‘Tis the most wonderful day (in Colorado Springs) of the year!
I remember my first trip up to train on the summit of Pikes back in the summer of 2014 one morning shortly after Mt. Washington, and glancing up to see my first bighorn sheep up close as I was picking my way across the Cog Railroad tracks up top to descend on to the trail below. On my first trip up there this year, there wasn’t just one sheep, but a whole herd, complete with baby bighorn sheep (bighorn lambs?). If I believed in omens, which I don’t, I would hope that would be a sign of bighorn sheep caliber mountain running prowess to come. Regardless, every trip up the Peak is always an adventure.
This season hasn’t seen quite the number of trips up Pikes as my last go-around training for this thing. Work obligations have often whisked me away to other areas. But hey, can’t run up Pikes Peak? There’s always Aspen Mountain, Vail Mountain, or even Sandia Peak in the event one finds oneself in New Mexico, and others. So, it’s easy to improvise wherever I find myself. Although the slightly more obsessive side of myself was initially annoyed at the fact that I might not know every inch of the course this year, I’ve found lots of solace in the fact that last time I raced this, the two ladies who trounced me (hi, Allie and Morgan!) spent minimal to no time up there. And having only raced it once, I’ve been told by numerous veterans that they in fact raced better the years they didn’t spend as much time training on the mountain.
But I figure I should make the most of the time that I do get to spend up there. I did a slew of workouts up there training for this last time, at least two a week for the couple of months leading up to the race, but I really don’t recall what all they were or what times I was shooting for or ended up running or what, so…blank slate to work with here. All I really remember is that I was a hurting unit starting at about 12,000 feet during the race.
I’m certainly no exercise physiologist, and I “coach” myself, for better or for worse. In an effort to avoid overthinking, I decided that I should just do a bunch of hard things at that elevation and above and see how it works out. I mean, at the end of the day that’s the name of the game right? Run hard uphill up high. I think I can already run uphill, but can I run uphill when there is no air in the air? I struggle. But don’t we all. So let’s work on that.
So there’s been a lot of things along the lines of: start at summit, warm up running down to A-Frame (during which time I acquire even more respect for those brave souls willing to tackle the Marathon. Running downhill is hard.), run hard back up to the summit, go back down to A-Frame, run hard from 3 to go to 2 to go, recover for 3 minutes or so, then 2 to go to 1 to go, recover again, and finally 1 to go to the finish. Or my other favorite: start at summit, run the 6 miles down to Barr Camp, tempo run the 3 miles back up to A-Frame, recover for a few minutes, then do second half of the previously mentioned workout to the finish. Whatever. Just run uphill hard at the elevations you struggle the most.
The same thought always crosses my mind up there:
“Can’t tell if suddenly really out of shape, or trying to run hard up a mountain at 14,000 feet. Eff.”
Another thing sort of messing with my head (let’s face it, is anything ever going to not mess with my head?!) is the overall less volume of mileage run this time around in comparison to a couple years ago. Don’t get me wrong, there are still plenty of miles going into the bank, but in spending the last several months reassessing how to train a bit better without always winding up perpetually banged up, sometimes you have to think up other ways to skin the cat. In this case, running just enough miles–no “fluff” miles and no running for running’s sake just because I can’t control myself–and then spending several additional hours a week cross training pretty hard. I have no idea how this will translate, or even if it will, and talk is certainly cheap, but regardless, I feel darn good. But maybe too good. And what if I shouldn’t feel good? Oh crap. We’ll see. We are each an experiment of one I suppose.
Anyway, however much I love being on the mountain, my old friends the Sixteen Golden Stairs are as annoying as ever. Yes, scrambling over a pile of boulders a couple hundred meters from the finish sort of cramps my style (that’s really just a nice way of saying, “Help. I’m really uncoordinated and fall on things a lot.”), and I know on race day it will be even more of a booger given the added state of hypoxia combined with the 13 uphill miles that will already be in the legs by that point. I can always think of numerous adjectives to describe said stairs, none of which would be “golden.” Also, I still think the name is misleading and it’s a bit of a mystery to me as to how it acquired such a namesake. I believe one of the following would be more accurate:
- Leaden Legs
- Elephant on Chest
- No air, don’t care! JK yes I do.
I jest. I’m not really a big whiner. At least I try not to be. It just wouldn’t be our beloved Ascent without looking up to see the finish line (or in the Marathoners’ case, the turnaround) after conquering those Golden Stairs.
