I could try this.
Nah. I like my way better.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Setting the bar low
One of the problems with being mediocre is the creativity one must employ to maintain a modicum of self respect.
The technique I employ is universally known as "setting the bar low." The bar, of course, refers to something like a high-jump bar, measuring stick one must jump over in order to be successful. Setting it low implies that it's easier to get over. But what if the bar is on the ground, and you still have trouble getting over it? Maybe you catch a toe and trip on your face. You might have still made it over, but the cost of a broken nose and lying in pain in the dirt is high.
That's when you have to start finding new ways of easing your way across the bar. Perhaps you dig a little trench in which the bar can lay, below the surface. Perhaps you have to build a little ramp. It's not easy finding new ways to find the new low highs.
I've been running on the Rib Mountain trails as my hard workout for about a month now. I don't know how far I run, and I don't time them. So setting the bar low is difficult. Often the goal setting comes on the fly: Run, or approximate running by not walking, to that tree there, I'll tell myself. Or, If you make it through that area of rocks without falling and splitting your head open, you've won.
Yesterday, I set the bar a little bit higher. Even I have a squinch of pride which forces me to "progress" in my workouts. So I decided that I would run to the top of the hill without stopping.
Here's how I set the bar low, however. The "top" really isn't the top. It's a juncture in the trails at which there is a bench. One branch of trail leads to the "park" part of the Park, another branch circles around the hill, back to the parking area. I consider this intersection the top, even though going both other ways requires quite a bit more climbing.
See what I've done there? I've changed the meaning of success. The top has been redefined to make it seem like I'm doing more than I'm actually doing. This technique is used by marketers and politicians the world over. It's not lying. It's "a strategy of repositioning success."
And running isn't really running at all. It's a slow sort of climbing one does on a long set of stairs. Toward the end, it's really more like stumbling forward and catching yourself time and again. But it's not walking, either, which probably would be faster.
I have to say, in this "repositioning of success," I was brilliant yesterday. I slogged up the hill without stopping, although I've probably even redefined "stopping" in this particular instance. I might have even gone backwards at one point. But I never really quit, not even when my "pulmonary toilet" began to flush two-thirds the way up the hill.
The technique I employ is universally known as "setting the bar low." The bar, of course, refers to something like a high-jump bar, measuring stick one must jump over in order to be successful. Setting it low implies that it's easier to get over. But what if the bar is on the ground, and you still have trouble getting over it? Maybe you catch a toe and trip on your face. You might have still made it over, but the cost of a broken nose and lying in pain in the dirt is high.
That's when you have to start finding new ways of easing your way across the bar. Perhaps you dig a little trench in which the bar can lay, below the surface. Perhaps you have to build a little ramp. It's not easy finding new ways to find the new low highs.
I've been running on the Rib Mountain trails as my hard workout for about a month now. I don't know how far I run, and I don't time them. So setting the bar low is difficult. Often the goal setting comes on the fly: Run, or approximate running by not walking, to that tree there, I'll tell myself. Or, If you make it through that area of rocks without falling and splitting your head open, you've won.
Yesterday, I set the bar a little bit higher. Even I have a squinch of pride which forces me to "progress" in my workouts. So I decided that I would run to the top of the hill without stopping.
Here's how I set the bar low, however. The "top" really isn't the top. It's a juncture in the trails at which there is a bench. One branch of trail leads to the "park" part of the Park, another branch circles around the hill, back to the parking area. I consider this intersection the top, even though going both other ways requires quite a bit more climbing.
See what I've done there? I've changed the meaning of success. The top has been redefined to make it seem like I'm doing more than I'm actually doing. This technique is used by marketers and politicians the world over. It's not lying. It's "a strategy of repositioning success."
And running isn't really running at all. It's a slow sort of climbing one does on a long set of stairs. Toward the end, it's really more like stumbling forward and catching yourself time and again. But it's not walking, either, which probably would be faster.
I have to say, in this "repositioning of success," I was brilliant yesterday. I slogged up the hill without stopping, although I've probably even redefined "stopping" in this particular instance. I might have even gone backwards at one point. But I never really quit, not even when my "pulmonary toilet" began to flush two-thirds the way up the hill.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The Upchuck Chronicles
Back when I was running on Colby High School's great cross-country team, Coach Johnson often had us run a speed/strength workout we called "Sheds." As in, we're going to run Sheds today.
This workout consisted of running all-out to an equipment shed built set back on the high school fields. All told, a Shed sprint was about 600 yards across grass. We usually did three Sheds, or so. One day Coach Johnson decided to see what we're made of. As I remember it, he had us run six Shed repeats, and told us that he'd buy a pop for anyone who puked.
On the last repeat, we were all on our knees in a circle around a pine tree. It looked as if we were praying to the tree god, but we really were retching our guts out. Nothing came up for me, but my ab muscles were sore from the dry heaves.
I'm 30 years older now, and still running. But running 'til you puke is a young athlete's game, and I rarely push myself to that point, even in a race. What? I'm going to kill myself so I come in 48th in a field of 130 runners instead of 55th?
But this morning I decided to run on some trails on the western edge of Rib Mountain, and the route begins with a long, steep incline. I powered along, trudging, basically, like an old four-wheel drive Ford F-150 grinding away in low range.
It felt pretty good, but as the heart rate rose, and the lungs pumped, I noticed a deep cough beginning. I had a nasty head cold a couple of weeks ago, and I think some of the stuff that was in my head drained into my throat, and maybe even settled into my lungs. The deep breathing was dredging some crap up, and found myself upchucking the junk. I wasn't throwing up, exactly, but the stuff was coming out.
And I continued to run.
As I negotiated the rocky trails, and found my way to Rib Mountain State Park's observation tower, I felt better and better. I went to the top of the tower, and looked over the patchwork quilt that is central Wisconsin in the fall. It was gorgeous.
I ran back on the trail that has a longer route down, but isn't as steep. I felt lighter and better than I have for weeks. I felt like a Colby cross country runner once again.
