Running m Y A S S O ff

It's track Tuesday, so I'm here at Claggett, just ahead of everyone else. We'll be making an attempt at some kind of abbreviated Yasso workout, notwithstanding the freezing, frosty cold. In fact, it's so cold that..... WHOA. THAT was a Big, Bright meteor. It goes down, possibly all the way to the ground, changing colors as it descends. A little later, when Andy and Michelle Wolff show up, I suggest that they check their roof for big holes when they get home since the possible landing looked to be in the vicinity. I even spot another meteor a while later. It's an electrifying start to the run.

Despite all my excitement about the sky, no one seems particularly motivated about doing 800-meter repeats in this frigid weather. Me, least of all; I'm not feeling all that well today. But after the much-needed warmup and drills, some of the folks take off to begin their speedwork regimen. I reluctantly follow.

I had suggested doing seven of the repeats today, getting us 70% of the way toward a full Yasso workout. I quickly realize that even that is not going to happen for me today. The reasons? 1) I'm running much slower than I ought to be, and 2) I'm much too tired to get anywhere near 10, 7, or any other decent number of them.

Five relatively slow 800s will do it for today. I'll call it a slow, half-Yasso. It could have been much worse. Anything more than zero is better than nothing. 

But I don't like Spam

By Eduardo Unda-Sanzana from Antofagasta, Chile

Man: Well, what've you got?

Waitress: Well, there's egg and spam; egg bacon and spam; egg bacon sausage and spam; spam bacon sausage and spam; spam egg spam spam bacon and spam; spam sausage spam spam bacon spam tomato and spam;

Vikings: (starting to chant) Spam spam spam spam...

Waitress: ...spam spam spam egg and spam; spam spam spam spam spam spam baked beans spam spam spam...

Vikings: (singing) Spam! Lovely spam! Lovely spam!

Waitress: ...or Lobster thermidor aux crevettes with a mornay sauce garnished with truffle pâté, brandy and with a fried egg on top and spam

Wife: (G.C.) Have you got anything without spam?

Waitress: Well, there's spam egg sausage and spam, that's not got much spam in it.

Wife: I don't want ANY spam!

Man: Why can't she have egg bacon spam and sausage?

Wife: THAT'S got spam in it!

Man: Hasn't got as much spam in it as spam egg sausage and spam, has it?

Vikings: (singing) Spam spam spam spam...

Wife: Could you do the egg bacon spam and sausage without the spam then?

Waitress: Urgghh!

Wife: What do you mean 'Urgghh'? I don't like spam!

~

You are probably wondering what the Monty Python Spam Skit dialog is doing in my running blog post. Absolutely nothing; I just like it.

Well, okay, maybe a little something.

I'm somewhere around mile 16 during today's long run on Lester Rail Trail. Some of my friends have joined me for parts of today's run, but I'm usually jogging alone at this late point in my sojourn. Not today, though. Today, Chadwick Sunday has continued to stay with me even after everyone else has come and gone. I truly appreciate this fine companionship.

Chadwick and I are discussing the differences between road runners and trail runners. He appears to enjoy both venues, but we agreed that the two groups seem to have entirely different cultures. At some point, as often happens, I begin doing more of the talking, probably much more. Chadwick seems okay with this.

I relate how my conversations with trail runners often involve them telling me all the advantages of their sport (softer surface, better for one's core and other muscles, enjoyment of the wilderness, etc.). I come back with something to the effect that, I don't disagree about said advantages, but the few disadvantages - that I have to slow way way down to engage in the sport, and that I often wind up falling, usually badly - far outweigh the positives. The conversations often end up sort of like the Monty Python skit, kind of like this:

~

Trail runner: Well, there's hills and trails; level areas and trails; woods and trails; trails, woods,trails and trails;

Vikings: (singing) Trails, trails, trails, trails...

Dan: But I don't like trails.

Trail runner: Try the level areas and trails. It doesn't have much trails.

Dan: THAT'S got trails in it!

A stone in my shoe

The phrase, "Stone in my shoe" was used in the Godfather, Part III, by the Joey Zasa character. I have a stone in my shoe, Mr. Corleone. A two-bit punk who works for me. Who thinks he's related to you. A bastard. According to the Urban Dictionary, it's supposed to mean, 'something or someone who is causing severe irritation and creating problems for you.' 

You may have already guessed, but today for me it's literal. I'm alone, running on the Lester Rail Trail, and yes, I have a stone in my shoe. What's more, I have one in my sock as well. How that happened, I have no idea. Up till now, I've been sort of enjoying this long run. I'd started in the dark, and I've kept the pace fairly steady. Michelle Wolff will be joining me for my final 6 to 7 miles.

The one in my sock is killing me. I'd hoped that I could just shift it around a little to keep going. Nope. Ain't gonna happen. I stop to remove the couple of stones that I can find. Then it's time to put my shoe back on. That, dear friends, is a real problem. It may or may not surprise you to learn that I don't bend so well these days.

I manage to clumsily don my shoe once more and now I'm running once again. With Michelle's help, I manage to run 19 miles today. Yay. I'd been a little anxious about when I'd be able to get my long run in this weekend, despite all the plans and options. You might say that that decision was like a stone in my shoe.

Father Time is a Mother...

The runner ran through the forest, his feet pounding on the soft earth. He could hear the sound of Father Time's footsteps getting closer and closer. He knew that he couldn't outrun Father Time forever, but he had to try.

The runner had been running for days, ever since he had escaped from Father Time's castle. He had been imprisoned there for centuries, forced to watch as Father Time took the lives of everyone he loved. He had finally escaped, but he knew that Father Time would not give up easily.