Yes folks, ‘tis the season! May the marmots keep on chirping and the bighorns keep on grazing. T-Minus-Less-Than-A-Month and it’s go time. I’m excited. Run on, fellow mountain goats!
I really thought that I would have loads to say after Mt. Washington a few weekends ago. It was, after all, anxiously anticipated by me for weeks. And months. And to sort of a weirdly obsessive extent. There have really only been a couple of previous occasions where I was as nervous as I was on race day this go-around, given that the ultimate goal for the last couple years was to win it again, and one only has so much control over an outcome.
So pop quiz: what do Super Mario and Mt. Washington have in common? About as much as you may think. In other words, nothing really. But, descend with me for a moment, into the black hole of lunacy otherwise known as my imagination.
For months this race loomed in my psyche in much the same way as—bear with me for a moment here, I’m trying real hard to convey the feeling adequately—the inevitable duel that Super Mario knew that he would eventually be subject to with King Bowser in level 8 of the original Super Mario Brothers. Mario spends level after level fighting small fry villains: those little turtles and evil mushrooms (I’ve never understood the recurring mushroom theme in that game) and Venus fly traps and whatever else (I really don’t remember, I mean, this was the 90’s folks, and I was like 5 years old.) all so that he can take on Bowser and rescue the Princess!
Now to complete my weird analogy: I ran a bunch of workouts and local races (that is to say, I fought evil mushrooms and winged turtles, metaphorically speaking) for several months, with some good ones in there that buoyed me up like an Extra-Life, and a few bad ones and occasional bumps in the road that necessitated going back and starting the level over again, all in the hopes of ultimately defeating King Bowser (Mt. Washington).
And I did, and I didn’t die and get a Game Over, and finally I rescued the Princess instead of being thwarted by a diaper-wearing toadstool:
Forgive me. I really had to reach for all of that. But that is what it felt like.
No but in all seriousness, let’s talk reality for just a sec, even though I suck at that. Although I promise to spare everyone an actual mind-numbing race recap.
Race day was a wonderful day accompanied by the usual abundance of wonderful humans who always seem to be a part of that particular race, though with a notable few missing (Kim Dobson and Peter Maksimow to name a couple from the usual crew of Coloradoans). Times were a fair bit slower across the board for everybody, likely attributed to the warm and somewhat muggy conditions of race day. I’m also told there was an “inversion.” I don’t know what that means. For a mountain that boasts the highest recorded wind-speeds on earth, there wasn’t a puff of wind to be found either above or below treeline. Still though, it’s always easy to say you could’ve run faster if this or that, and that might be true, or it might not be. Because really, if it wasn’t hot and humid, it could’ve been hurricane-caliber winds, or snow, or who knows what else. Everyone fights the same conditions, all you can ever do is show up and throw down. Bowser don’t care.
Cool. So now I just said all of that right after I began this post with the claim that I didn’t really have anything profound to say regarding the race. Super Mario analogy aside, I suppose the reason I feel that way is because I anticipated it so much for so long, and felt like I had so much to prove to myself (namely, to prove to myself that I still had “it.” Whatever “it” actually even is.). I suppose I thought that accomplishing what I had made a pact with myself to achieve about this time last year, would somehow be a total game-changer. And I did feel pretty good about it, it’s always comforting to find in this sport that yes, you can have a crummy year or two or five, but you can always get back on the horse and keep fighting the fight and you’ll be A-Okay, and maybe this shouldn’t be so surprising when it happens.
While I enjoyed it, and was happy about it, and thankful for it, and I appreciated it, and I fully intend to do it again, I went back home afterward and it was business as usual. While I’m sure Mario’s winning the heart of Princess Peach following his epic battle might have altered the course of his pixelated life, a much-anticipated race followed by an equally anticipated outcome does not. At one time, a good race result certainly would have dictated how I felt about life, but now it doesn’t. Perhaps that sounds like a bad thing? It’s not. Hooray for personal happiness and self-identity not being inextricably intertwined with a race outcome. That’s how I see it at least. So, I suppose that there was at least one slight epiphany that resulted from the experience.
But, for anybody else who was a child of the late 80’s/early 90’s, we all know that Bowser just never really seemed to die and he just kept popping up in every sequel to kidnap the Princess again.
And sometimes, more often than not, as it turns out, we find that we are our own “Bowsers.”
Onward to the next level!