This workout consisted of running all-out to an equipment shed built set back on the high school fields. All told, a Shed sprint was about 600 yards across grass. We usually did three Sheds, or so. One day Coach Johnson decided to see what we're made of. As I remember it, he had us run six Shed repeats, and told us that he'd buy a pop for anyone who puked.
On the last repeat, we were all on our knees in a circle around a pine tree. It looked as if we were praying to the tree god, but we really were retching our guts out. Nothing came up for me, but my ab muscles were sore from the dry heaves.
I'm 30 years older now, and still running. But running 'til you puke is a young athlete's game, and I rarely push myself to that point, even in a race. What? I'm going to kill myself so I come in 48th in a field of 130 runners instead of 55th?
But this morning I decided to run on some trails on the western edge of Rib Mountain, and the route begins with a long, steep incline. I powered along, trudging, basically, like an old four-wheel drive Ford F-150 grinding away in low range.
It felt pretty good, but as the heart rate rose, and the lungs pumped, I noticed a deep cough beginning. I had a nasty head cold a couple of weeks ago, and I think some of the stuff that was in my head drained into my throat, and maybe even settled into my lungs. The deep breathing was dredging some crap up, and found myself upchucking the junk. I wasn't throwing up, exactly, but the stuff was coming out.
And I continued to run.
As I negotiated the rocky trails, and found my way to Rib Mountain State Park's observation tower, I felt better and better. I went to the top of the tower, and looked over the patchwork quilt that is central Wisconsin in the fall. It was gorgeous.
I ran back on the trail that has a longer route down, but isn't as steep. I felt lighter and better than I have for weeks. I felt like a Colby cross country runner once again.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Paddling the Bay
It takes a certain amount of self-delusion to undertake any sort of epic human-powered journey.
Or at least it does for me. Because if I had really thought with common sense and logic about about the kayak paddle from Marinette to Egg Harbor, I likely would have -- should have, perhaps -- dismissed the idea.
But when Mike Clark, a fellow wooden kayak enthusiast posted on Facebook his intent to do the trip, and called on other paddlers to join him, most of my sense of reality took its leave.
All I could think about was how, while living in Marinette, I would stand on the shore and gaze over at Door County. I'd watch speed boats zoom back and forth, and I began to dream about owning a boat of my own. I would leave Marinette, the fantasy went, go over to to Egg Harbor or Fish Creek or whatever, eat lunch, and come back.
This goal never took a hard hold until I built my own wooden kayak. This boat is terrific to paddle, and I found I could easily go two, three miles with little effort. I took it on a four-day camping/paddling trip at Voyageur's National Park in northern Minnesota and the boat handled fantastically on rough water. "Wow," I thought, "this would be great to take over to Door County."
I am married, however. Kris told me she would worry herself sick if I attempted a crossing alone, and I respected that perspective. It IS dangerous to make such a crossing, and even though I would have tried it if I was single, it would be a foolhardy to do it on your own, especially as a relatively inexperienced paddler like myself.
I tried to find people to go with, but was unsuccessful. I made half-hearted attempts to line up a boater to escort me, ditto. So I let it go.
That's why Mike's post grabbed my attention. I would do it, I told myself, despite the fact that I hadn't wet a paddle in two years. It'll come back to me, I told myself. I'll just do it.
An experienced kayaker warned me off. "I'm not telling you not to go," he said. "But that's a serious crossing. And unlike a 100-mile bike ride, you can't just get off and walk."
I understood that. But I just had such a belief in myself and my strength and even my skills, that I knew I could do it.
In the end I was right. It was a perfect day for paddling, but there were some rolling waves we had to deal with on our five-hour crossing. It took a lot more out of me than I expected. My forearms began to burn and ache and shriek, and today, a day after the paddle, I can barely grab a coffee cup.
But the passion for paddling and my boat is back. I would go out for a jaunt on the river today if my body would let me. I hope to do more paddling adventures, and I vow to be better prepared and in shape for them. And I still would like to reach just beyond my grasp.
Or at least it does for me. Because if I had really thought with common sense and logic about about the kayak paddle from Marinette to Egg Harbor, I likely would have -- should have, perhaps -- dismissed the idea.
But when Mike Clark, a fellow wooden kayak enthusiast posted on Facebook his intent to do the trip, and called on other paddlers to join him, most of my sense of reality took its leave.
All I could think about was how, while living in Marinette, I would stand on the shore and gaze over at Door County. I'd watch speed boats zoom back and forth, and I began to dream about owning a boat of my own. I would leave Marinette, the fantasy went, go over to to Egg Harbor or Fish Creek or whatever, eat lunch, and come back.
This goal never took a hard hold until I built my own wooden kayak. This boat is terrific to paddle, and I found I could easily go two, three miles with little effort. I took it on a four-day camping/paddling trip at Voyageur's National Park in northern Minnesota and the boat handled fantastically on rough water. "Wow," I thought, "this would be great to take over to Door County."
I am married, however. Kris told me she would worry herself sick if I attempted a crossing alone, and I respected that perspective. It IS dangerous to make such a crossing, and even though I would have tried it if I was single, it would be a foolhardy to do it on your own, especially as a relatively inexperienced paddler like myself.
I tried to find people to go with, but was unsuccessful. I made half-hearted attempts to line up a boater to escort me, ditto. So I let it go.
That's why Mike's post grabbed my attention. I would do it, I told myself, despite the fact that I hadn't wet a paddle in two years. It'll come back to me, I told myself. I'll just do it.
An experienced kayaker warned me off. "I'm not telling you not to go," he said. "But that's a serious crossing. And unlike a 100-mile bike ride, you can't just get off and walk."
I understood that. But I just had such a belief in myself and my strength and even my skills, that I knew I could do it.
