  I have yet to find a pair that has enough elastic around the opening to prevent the whole sock from falling into my shoe the minute I start running.  I’ve even had socks slip so far down that they end up bunched underneath my arch.

I finally found a pair with a sturdy enough elastic band, but it is made of a thick material that causes my feet to get hot and my shoes to feel too tight the longer I run.

Considering these issues, I tend to run in regular old plebian socks.  In fact, the best running socks in my drawer were bought at a craft store for one dollar.  As you can imagine, one-dollar socks probably aren’t lovingly constructed from the highest quality materials.  I am constantly darning the holes where my toes poke through.  My cheap socks have more stitches than Frankenstein, but anything to make them last.

Meanwhile, A has no such sock problems.  While he has his favorites, he could go out with two different socks on each foot and not even notice.  On a lark, he bought this pair.

They don’t even fit properly but he has no problems running in them whatsoever.  With all that surplus fabric my feet would be Blister City, but the only complaint he has is the price.  Luckily, I know a good craft store he can go to.

Queen Salomon

One of the nicest features of our ill-fated trail race this summer was the presence of the trail running footwear company Salomon.  They offered a variety of styles for the runners to try out during the race.  I ended up wearing the pair I borrowed for three of my four legs.

They were great.  The bottom of the shoe had deep grooves that almost felt like cleats.  This added traction on the outsole really helped grip the road on the very technical trail, especially during the steep and sandy inclines.  And I ran over thirteen miles without a single blister.

Although I liked them a lot, I trail run so rarely that I thought to purchase a pair would be “spendy”, my term for when someone buys something just for the sake of buying.  So I left the race without them.

Well, slap some trail shoes on my feet and call me spendy because look what I got three weeks later!

I have had them for almost two months now and the number of times they’ve been worn can be counted on one hand.  But I justify my purchase by saying without them, the number of times I would have hit the trails probably would be zero.  So perhaps they are worth the price of admission.  (Although honestly the trails we go to aren’t highly technical and don’t require such sophisticated footwear – A runs in his minimal road running shoes with no problems a ‘tall.)

I know I am fooling myself into thinking by simply buying trail running shoes I will magically morph into a trail runner extraordinaire.  But I must say they look great in my closet, right next to that faux cheetah fur hoodie, electric blue “Rachel” wig, leather pants, and all those (probably fake) designer bags from eBay.

Talk It Out

I had an unfortunate misstep on our trail run last weekend.  I thought nothing of it, but after a four-miler a few days later, my ankle hurt while walking the next day.  Not sure if this is something I need to be really worried about, I decided to test it out with a light thirty-minute jog with A in the park yesterday evening.

I keep reading that the best runners are not blowing out their lungs but maintain a pace that allows them to have a conversation.  I typically am panting and heaving on any given run, but since we were slowing our roll, I decided to try to find out what, for me, is a relaxed talking pace.  Last night was definitely a fine speed for conversation, but turns out the hardest thing about talking and running is thinking of things to talk about.

After discussing our work days, the government shut down, and potential dinner options, I was pretty much tapped out after ten minutes.  I tried to comment on the girls’ soccer practice and the guys smoking a joint at the pull up bars, but after the first lap (of seven), the scenery was pretty much covered.

I was running…out of things to say.  Ugh, with jokes like that, maybe it’s for the best.

You Better T'work

Recently A and I found ourselves swimming together at the municipal pool.  I showed him how to swim a sequence of laps using the clock, and he turned to me and said, “Why don’t we do this when we run?”  Why indeed!

Our runs have begun to feel a little rote.  In an effort to add some variety, A started integrating intermittent periods of high speed and reduced effort along predetermined stretches of our route.  But we never actually practiced real interval training before, so we decided to give it a try.

We went to a local track with a low mileage speed set designed for distance runners that I found on the internet.  We had done a little track work in the past (or what I used to think of as “t’work” before twerking came along), but never before followed a specific workout.

The set was written in meters.  My imperial brain had to translate them into revolutions around the track.  With that in mind, this is what we did:

Warm-up (10 minutes)

Light jogging, lunges, front-and-back and side-to-side leg swings, a few sprint strides at 90% effort for 100 meters (approximately 1 long length of the field)

Main Set

600 meters (1.5 x around) sprint

300 meters (0.75 x around) jogging recovery

400 meters (1 x around) sprint

300 meters (0.75 x around) jogging recovery

300 meters (0.75 x around) sprint

300 meters (0.75 x around) jogging recovery

200 meters (0.5 x around) sprint

Cool-down (10 minutes)

Light jogging

Considering the main set was only 1.5 miles, I was pretty dubious about it’s efficacy.  The extreme soreness of my quads disabused me of that notion the next day.  In fact, I was still feeling the lactic acid three days later on our 8-mile trail run.

The next step is to do the main set twice, but it’s been over a week and we have yet to get back to the track.  I like mixing up our routine, but the intervals make me appreciate our distance running so much more and I know I better get back to t’work before long.

A Connection Missed

Me: driving the old school silver Corolla on Overland at 11pm last Friday night.  I just had vegetarian Pho with a mock chicken appetizer and a glass of Chardonnay.  The expression on my face was a combination of happily sate and overly tired from being up two hours past my bedtime.

You: wearing a loose red tank top, dark shorts, and white headphones, running along Palms and turning left onto Overland.  You first ran in front of my car as I stopped at the light and then paused on the corner next to me while we both waited to cross the intersection.  You continued to bob up and down while I stared at you without your notice.

I wanted to call out to you, Nightrunner, and ask what brings a man to this – running in a suspect neighborhood in the middle of the night?  Is your commitment to fitness so carved in granite that you steal out for a jaunt at lunch during your graveyard shift?  Ah, but your spongy core and lack of tone betrays.  Is your life so full helping the poor and downtrodden that you can’t but sneak in a run in the light of day?  Underneath the dark circles and patchy scruff, you do have the face of a giver.

Perhaps you are saving your alabaster skin from the cruel effects of the sun, a particular cross to bear for persons whose heritage yields from a Nordic clime?  Your exposed flesh was a benefit for us drivers as your white arms and legs cut through the dim.  Are you conditioning yourself for a move to Alaska during their twenty-four hours of darkness?  Are you competing in an urban ultra-marathon of one?  Did your wife demand milk for the baby in the middle of the night and you figured why not kill two birds?  What is it that drives you?  What?

I run in the day and it saddens me that our paths might never cross.  You are a man of mystery, an urban warrior who does not let time nor darkness nor lack of sleep prohibit you from a life of fitness and improved cardiac health.  I envy your overfull social calendar and applaud your commitment.  Yes is the answer, and you know that for sure.

You go, Nightrunner, go forth into the dark and prosper!