“If you ever catch yourself describing someone’s effort in an optional running competition as ‘heroic,’ consult a dictionary.”
This sentiment jumped out at me one day as I mindlessly perused the social media time toilet (except, isn’t all social media a time toilet?) that is Twitter. I stumbled upon this aforementioned Tweet the same night where, earlier, while eating dinner with two work colleagues, the subject of Tiger Woods’ recent DUI came up, along with the topic of Michael Phelps getting busted for pot a few years ago.
“We really put all those guys on a pedestal,” one of the guys I was with remarked.
And it’s true, we put them on a pedestal, make them our “heroes”, and then they can do no wrong as far as we’re concerned. And if they do, all of our minds are blown and it’s like this huge scandal. But it got me wondering, and certainly not for the first time, but why? Why do we make any athlete or athletic endeavor out to be somehow heroic? Sure, most athletic feats—whether it’s the outrageous ability to endure prolonged extreme discomfort and the endlessly repetitive training that comes with endurance sports, or the astonishing agility and precision acquired from years of honing the proprioception and hand-eye coordination necessary to succeed in many other sports—are really impressive. But, at the end of the day, what does it really do for anybody else? Why do we laud people at the top of the game, any game really, as supposed heroes?
Now, this “pedestal phenomenon” I suppose I will call it, is perhaps a post for another day given that although it’s related, in this case it’s slightly off topic (me? Off topic? Never!). For now, the question remains: is there anything heroic about any athletic pursuit?
It would seem so, as much as we hero-worship the most successful among athletes. You don’t have to spend all that much time in any sport, at any level, to catch of glimpse of this. But none of this really entered my mind until a few years ago when, following a good mountain season, Joe Gray, Allie McLaughlin, and myself were awarded the “Spirit of Colorado Springs” award, and by the mayor no less! And I remember standing there after awkwardly (awkwardness in social situations is to be expected from me, naturally) shaking the mayor’s hand, holding this super rad glass plaque, and thinking it was all pretty cool and all, but also sort of thinking, “Um, what?” I mean, we all ran up a few good-sized hills pretty adeptly, but none of us could boast of saving babies or kittens from burning buildings. Unless there is something about Joe or Allie that I don’t know. They’re both pretty great, so there very well might be. So maybe I should just speak for myself there actually. No rescued babies or kittens or otherwise noble deeds on my end, sorry.
Anyway, that incident is obviously quite miniscule and nowhere near the scope of the athletic accomplishments of many of those whom we slap the “hero” label upon after their latest and greatest seemingly inhuman feat, but you get the idea.
In any case, circling back around the present and my mindless perusal of Twitter. It’s possible I took this particular Tweet a bit out of context, but regardless, stumbling upon it immediately following the previously mentioned dinner conversation got the gears turning upstairs, and I decided to follow the instructions conveyed within said Tweet, and consult a dictionary to perhaps better grasp this word, “heroic,” to better determine if any of us who voluntarily subject ourselves to self-induced suffering in the form of running, are really ever deserving of such a description.
- Having the characteristics of a hero or heroine; very brave.
This definition then necessitated that I look up the word “hero”.
- A person who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.
- A submarine sandwich.
Sandwiches aside, for the most part these definitions do indeed aptly describe a lot of seemingly inhuman humans who dominate the sporting world, and even those who don’t but who maybe broke through a bunch of their own barriers to achieve something great they never dreamed of, even if it was something as humble as breaking five hours in a marathon, or the one time pack-a-day smoker who now runs 100 mile ultra-marathons in respectable times. There is, after all, something about being willing to very intentionally step far—very, very far–out of your comfort zone to see what you’re capable of doing, that brings the word “courageous” to the forefront of my mind.
But nonetheless, I still absolutely get what Tweeter McTweety is getting at. To be quite honest, there is a certain something that bothers me to some extent, to see this or that Flavor of the Week athlete being hoisted upon a pedestal, thrust into the limelight, and touted as a hero for doing something like running far or swimming fast or hitting a ball. Heroic? Regardless of the level, is it really? I mean, back in the day, a hero was the knight that saved the village and all of the damsels in distress from the fire breathing dragon, not somebody who ran fast around an oval quite literally going nowhere fast.
But conversely, and I can only speak of the running world given that’s all I really pay attention to, there is also something that makes your hair stand on end just a little bit seeing somebody battle it out and win at the highest levels, where you can tell that the battle is just as much internally with themselves as it is externally with the rest of the field. There is something, yes, heroic about their efforts.