In the end I was right. It was a perfect day for paddling, but there were some rolling waves we had to deal with on our five-hour crossing. It took a lot more out of me than I expected. My forearms began to burn and ache and shriek, and today, a day after the paddle, I can barely grab a coffee cup.
But the passion for paddling and my boat is back. I would go out for a jaunt on the river today if my body would let me. I hope to do more paddling adventures, and I vow to be better prepared and in shape for them. And I still would like to reach just beyond my grasp.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Back yard bathroom
We've recently completed some home upgrades, a new tile floor in our entry way, and more significantly, a wood floor installation/revamp in our kitchen and dining room.
All home renovations create upheaval, and in this case, the wood floor project required that we stay out of half of our house for three days or so. We had to move all the furniture out of the area, and eat in the living room. We also fashioned a sort of plank bridge to have access to our bedroom.
One of the flooring contractors told Kris that he installed floors in an elderly woman's house in the Wausau area. He told her that, because the sealant needs to dry, she wouldn't be able to get to her bedroom for a night or two.
"That's OK," replied the woman, who he described as being in her 80s. "I can sleep in my recliner. It's very comfortable."
"Oh, good," the contractor said. "And, you won't be able to get to the bathroom, either."
"Oh, that's no problem," the woman cheerily answered. "I'll use the back yard. I'm an old farm girl."
All home renovations create upheaval, and in this case, the wood floor project required that we stay out of half of our house for three days or so. We had to move all the furniture out of the area, and eat in the living room. We also fashioned a sort of plank bridge to have access to our bedroom.
One of the flooring contractors told Kris that he installed floors in an elderly woman's house in the Wausau area. He told her that, because the sealant needs to dry, she wouldn't be able to get to her bedroom for a night or two.
"That's OK," replied the woman, who he described as being in her 80s. "I can sleep in my recliner. It's very comfortable."
"Oh, good," the contractor said. "And, you won't be able to get to the bathroom, either."
"Oh, that's no problem," the woman cheerily answered. "I'll use the back yard. I'm an old farm girl."
Monday, August 23, 2010
Long, rambling post about my first bike race
Oh, sure, if you want to look at the results, my first bicycle race, the 90-mile "Race the Lake," wasn't a stellar success.
I placed 893 out of 1,158 finishers, 774 out of 924 Individual Male Bike Race finishers. I finished the ride around Lake Winnebago in 5 hours, 12 minutes and 13.6 seconds, giving me a 17.007 mph average pace.
Really, that ain't very good.
But I loved it, for so many reasons.
First off, I rode it with my cousin-in-law John. John is a half dozen years younger than me, and an Ironman triathlete. He rides a high-end Trek time-trial bike he bought from e-Bay. He asked if I wanted to ride the Fond du Lac race a few months ago, and I thought it was a great idea.
John is a quiet guy, and frankly, I haven't gotten to know him very well throughout the years. So I thought this would be a great chance to learn a bit more about him, and I was right. He is low key, noncompetitive but a tough, stubborn and steady rider. We rode the first 45 miles together at a fairly moderate pace. I'm not exactly sure how fast, because my speedo was on the fritz; it was damp, and it doesn't work in moist conditions. (It started working later.)
At mile 45, there is a pretty decent hill, but before that, a rest stop. I wanted to get some food and water, John wanted to ride the hill right away. We agreed that John would take off, and I'd catch him either at the top, or at a next rest stop. So I pounded a banana and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and took off after him.
Over the next two and half hours, I went through a variety of emotions (none of them despair, however. That's pretty good for me) and states of generalized pain. I rode with a team of riders from Menasha, I helped pull a woman in pink sleeveless jersey for a few miles, I rode with an older guy on a hot Trek; and paced with the Menesha riders again. I crossed the finish line in a ball of pain that's hard to describe.
In many ways, it was a perfect race, because I believe I went as hard and fast as I could have on that particular day.
All along the way, I was looking for John. He was wearing an orangish/reddish sleeveless jersey, I'd see someone with a such a top off in the distance and I'd work hard to catch that rider, only to be disappointed in the end. I kept thinking, "Man, John is really going."
Turns out that John, after we split, turned back to the rest stop because his rear tire seemed soft. We must have missed each other, because I was ahead of him the whole time, never knowing what happened to him. Oh, well.
Meanwhile, here are some other notable highlights of the race:
*** There was a kid, maybe 16, 17 years old, who jumped in the race without registering. He stole food at the rest stops. He rode without a helmet on a cheapo mountain bike, wearing clunky sneakers and employing an erratic pace. As much as he annoyed me, what with stealing food that I helped pay for and all, I kind of admired him for his gutsy quest. The last I saw him was at mile 43, bobbing and weaving, trying to hold a 16 mph pace.
*** The Menesha team -- This was group of five riders, I think, four men and one woman. They rode a steady tempo in a draft line. John and I rode with them early on in the race, but we passed them. John doesn't like riding in a group, and I wanted to stick with him. Besides, we rode away from them. I went to the front of their group, with the idea of pulling for a while, but then I'd look back and they'd be back 200 yards or so. But they rode by us at the first rest stop, and I thought I'd never see them again. Wrong. Later in the race, we'd swap positions. I'd ride with them for a little while, then pass them. Finally, at my last rest stop, they rode by me as I was picking out some cookies.
I thought, I'm getting on their train. I rode with them from mile 75 to 80, about, then left them behind on a hill, and then a long downhill toward the end of the race. The same guy led them out the whole race; I didn't seem them sharing the workload at all. When I asked him if he was pulling the whole race, he gave me a brusque "No!" Maybe he misunderstood what I meant, but overall they weren't very friendly. Maybe they thought I was leeching off their pace, but every time I took the lead, they would back away. Weird. They became my rivals. I'm glad I beat them.
*** The woman in the pink jersey. I thought she was John from a distance, and when I caught her, she looked tired. "How are you doing?" I asked. "I'm beat," she said. "Don't worry, you'll make it."
I kept riding, and then looked back, and there she was, riding in my draft. "I hope you don't mind," she said. "No problem," I said. "I'm just making sure you're on."