The runner ran faster, his lungs burning with the effort. He could feel the sweat dripping down his face and back. He knew that he was getting tired, but he had to keep going. He had to find a way to stop Father Time.

The runner came to a clearing and stopped to catch his breath. He looked around and saw a mountain in the distance. He knew that if he could reach the mountain, he would be safe from Father Time.

The runner started running again, this time towards the mountain. He ran as fast as he could, his legs pumping furiously. He could feel the wind in his hair and the sun on his face. He was almost there.

The runner reached the mountain and started to climb. The rocks were slippery and the climb was steep, but he didn't stop. He knew that Father Time was getting closer.

The runner finally reached the top of the mountain and collapsed on the ground, exhausted. He had made it. He was safe from Father Time.

The runner lay on the mountaintop for a long time, looking out at the world below. He was filled with a sense of peace and tranquility. He had finally escaped from Father Time, and he was free.

The runner knew that he would never forget his time in Father Time's castle. He had seen the horrors of death and decay, but he had also seen the beauty of life. He had learned that life is precious and that it should be cherished.

The runner stood up and started to walk down the mountain. He knew that he had a long way to go, but he was determined to make the most of his life. He was going to live every day to the fullest and never take anything for granted.

My friend Larry Orwin has been talking things over with his AI buddy, Bard, and the story above is the result. I like it, but I would have preferred a darker outcome. Perhaps a good alternate ending would go something like this:

After catching up with the runner, Father Time raised his scythe and brought it down. The runner closed his eyes and waited for the end. But the end never came. Instead, the runner felt a sharp pain in his chest. He opened his eyes and saw that Father Time had stabbed him with his scythe. The runner fell to the ground, bleeding profusely. He closed his eyes and died. Father Time watched him die, and then he turned and walked away. 

There now; that's better, isn't it?

The moral is (and I'm aware that this is quite deep) that you can't outrun Father Time. This has been a subject of conversation between Larry and me for some time now, and during a recent discussion, Larry's wife, Christine, also joined in. Larry and Chris are good friends, and Debbie and I had joined them for some gourmet pizza. 

I mentioned that it has taken me a long time - longer than most people - to come to terms with the declining running performance associated with getting old. I think most normal runners do simply accept the inevitable: that running times, distances, speed, endurance, you-name-it, all get worse as you get older. 

Knowing this and accepting it does not influence a runner's performance in the short term, or even the long term. That decline will happen no matter what. But acceptance does help you live with yourself. Why beat yourself up over something you have so little control over? Believe me, I've been there, done that, and it is not helpful.

Here's the best example I can come up with. I used to be a three-hour marathon guy. Sub-3 was my goal for a good many years, and I managed to be successful at least on some occasions. Over the last few decades, my best times slipped to the 3:20s, then the 3:30s, and then the 3:40s. Nowadays, twenty-seven years after my last sub-three marathon, I have begun to consider myself a four-hour guy. If I can break four hours, it's a very good day. Forget that had I run this slowly all those years ago, I'd have considered it a complete disaster. Everything is relative, and running times are exhibit one.

Here's the funny thing. A four-hour marathon these days feels exactly the same as a three-hour one did back in the 1990s. Exactly. 

The only difference is in your mind.

Rubbing me the wrong way

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Dan, shouldn't a runner of your age and experience know better?" Ah, yes. Age and experience. I'm partial to the word, 'seasoned.' But I guess I don't. (Know better, that is.) 

The segment was done. A few relatively fast folks had appeared at Brunswick Lake for the Saturday group run, and I had been trying my darndest to stay with them on the trip to Plum Creek and then around the lake. I had also done some local miles around home and had jogged over for the relatively late 6:30 A.M. start. Now, as we talked and as my friends began preparing to drive away, I realized a few things.

1) I realized that I had over 15 miles, so far. Just jogging back home would get me up to 18-ish, and this would be fine, except 19 or 20 would be better. The miles had been good ones, so far. Running fast with friends helps.

2) I realized that I was still feeling fairly fine. This was also a good thing, considering yesterday's debacle of being hit by an atomic bomb.

3) I realized that I had just stepped in fresh dog poop. I furiously began trying to rub my shoes in the grass and water puddles.

4) I realized that I was chafing. I'm always aware that once you feel something like this, it's too late to do anything to remedy it. The best thing to do is to stop running. Except I couldn't - I had to get home. And darn it, I really, really needed to get back to doing long runs, with today being the day.

Yes, I had taken some measures to prevent the chafing, but I'd obviously applied the anti-chafing stuff in not quite all of the correct places. Got to be more thorough. I made it home, though. I looked funny running with that condition, but I made it.

Somethin heavy hit me like an atomic bomb

Meanwhile back in the jungle
The boys in the jungle had me on the run
When something heavy hit me like an atomic bomb
When I woke up and my head started to clear
I had a strange feeling I was with cooking gear
I smelled something cookin' and I looked to see
That's when; I found out they was a cookin' me
Great Cuckoo let me outta here

These are some of the lyrics from Stranded in the Jungle, the 1950s song by the Cadets. That line, something heavy hit me like an atomic bomb was front and center in my mind as I started mile ten today. My companions had just finished, and I only had one more to go. 

Except that this one more mile would be one of the longest ever. I had had my Covid-19 booster yesterday (I think my 6th overall Covid shot), and I suppose the unexpected dizziness and soreness at this point in my run is the result. It was funny that it hit me so suddenly.

After practically walking that final mile, I drove home and took an ibuprofen. It's been a while since I've taken any Vitamin I at all, but now was the time. It helped.