I do however, tend to see more real heroism down the ladder a few rungs, not always necessarily in the realm of the super-elite, but in a lot of folks who’ve successfully run from (or perhaps with) their demons, slayed their dragons, and conquered their mountains, so to speak. I know a number of folks like that, and I’d absolutely say they’re my heroes. This is however less because of their running feats, even though they are in and of themselves quite impressive, and more because of the platform that they’ve inadvertently used their running for, which is, more often than not, essentially to give a big “F*CK YOU” to some circumstance or other that has effectively stacked the odds against them and rendered it so that perhaps they really don’t have all that much business doing what they’re doing, and they have shown that, come what may, you can choose to frankly not give a damn and go for it anyway, letting the chips fall where they may. Oftentimes, bearing witness to those feats is all the impetus that’s needed to get us through our own rough patches in life.
So I suppose that after chewing on this for a bit (a “bit” being about 1,200 words now), I’d conclude from my own ridiculous musings that there is absolutely a certain degree of heroism that you see, at all levels, in the athlete realm, regardless of the fact that any suffering experienced as a result is definitely voluntary and sought out.
I don’t necessarily deem somebody who just *wins-wins-wins* all the time as being “heroic” just for the sole reason of notching all of those victories. As much as I admire their consistency and hard work, I certainly don’t see them as worthy of being idolized and placed on a pedestal, although it seems to be human nature to do that to anybody achieving seemingly impossible things, even when they didn’t ask for such admiration, which they very often don’t. Ultimately, they’re just another person with a God-given talent that they discovered, chose to hone to a fine point, and then got some luck and opportunity along the way. I think it’s more what they end up conveying to the world through this particular ability that determines “heroism.”
That said, I do see truly genuine heroism in people who, often unintentionally, use their athletic achievements, regardless of how great or humble, as a platform to convey a much larger, and often unspoken, message. Those are the people whose success I like following the most. Flowery as it sounds, there often isn’t enough inspiration out there nowadays, and there aren’t a lot of literal dragons to slay, so we have to take what we can get where we can get it. In any given race, you usually don’t have to look far.
The latter half of May heralds my favorite season of the year: Oodles of Uphill Season!
Yes, on the docket for Oodles of Uphill Season this year are the Black Canyon Ascent, which was last Saturday, Mt. Washington in a bit over three weeks, Vail Hill Climb in early July, followed by the Rendezvous Hillclimb in Jackson Hole later in the month to, um, warm up for the Pikes Peak Ascent later in August, then Mt. Baldy in California on Labor Day, followed by the Boulder Mountain Marathon (the 10 mile ascent part of it) at some point in September.
Told you there was oodles of uphill. Yay.
Black Canyon was…a surprise that maybe I shouldn’t have that been surprised by. I managed to work the race into a work trip on one of my (many) favorite loops in the territory: Buena Vista to Salida to Gunnison to Crested Butte back down to Montrose then out to Grand Junction then back down through Montrose out to Telluride and Ouray. I like to use Montrose as a little hub to do trips out to Telluride and Ouray as well as Grand Junction if I’m not coming from the Vail direction, and Black Canyon sits right on the outskirts of town, so it worked.
Tech rep or paid vagrant? It’s a toss-up!
Anyway, despite the warm spring weather in the weeks preceding the race, we got a nice little spring blizzard of sorts the couple of days before, and even though it cleared off, race day was a chilly one. I always like going out to Black Canyon because it’s like little reunion of People Who Only Like to Run Up Things. I warmed up with Simon Gutierrez, Mary Baldwin, Josh Eberly, and CJ Hitz, and unfortunately Brandy Erholtz was down for the count with a stomach bug, Kim Dobson had a baby three weeks ago, Neal and Amy McDonagh also had a recent visit from the stork, and Peter Maksimow is nursing an injury. So the reunion was smaller than normal.
After all was said and done, I finished a measly four seconds off of my best time there and well, it buoyed me a up bit and was even sort of a relief in a way. After sort of just lollygagging around for the better part of 2016 running-but-not-really-training, I got pretty amped to learn that “it” may just still be in there. A great many of my battles are mental ones (do we even need to go there? No sir, we do not.) and I always wonder if I’m doing enough or not enough or straight up doing it wrong. Doing the ol’ lone wolf thing as far as training goes–which I’ve always enjoyed because it takes a certain sort of stress out of it and also really appeals to the introvert side of myself–definitely comes with the caveat of having to keep yourself honest, and you only really have yourself and your own feelings and experiences to gauge off of, for better or for worse. So, to know I wasn’t too terribly far off the mark made me pretty happy.