I pulled for a few miles, and could feel the energy slowly draining from my legs. I caught a couple of big guys riding side by side, about 16 mph. I told her I was going to rest a while behind them. I felt the energy return to my legs, and pulled around them, and she went with me. A bit later, I looked back, and she was gone. I hope she did OK.
*** During the second half of the race, I passed a lot of people. I think I was passed myself only once, maybe twice. That's because I started in the last wave, because I wasn't sure how it would go. Because of that, I never could find a group of riders to help push the pace. The closest was the Menasha group, and they were a tad too slow. Next year, I want to move up a wave or two, and hopefully can find a group that can push the pace at 20 to 22 mph throughout the race. Of course, I'll be in better shape then, too.
I placed 893 out of 1,158 finishers, 774 out of 924 Individual Male Bike Race finishers. I finished the ride around Lake Winnebago in 5 hours, 12 minutes and 13.6 seconds, giving me a 17.007 mph average pace.
Really, that ain't very good.
But I loved it, for so many reasons.
First off, I rode it with my cousin-in-law John. John is a half dozen years younger than me, and an Ironman triathlete. He rides a high-end Trek time-trial bike he bought from e-Bay. He asked if I wanted to ride the Fond du Lac race a few months ago, and I thought it was a great idea.
John is a quiet guy, and frankly, I haven't gotten to know him very well throughout the years. So I thought this would be a great chance to learn a bit more about him, and I was right. He is low key, noncompetitive but a tough, stubborn and steady rider. We rode the first 45 miles together at a fairly moderate pace. I'm not exactly sure how fast, because my speedo was on the fritz; it was damp, and it doesn't work in moist conditions. (It started working later.)
At mile 45, there is a pretty decent hill, but before that, a rest stop. I wanted to get some food and water, John wanted to ride the hill right away. We agreed that John would take off, and I'd catch him either at the top, or at a next rest stop. So I pounded a banana and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and took off after him.
Over the next two and half hours, I went through a variety of emotions (none of them despair, however. That's pretty good for me) and states of generalized pain. I rode with a team of riders from Menasha, I helped pull a woman in pink sleeveless jersey for a few miles, I rode with an older guy on a hot Trek; and paced with the Menesha riders again. I crossed the finish line in a ball of pain that's hard to describe.
In many ways, it was a perfect race, because I believe I went as hard and fast as I could have on that particular day.
All along the way, I was looking for John. He was wearing an orangish/reddish sleeveless jersey, I'd see someone with a such a top off in the distance and I'd work hard to catch that rider, only to be disappointed in the end. I kept thinking, "Man, John is really going."
Turns out that John, after we split, turned back to the rest stop because his rear tire seemed soft. We must have missed each other, because I was ahead of him the whole time, never knowing what happened to him. Oh, well.
Meanwhile, here are some other notable highlights of the race:
*** There was a kid, maybe 16, 17 years old, who jumped in the race without registering. He stole food at the rest stops. He rode without a helmet on a cheapo mountain bike, wearing clunky sneakers and employing an erratic pace. As much as he annoyed me, what with stealing food that I helped pay for and all, I kind of admired him for his gutsy quest. The last I saw him was at mile 43, bobbing and weaving, trying to hold a 16 mph pace.
*** The Menesha team -- This was group of five riders, I think, four men and one woman. They rode a steady tempo in a draft line. John and I rode with them early on in the race, but we passed them. John doesn't like riding in a group, and I wanted to stick with him. Besides, we rode away from them. I went to the front of their group, with the idea of pulling for a while, but then I'd look back and they'd be back 200 yards or so. But they rode by us at the first rest stop, and I thought I'd never see them again. Wrong. Later in the race, we'd swap positions. I'd ride with them for a little while, then pass them. Finally, at my last rest stop, they rode by me as I was picking out some cookies.
I thought, I'm getting on their train. I rode with them from mile 75 to 80, about, then left them behind on a hill, and then a long downhill toward the end of the race. The same guy led them out the whole race; I didn't seem them sharing the workload at all. When I asked him if he was pulling the whole race, he gave me a brusque "No!" Maybe he misunderstood what I meant, but overall they weren't very friendly. Maybe they thought I was leeching off their pace, but every time I took the lead, they would back away. Weird. They became my rivals. I'm glad I beat them.
*** The woman in the pink jersey. I thought she was John from a distance, and when I caught her, she looked tired. "How are you doing?" I asked. "I'm beat," she said. "Don't worry, you'll make it."
I kept riding, and then looked back, and there she was, riding in my draft. "I hope you don't mind," she said. "No problem," I said. "I'm just making sure you're on."
I pulled for a few miles, and could feel the energy slowly draining from my legs. I caught a couple of big guys riding side by side, about 16 mph. I told her I was going to rest a while behind them. I felt the energy return to my legs, and pulled around them, and she went with me. A bit later, I looked back, and she was gone. I hope she did OK.
*** During the second half of the race, I passed a lot of people. I think I was passed myself only once, maybe twice. That's because I started in the last wave, because I wasn't sure how it would go. Because of that, I never could find a group of riders to help push the pace. The closest was the Menasha group, and they were a tad too slow. Next year, I want to move up a wave or two, and hopefully can find a group that can push the pace at 20 to 22 mph throughout the race. Of course, I'll be in better shape then, too.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Bike ride: Aug. 5, 2010
40 Miles: Wausau -> Marathon -> Mosinee -> Wausau
Soybeans
Jesus
Tractor
Sunflowers
Ginseng
Hay
Christmas trees
Cow
Soybeans
Jesus
Tractor
Sunflowers
Ginseng
Hay
Christmas trees
Cow
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sentimental pain
For reasons that defy logic and I can't begin to explain, I decided to run the East Hill Loop this evening after work.
The East Hill Loop was the staple run of the Wausau Hill Runners, a dedicated group of harriers that consisted of three Wausau Daily Herald staffers, Dave, Kyle and Me. We would attempt to meet Wednesday mornings before work at the Y. From there we would run up winding city streets that climb the hill on the East Side of Wausau.
For those not familiar with our little slice of paradise in central Wisconsin, the hill is steep climb out of the Wisconsin River Valley. It's not the Rockies of Colorado or the Palisades of NYC, but it is a steep pitch, maybe three quarters of a mile long.
Dave picked the run because he liked pain. So he would look for running routes that featured the best and longest hills. At first I hated him for this, but then, I too, grew to love the hills. My resurgence as a runner began on that hill, what, five years ago now?
Today I ran the four mile route in 36 minutes and 11 seconds. Since I can barely remember my times from the Hillrunners era, I'm not sure this is a personal record, but I think it is.
Dave, do you read this? Let me know.
Dave marked all the routes, found out their distance and kept track of all our times. He wore this old-school LCD stopwatch around his neck, thinking that it made him some kind of Bill Bowerman.
Of course Dave and Kyle kicked my ass up and down that hill. But I still loved it, and I missed them as I felt that clawing feeling in my lungs as I plodded toward the top of the hill.
And I especially missed sitting in a booth at The Mint after our runs, swilling coffee and gulping down the best corned beef hash in the world while solving the problems of the world, the city and the newspaper for which we worked.
The East Hill Loop was the staple run of the Wausau Hill Runners, a dedicated group of harriers that consisted of three Wausau Daily Herald staffers, Dave, Kyle and Me. We would attempt to meet Wednesday mornings before work at the Y. From there we would run up winding city streets that climb the hill on the East Side of Wausau.
For those not familiar with our little slice of paradise in central Wisconsin, the hill is steep climb out of the Wisconsin River Valley. It's not the Rockies of Colorado or the Palisades of NYC, but it is a steep pitch, maybe three quarters of a mile long.
Dave picked the run because he liked pain. So he would look for running routes that featured the best and longest hills. At first I hated him for this, but then, I too, grew to love the hills. My resurgence as a runner began on that hill, what, five years ago now?
Today I ran the four mile route in 36 minutes and 11 seconds. Since I can barely remember my times from the Hillrunners era, I'm not sure this is a personal record, but I think it is.
Dave, do you read this? Let me know.
Dave marked all the routes, found out their distance and kept track of all our times. He wore this old-school LCD stopwatch around his neck, thinking that it made him some kind of Bill Bowerman.
Of course Dave and Kyle kicked my ass up and down that hill. But I still loved it, and I missed them as I felt that clawing feeling in my lungs as I plodded toward the top of the hill.
And I especially missed sitting in a booth at The Mint after our runs, swilling coffee and gulping down the best corned beef hash in the world while solving the problems of the world, the city and the newspaper for which we worked.
Friday, June 11, 2010
The art of relaxation
The goals of this six-day "staycation" was to run, bike and to make some progress on building that basement laundry cabinet that has been in the works for the last seven months.
Oh, and I was supposed to make the dinners this week, too.
Along the way I had hoped to quaff coffee in the downtown coffee shop, take naps, read books and eat some food that is high in sugar and fat content.
I can say, at the start of my third day of this bout of R&R, that I've been successful on all fronts. Even made a dinner or two. (Granted, throwing hamburgers on the grill is pretty easy, and opening a bag of chips is more so, and Kris still whipped up a tasty side dish, but still...)
All those undertakings, however, were secondary, surface activities meant to help me realize the ultimate goal: To relax and recharge.
It would seem simple to take it easy, but that's not exactly the way I'm wired. I've taken these stay-at-home vacations before, and they've gone badly. I end up on the couch flipping through channels, looking for gumption to do anything but sit on the couch and flip through channels. At that point I usually turn to cookies and chips. And then I start thinking about all the things I should be doing. Then I started thinking about my life, and my career, and all the things I wanted to do but never quite got around to completing, or even starting. Then I end up in a worry loop of misery, with my stomach churning and my heart skipping beats every now and then.
I got close to the worry loop a couple of times, especially on the rainy days. But then I got up, and went out into the garage, and started fooling around with plywood and tools.
And it made me feel better.
The key to this staycation, I've found, is to find activities that allow some freedom of thought, but also require a sort of concentration on the task at hand.
A good strong drink after a bout of strenuous exercise seems to help, too.
Oh, and I was supposed to make the dinners this week, too.
Along the way I had hoped to quaff coffee in the downtown coffee shop, take naps, read books and eat some food that is high in sugar and fat content.
I can say, at the start of my third day of this bout of R&R, that I've been successful on all fronts. Even made a dinner or two. (Granted, throwing hamburgers on the grill is pretty easy, and opening a bag of chips is more so, and Kris still whipped up a tasty side dish, but still...)
All those undertakings, however, were secondary, surface activities meant to help me realize the ultimate goal: To relax and recharge.
It would seem simple to take it easy, but that's not exactly the way I'm wired. I've taken these stay-at-home vacations before, and they've gone badly. I end up on the couch flipping through channels, looking for gumption to do anything but sit on the couch and flip through channels. At that point I usually turn to cookies and chips. And then I start thinking about all the things I should be doing. Then I started thinking about my life, and my career, and all the things I wanted to do but never quite got around to completing, or even starting. Then I end up in a worry loop of misery, with my stomach churning and my heart skipping beats every now and then.
I got close to the worry loop a couple of times, especially on the rainy days. But then I got up, and went out into the garage, and started fooling around with plywood and tools.
And it made me feel better.
The key to this staycation, I've found, is to find activities that allow some freedom of thought, but also require a sort of concentration on the task at hand.
A good strong drink after a bout of strenuous exercise seems to help, too.
Monday, May 31, 2010
A breath of fresh air
There's an old hackneyed axiom about Wisconsin weather: Don't like it? It'll change in five minutes.
There's the old joke: "Ohh, my feet hurt," Man 1 says.