But, I’m not really into talking a good game, anybody can do that. Talk is cheap as we all know. It was one race after all, and just a little guy. Mt. Washington will be a lot more telling, with my only goal being to bring my very best A-Game and let the chips fall where they may. Whatever happens, it will be a great day on the mountain, it always is.
Sometimes you’ve gotta get real with yourself.
You know, I think that it’s like, you “enter your thirties” and just like that, you’re old(er). Just kidding, I still feel quite young and spry, and I still giggle at jokes whose target demographic are 12 year old boys. But as I was saying: just like that, you’re older, and perhaps a bit more comfortable in your own skin and with that, less reluctant to admit things to yourself that you maybe used to deny, because it didn’t fit the mold of who and what you and/or others thought that you were supposed to be.
One of those things that I’ve finally let myself admit to…er…myself, is that with running, I’m now willing to sacrifice success for enjoyment. There. I’ve said it. I would rather enjoy what I’m doing more than I would like to be successful at it. A few years ago, I never would have dreamed of that. I didn’t think twice about going to the track every Tuesday and doing 25×400 or 6 x a mile or 10 x 1k or whatever other godawful broken-up variation of a 10k was on the docket for that day. I had no issue with going to the same Friday location to do a tempo or fartlek run. Whatever it took to lend me the leg-speed for a PR for a race I may or may not have even been looking forward to. Whatever workout was specific to what I was training for: on it. Whether I liked it or not. All those track races I ran during and after college? Yeah, I was only pretending to be excited for them. Lies. All of it.
Now? Yeah, you couldn’t pay me to do any of that stuff unless I felt like it.
Yes. I just owned that.
To clarify, I don’t mean that I’m not willing to do the perhaps less enjoyable and more tedious things that making incremental gains necessitates, I’m simply saying that I’m not willing to sacrifice enjoyment at the altar of Success.
I’m not sure what this mindset is indicative of. Burnout? I doubt it. I will always love running, we have certainly had our highs and lows, likely with more to come, but it’s been good to me over the years and I love it for its own sake and always will, whether I’m competing or not. No, I think it’s more of an acceptance thing. Acceptance of the fact that at the end of the day, I’m doing this because I like it, and any other good things that happen along the way are bonuses. As such, if I have to choose between a race or a workout that I dread, yet is highly beneficial to a goal down the road, versus something that perhaps makes that goal maybe less achievable because of a lack of specificity or what have you, but I’m really looking forward to getting out the door to do it, I’m choosing the latter.
Sometimes, I feel a bit as though I’ve spent a decade and a half eating PB&J for lunch every day, and I just can’t handle PB&J anymore, so I need to either buy different bread, or try chunky rather than creamy peanut butter, or use Nutella or marshmallow fluff instead of peanut butter and omit the jelly altogether, or try that sketchy looking apricot jam rather than always using jelly, or slice up some bananas for that bad boy, or just SOMETHING.
I did try Vegemite instead though once and just about upchucked, so we’re not doing that again.
I think about a few short years ago, being offered a paid sponsorship from a shoe company I adored, and thinking it was a total dream come true. As it turned out, I didn’t run a race for nearly two years after that due to injury so was never able to take advantage of that offer, and I’ve often wondered at how different life would be now had it been in the cards to take that path. But sometimes I also wonder if the grass really would have been greener, or if having obligations to run certain races and a certain number of them and maybe not always exactly what I would have chosen for myself would have made all of this feel like a job? Or like having PB&J shoved down my throat rather than voluntarily force-feeding it to myself. I really can’t answer that without truly knowing if it’s just sour grapes at this point.
That aside, ideally in my Utopian Running Universe, I want to strike a balance where both success and enjoyment happen simultaneously, and where enjoyment doesn’t happen because of success, but independently of it, because enjoyment derived only from success isn’t true enjoyment at all. Success is much more fleeting than enjoyment should be.
My hang-up though is that I’ve often possessed this weird mindset where I feel as though if I am enjoying something, I have to endure something that I hate in order to truly enjoy it. Like in some weird way I feel guilty for enjoying it, or like there should always be a catch to something enjoyable. Love your job? You must be doing it wrong! Wanna eat that entire sleeve of Oreos? Oh heck yes you do! Diabetes comin’ in hot! Had an amazing workout? You might’ve just left your race out there! I don’t know why I think that way. Strict Baptist upbringing perhaps. But bottom line: I don’t want to do crap I don’t like to do anymore, and if that’s not ideal to some end goal but I had a hell of a good time along the way, then so be it.