"Why is that?" Man 2 asks.
"I just bought these new shoes, and they're a size too small."
"Why did you do that?"
"Because it feels so good when I take them off."
Mix the two together, and you get one of life's greatest simple pleasure: The breaking of a a heat wave.
It's been warm here. Not oppressively hot like what you find in other parts of the country or world, but uncharacteristically humid and hot for Wisconsin this time of year. Ever since I nearly keeled over from heat exhaustion in a haymow the summer of 1983, I have not dealt well with the heat. I tend to get headaches and stomachaches and in general feel as if my cranium has become a cooking pot for my brains when temps climb higher than 86 or so.
But despite this discomfort, I still like it, because I know it'll be a matter of time before the heat gets broken. Sometimes it's with a violent storm, sometimes with gusts of cool air. But it always is interesting.
It was about 87 degrees yesterday, and for the most part it was OK. But in the late afternoon things started getting uncomfortable, with that sticky feeling that finds its way into the body's wedges. We decided to keep the air conditioning off, because a line of rain clouds were heading our way.
After the thunderstorms and rain of last night, I opened the back sliding door this morning and felt that cool, clear rush of fresh air. Ahhh.
That feeling reminded me of the two times before in my life that rainstorms provided a rush of relief.
The first time could actually have been in the aforementioned summer of 1983. I was working on a neighbor's farm, and the weather was brutal. Mom and Dad left for vacation, the first time I spent a significant amount of time home alone. The farmer, Chuck, sent me home early because the storms were building in the west, and there wasn't much to do without an open, clear day.
Man it was hot. The air was thick with moisture, and sun seemed to pierce my skull. It was as if God was steaming us for lunch.
I heard the rumble of thunder far off in the west, and when I went outside, I could see the wall of clouds heading our way, a cavalry charge of thunderheads. As it got closer, tension built. Birds got quiet, and what breeze there was died down.
I could hear the rain hitting the trees a half mile away first, then felt that first gust of cool wind. As the storm got closer, with flashed of lightning here and there, I could see the wall of rain come towards. I stood my ground, and when it hit, I was soaked and almost cold. It felt great.
The second time that happened, I was an intern in Tomahawk. It was a record-breaking hot and dry summer, and spent much of my free time sprawled on the living room floor of my rented-one bedroom under the ceiling fan.
Sometimes I went to a local resort, and swam across a lake. I had just finished such a swim, probably about a half mile, and was sitting on a picnic table when the clouds approached. Again I heard it before felt it. The rain drops created this crackling sound on the lake, nature's snare drum beat. I watched the line of rain roughen the lake's surface, sat there as the line slowly came to me.
Then I was wet again, and cool.
Ahhhh.
There's the old joke: "Ohh, my feet hurt," Man 1 says.
"Why is that?" Man 2 asks.
"I just bought these new shoes, and they're a size too small."
"Why did you do that?"
"Because it feels so good when I take them off."
Mix the two together, and you get one of life's greatest simple pleasure: The breaking of a a heat wave.
It's been warm here. Not oppressively hot like what you find in other parts of the country or world, but uncharacteristically humid and hot for Wisconsin this time of year. Ever since I nearly keeled over from heat exhaustion in a haymow the summer of 1983, I have not dealt well with the heat. I tend to get headaches and stomachaches and in general feel as if my cranium has become a cooking pot for my brains when temps climb higher than 86 or so.
But despite this discomfort, I still like it, because I know it'll be a matter of time before the heat gets broken. Sometimes it's with a violent storm, sometimes with gusts of cool air. But it always is interesting.
It was about 87 degrees yesterday, and for the most part it was OK. But in the late afternoon things started getting uncomfortable, with that sticky feeling that finds its way into the body's wedges. We decided to keep the air conditioning off, because a line of rain clouds were heading our way.
After the thunderstorms and rain of last night, I opened the back sliding door this morning and felt that cool, clear rush of fresh air. Ahhh.
That feeling reminded me of the two times before in my life that rainstorms provided a rush of relief.
The first time could actually have been in the aforementioned summer of 1983. I was working on a neighbor's farm, and the weather was brutal. Mom and Dad left for vacation, the first time I spent a significant amount of time home alone. The farmer, Chuck, sent me home early because the storms were building in the west, and there wasn't much to do without an open, clear day.
Man it was hot. The air was thick with moisture, and sun seemed to pierce my skull. It was as if God was steaming us for lunch.
I heard the rumble of thunder far off in the west, and when I went outside, I could see the wall of clouds heading our way, a cavalry charge of thunderheads. As it got closer, tension built. Birds got quiet, and what breeze there was died down.
I could hear the rain hitting the trees a half mile away first, then felt that first gust of cool wind. As the storm got closer, with flashed of lightning here and there, I could see the wall of rain come towards. I stood my ground, and when it hit, I was soaked and almost cold. It felt great.
The second time that happened, I was an intern in Tomahawk. It was a record-breaking hot and dry summer, and spent much of my free time sprawled on the living room floor of my rented-one bedroom under the ceiling fan.
Sometimes I went to a local resort, and swam across a lake. I had just finished such a swim, probably about a half mile, and was sitting on a picnic table when the clouds approached. Again I heard it before felt it. The rain drops created this crackling sound on the lake, nature's snare drum beat. I watched the line of rain roughen the lake's surface, sat there as the line slowly came to me.
Then I was wet again, and cool.
Ahhhh.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Top (Biking) Gear
My favorite television show is "Top Gear," a British series about car, mostly high end cars. It's sort of "Car and Driver" meets "Mad" magazine.
One of the things that hooked me on the show was when when of the hosts tests a high-end Ferrari and is screaming down a track at 150 mph, there's a display of true joy.
I figured that I would probably never experience that sort of thrill. After all, these yahoos are driving Mercedes, Jaguars and BMWs, all powered by engines that could provide electricity for most medium-sized cities. The cost of these vehicles exceed the economies of most countries on this planet.