I realized some of this when I was scrawling out some semblance of a plan to achieve what I would like to in coming months. And I looked at it and just started scratching things off and X-ing out things left and right and just having a real hay-day with my editing thinking, “Yeah this workout worked well before, but it sucked. Sooo…no. This one was mind-numbingly boring, so nope, not doing that either. Do I even like doing this one? Uh, NO. Big line through that one too. And oh hells NO I’m not touching the track, ever again in my life actually, I don’t even care if it makes me a four minute miler and it’s so impressive that somebody starts a doping accusation thread about me on Letsrun! So scratch that one also. Oooh, but THIS one was fun, and this other one was great, and I loooooved that one, and running up that thing over there resulted in the sort of ecstasy that’s usually only obtainable by being licked to smithereens by a puppy! So if I feel like doing it every week for forever, then I’m gonna! So take THAT!”
This also came on the heels of signing up for a bunch of races, but only ones that I liked, and axing any plan to run ones that I just “wanted” to run because I somehow felt like I should run them because I always run them. But doing stuff because you “should” rather than because you want to and are excited about it, makes the occasional temptation to walk away feel just a little too real.
What is it they say? “Man cannot live on bread alone?” Well, runners can’t run on PB&J alone either, I’m coming to find out. Besides, spend too many years eating PB&J’s and what happens if you develop a nut allergy? What happens if you realize that you just plain can’t stand PB&J anymore? You’re just S.O.L. I guess. Because then, it doesn’t really matter if PB&J’s equate to success, you better change it up or you’re a goner.
I like to write things. That fact is likely made clear by the existence of my nonsensical rambling via this blog.
For one thing, writing things down is extremely cathartic. Any positive feelings or negative feelings or really just anything at all that needs to be “dumped,” if you will, out of my brain is quickly purged out by writing them down. Dumping these thoughts out of my head often provides a strange sense of closure for things that I processed and overanalyzed to death and really just need to get rid of. It’s as though the brain is a sponge, and writing wrings out the sponge.
I’m not much of a diary type person, this blog–or perhaps more accurately, “brain dump”– is about as close as I’ll ever come to that, but I’ve always been a running log type person. Super dorky, I know, but dorkiness is expected from me and I have embraced that.
From the time I started running when I was 15, for some reason I’ve felt compelled to write down every run, the approximate mileage, and any noteworthy events or milestones or just thoughts that I had during or about that given run or race, or about any particular events going on at that given time of life: the first time I ran farther than a mile, the first time I made Varsity in cross country, the first time that I lettered, the first time I ever made State in track and how amped I was—may as well have been the Olympics, the first time I ever got actual running shoes and my shin splints went away, a race I got lost in with a gal who later became the state cross country champion where we ended up in someone’s driveway, that one time this boy totally mangled my heart into a trillion pieces and I was so upset about it that I PR’ed in the mile by—no exaggeration–nearly two minutes (thanks, Aaron!), contemplating whether or not I was good enough to run collegiately, the run I went on after signing my letter of intent when I decided to run in college where even with the small scholarship I got they may as well have given me a billion dollars with how stoked I was, making NCAA Nationals, and runs that I went on with people in high school and college and beyond, who later became my best friends and who I still keep in touch with. Yep, wins and losses and everything in between. Like pictures in a photo album, it somehow always seemed important not to forget these things. Funny how much a sport can change the course of your life.
Yep, I’m a sentimental sap.
Most folks upload their stuff to Strava or Movescount (shameless plug, Suunto! You’re welcome.) or wherever, but I use good ol’ fashioned pen and paper. I’ve got volumes of the things in spiral notebooks squirreled away in a drawer spanning all the way back to August of 2001. There are so many runs where, if I re-read what I wrote, I can conjure up the memory of that very run, even if it was a decade and a half ago. Somehow writing it down made it concrete and gave my memory some sort of prompt to recall what happened that run. There is even one entry back when I first started running in ninth grade during cross country season, where I left the encouraging and uplifting annotation of, “I don’t think I’m cut out for this running stuff.”
So now that I’ve laid out the background, on to my actual story and its subsequent cheesy moral.
So my current job basically entails being a paid vagrant. That said, I spend quite a bit of time out on the road, during which I’m always scoping out good potential running spots. In my awesome territory, there are an abundant number of those. On a recent trip to Albuquerque, I parked in the parking lot of a trail that runs along the Rio Grande River that I’ve run several times now, and it’s perfect for putting in good workouts: flat, crushed gravel, and I believe it spans about 18 miles. In any case, on this particular day I returned from said workout to find the car–with all of its Salomon and Suunto contents–well, not there.
Let me intersperse my story with some fun statistics real quick: did you know that Albuquerque leads the nation in auto theft? Did you know that one car is stolen every 60 seconds? Yes, it’s true! I learned these stats later from the cop who helped me out.
Anyway, so here I am, standing in this empty parking lot trying to recall if I did in fact park here, acknowledging that, yes I did, and being remarkably not at all panicked about the situation because all I could think about was, boom! That workout was awesome! The endorphins floweth freely, I felt like a baller, and I was feeling too high on life to panic.
Thankfully the hotel wasn’t overly far away, so I ran back while trying to process what just happened and what I should do about it. Upon arriving back to the room I saw that I had multiple missed calls from a particular Albuquerque number that I was not familiar with, from a woman asking that I return her call ASAP, so I did. Long story short, it was from a really delightful little lady named Ann, who owned, of all things, an auto glass repair shop less than a quarter mile away, telling me that my car was parked on the side of her building and appeared to have been broken into and she’d found my business card inside and was concerned. So I walk about three minutes down the street, and sure enough there’s the Salomon car, with a busted out window but otherwise unscathed, and conveniently parked in front of an auto glass repair shop as though to apologize for the damage. This was a small miracle given that people who get their cars stolen in Albuquerque do not get them back. Rather, they end up in remote places with dead bodies or meth in them, or perhaps down in Mexico. But maybe a logoed vehicle was too conspicuous, or somebody had a change of heart a quarter mile down the road. Either way, I like to believe in the innate goodness of humanity, so I’m going with the latter.
At any rate, I assessed the damage and the missing contents, which were surprisingly few things given what was in there. Gone was a bag of Suunto watches, a laptop, a plastic mannequin torso (what?!), and….MY RUNNING JOURNAL. I can totally understand someone wanting to steal a car, a computer, and several thousand dollars of watches, makes sense. But a plastic torso and a journal? To each his own I guess.
Anyway, I was super grateful that everything turned out a-okay and that I even met all sorts of really great people in the process who were so helpful. Bless the good people of New Mexico! I was thinking about it later though, and I was a little bummed about the loss of my running journal. SUCH a dumb thing to be even slightly hung up on given how disastrous that situation could have been. But, if you run and don’t upload it to Strava, did the run really happen? Similarly, if you get your running log stolen, does that mean those runs are GONE?
So this particular journal went back to October of 2014. It was basically my stream of consciousness from every run for the last two years. I mean, a part of my SOUL is in that journal! Think Harry Potter: Voldemort puts part of his soul into the book that later possesses Ginny Weasly (see: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone), well, part of my soul was in that running log, but chances are it’s unlikely to possess anybody. But even more so, and I don’t mean to stereotype here, but I really hope that whoever has that doesn’t read English very well, because there is some seriously batsh*t crazy stuff written in there. I’m actually sort of mortified thinking about it.
Nah, in reality it’s probably in a dumpster.
But as I was thinking about it, with running I certainly do spend a lot of time reminiscing and analyzing, as I think many of us do, thinking about bygone runs and races, and for myself, this has particularly been the case the last couple of years. You are always comparing yourself to who you were at your best, and you always think that you’re going to get the chance to go back and do things again and better this time, but sometimes you just need to meet yourself where you’re at and go from there.
As it happens, the span of time encapsulated within that journal have been some of the tougher, more struggle-filled seasons of running that I’ve experienced, and I’d spent a lot of time flipping back the pages to this time last year or the year before, and fretting and comparing and over-analyzing and what have you, and it may be best that all of those memories are essentially erased, rendering me incapable of brooding over them. After all, why compulsively dwell on things that don’t help you?
Given the recent circumstances, my now most recent journal ends at the tail-end of an amazing season, and now is missing a large chunk of time that has quite a few negative emotions attached to it, and now it will pick up again as things are on the up-and-up. What better way to move forward than to toss unhelpful thoughts into a dumpster? It’s perfect.