Unless there's some dramatic turn of fate, I'll never be able to afford such a vehicle, and until yesterday, I've resigned myself to never feeling that sort of rush. You, know, the feeling that you are in charge of machine that's at the cutting edge.
But yesterday I got a new bicycle. Sure, it sound ridiculous to compare a bike to a Ferrari, but as soon as I got on this machine, and rode it around the block, I understood why the Top Gear guys get carried away with their hooting and hollering and their twisted, over the top metaphors.
As I took this bike out for a shake down ride into the hills northeast of Wausau, I completely got it. I wanted to yell. It was like riding a rocket, and at the same time it was so comfortable and smooth that I felt like was flying. I'm not sure how this could be. But there it is.
So although I am trying to build my life on something other than things, this is one thing that has opened a new door to me. And wow, it felt good to go for a ride.
One of the things that hooked me on the show was when when of the hosts tests a high-end Ferrari and is screaming down a track at 150 mph, there's a display of true joy.
I figured that I would probably never experience that sort of thrill. After all, these yahoos are driving Mercedes, Jaguars and BMWs, all powered by engines that could provide electricity for most medium-sized cities. The cost of these vehicles exceed the economies of most countries on this planet.
Unless there's some dramatic turn of fate, I'll never be able to afford such a vehicle, and until yesterday, I've resigned myself to never feeling that sort of rush. You, know, the feeling that you are in charge of machine that's at the cutting edge.
But yesterday I got a new bicycle. Sure, it sound ridiculous to compare a bike to a Ferrari, but as soon as I got on this machine, and rode it around the block, I understood why the Top Gear guys get carried away with their hooting and hollering and their twisted, over the top metaphors.
As I took this bike out for a shake down ride into the hills northeast of Wausau, I completely got it. I wanted to yell. It was like riding a rocket, and at the same time it was so comfortable and smooth that I felt like was flying. I'm not sure how this could be. But there it is.
So although I am trying to build my life on something other than things, this is one thing that has opened a new door to me. And wow, it felt good to go for a ride.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Trail fitness
I saw a couple of other runners out at Nine Mile County Forest and Recreational Area in Rib Mountain, which is rare.
This is the quiet time out there in the woods. The snow -- and even the wet -- from the cross country ski trails is long gone, but the area is still closed to mountain bikers. It's still open to hunters (it's turkey season, I think) and hikers, but for the most part, most people do that stuff in other parts of the county.
For me, it's my favorite time to go out there. The mosquitoes and ticks aren't overwhelming, and it's cool and the air has that spring dampness to it that feels good in the lungs. (I'll probably come down with blasto, though.)
So this is the time of year I like to ramp up my running, and the Nine Mile trails allow me to build up my legs without the pounding of pavement. Buddy loves it, because he can run off leash, sniffing and looking and running through the brush to his heart's delight.
I'm becoming increasingly addicted to trail running. I used to avoid it because it's slow. The uneven terrain means that my feet land in different positions, and the legs had to react in different ways. That's a sort of uncomfortable feeling. And the softness of the grass and dirt meant that muscles have to work harder.
It wasn't until earlier this year that the notion hit me that I should embrace trail running because of those things. That sore muscles and having to work harder would actually build strength, and make one faster on the roads. It's a testament to my own density that I hadn't made this obvious conclusion before.
So last week Buddy and I went out there on Saturday morning. Although I told myself that could go as slow as I wanted, and time didn't matter, I hit the stopwatch on the Timex anyway. I was sort of pleased that I finished the 10-k loop in a little over an hour. It wrecked me a bit. I was tired and sore when I got back, and both Buddy and I spent about two hours of recovery nap time on the couch.
We went back out there again yesterday, and soon into the run I felt kind of strange. It wasn't a slog like it usually is. I didn't feel heavy and slow. Instead I had the strange feeling of being quick and light. Was this a byproduct of blasto, I wondered?
Maybe it was. But as I clicked through kilometers, I noticed that I was going quite a bit faster than last week, on average, about a minute per mile.
I think I might be getting fitter. What a strange and wonderful feeling that is.
This is the quiet time out there in the woods. The snow -- and even the wet -- from the cross country ski trails is long gone, but the area is still closed to mountain bikers. It's still open to hunters (it's turkey season, I think) and hikers, but for the most part, most people do that stuff in other parts of the county.
For me, it's my favorite time to go out there. The mosquitoes and ticks aren't overwhelming, and it's cool and the air has that spring dampness to it that feels good in the lungs. (I'll probably come down with blasto, though.)
So this is the time of year I like to ramp up my running, and the Nine Mile trails allow me to build up my legs without the pounding of pavement. Buddy loves it, because he can run off leash, sniffing and looking and running through the brush to his heart's delight.
I'm becoming increasingly addicted to trail running. I used to avoid it because it's slow. The uneven terrain means that my feet land in different positions, and the legs had to react in different ways. That's a sort of uncomfortable feeling. And the softness of the grass and dirt meant that muscles have to work harder.
It wasn't until earlier this year that the notion hit me that I should embrace trail running because of those things. That sore muscles and having to work harder would actually build strength, and make one faster on the roads. It's a testament to my own density that I hadn't made this obvious conclusion before.
So last week Buddy and I went out there on Saturday morning. Although I told myself that could go as slow as I wanted, and time didn't matter, I hit the stopwatch on the Timex anyway. I was sort of pleased that I finished the 10-k loop in a little over an hour. It wrecked me a bit. I was tired and sore when I got back, and both Buddy and I spent about two hours of recovery nap time on the couch.
We went back out there again yesterday, and soon into the run I felt kind of strange. It wasn't a slog like it usually is. I didn't feel heavy and slow. Instead I had the strange feeling of being quick and light. Was this a byproduct of blasto, I wondered?
Maybe it was. But as I clicked through kilometers, I noticed that I was going quite a bit faster than last week, on average, about a minute per mile.
I think I might be getting fitter. What a strange and wonderful feeling that is.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Competing
I got my first taste of real competition in the spring of 1982 at an indoor track meet in the Wausau West High School fieldhouse. I ran the 400 meters, or maybe it was 440 yards.
It did not go well.
I spent the night before worrying, with my stomach trying to turn itself inside out. I was almost trembling with fear as I toed the starting line. The gun went off and within the blink of an eye I was 20 yards behind my competitors, and I spend the next minute and 15 seconds experiencing acute physical and psychic pain.
I crossed the finish line not just last, but a spirit-crushing, crying into-your-pillow-at-night, I-can't-believe-how-slow-I-am kind of last. It is a testament to my stubbornness and masochism that I didn't quit track that day. But it also might be a testament to my stupidity, as well, because I was last in every single subsequent track race I entered, for the next three seasons.
Except for one.
It was a cold and rainy spring day in 1984 in Colby, and we were in a meet with two other teams. I can't remember where they were from. But it was an atrocious day to be outside, and the officials, in order to save time, decided to run boys and girls together in the mile race. Usually, the girls would run first, then the boys.
My ineptness as a track runner was surpassed by only one other quality: Sexism. I got to the starting line thinking to myself, "I cannot be beaten by a girl."
As the gun went off, I sprinted to the front of the pack, making sure that no one female was in front of my. As we headed around the first curve, one of my female teammates, a leggy miler named Bridget, tried to get in front of me, but I surged ahead of her, and kept on going.
That race was one of fear and determination, and my legs, instead of feeling leaden and dead, felt lively and strong, and I just ran and ran. I crossed the line in 5:04 for the mile. A mediocre performance by all standards, but wildly, incredibly fast for me. My regular times were 5:40 to 5:30.
I never ran that fast again.
As I've gotten a lot older, and have been beaten by girls, women and old ladies, I have dropped my caveman perspective toward female athletes. But more importantly, I have matured into a whole new attitude toward competition. I still get nervous before races, but I'm not really out to beat anyone. To me, we're all on the same team, and we're all there to help each other get the most out of ourselves. The competition is simply a catalyst for achievement.
And that's how I've come to view the Great Blog Showdown I've entered with my nephews Mark and Luke. It's not the winning or losing, it's that we're pushing each other to be better, more thoughtful bloggers and writers. It's about excellence.
That said, I've got to point out that I'm kicking their asses. Mark is several posts behind me, gasping for air. Luke, well, Luke is just pathetic when it comes to the Great Blog Showdown. All I can do at this point is look behind me, and see them choking in my dust. And it feels good.
It did not go well.
I spent the night before worrying, with my stomach trying to turn itself inside out. I was almost trembling with fear as I toed the starting line. The gun went off and within the blink of an eye I was 20 yards behind my competitors, and I spend the next minute and 15 seconds experiencing acute physical and psychic pain.
I crossed the finish line not just last, but a spirit-crushing, crying into-your-pillow-at-night, I-can't-believe-how-slow-I-am kind of last. It is a testament to my stubbornness and masochism that I didn't quit track that day. But it also might be a testament to my stupidity, as well, because I was last in every single subsequent track race I entered, for the next three seasons.
Except for one.
It was a cold and rainy spring day in 1984 in Colby, and we were in a meet with two other teams. I can't remember where they were from. But it was an atrocious day to be outside, and the officials, in order to save time, decided to run boys and girls together in the mile race. Usually, the girls would run first, then the boys.
My ineptness as a track runner was surpassed by only one other quality: Sexism. I got to the starting line thinking to myself, "I cannot be beaten by a girl."
As the gun went off, I sprinted to the front of the pack, making sure that no one female was in front of my. As we headed around the first curve, one of my female teammates, a leggy miler named Bridget, tried to get in front of me, but I surged ahead of her, and kept on going.
That race was one of fear and determination, and my legs, instead of feeling leaden and dead, felt lively and strong, and I just ran and ran. I crossed the line in 5:04 for the mile. A mediocre performance by all standards, but wildly, incredibly fast for me. My regular times were 5:40 to 5:30.
I never ran that fast again.
As I've gotten a lot older, and have been beaten by girls, women and old ladies, I have dropped my caveman perspective toward female athletes. But more importantly, I have matured into a whole new attitude toward competition. I still get nervous before races, but I'm not really out to beat anyone. To me, we're all on the same team, and we're all there to help each other get the most out of ourselves. The competition is simply a catalyst for achievement.
And that's how I've come to view the Great Blog Showdown I've entered with my nephews Mark and Luke. It's not the winning or losing, it's that we're pushing each other to be better, more thoughtful bloggers and writers. It's about excellence.
That said, I've got to point out that I'm kicking their asses. Mark is several posts behind me, gasping for air. Luke, well, Luke is just pathetic when it comes to the Great Blog Showdown. All I can do at this point is look behind me, and see them choking in my dust. And it feels good.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
A photographer's lament
The title to this post is misleading. It's not a photographer's lament. It's my lament. And I'm not a photographer, although I occasionally take pictures.
More often, though, I wish I could (or would) have taken a picture. Such a situation occurred a couple of weeks ago.
I was running early in the morning -- pre-daylight-saving time change -- as the sun was coming up in the east. This is my favorite time to run, because the rising sun represents hope and the feeling that all things are possible, and I need to be reminded of both as much as possible.
By design, virtually all of my runs end along a street of quiet neighborhood street that overlooks Lake Wausau, and across the stretch of water, Rib Mountain. They are both pretty.
On this day, they were particularly pretty. As I said before, this was early, even more earlier than usual, and the first half of the run was predawn, and the sun was just blinking on the horizon when I reached this stretch of road. As I gazed across the water, a full moon planted itself just above Rib Mountain, and a ring of red from the sun colored the horizon where earth meets sky. It was astounding. It was breathtaking.
At one time on this planet of ours, people similar to us gazed up at the sky and made it their entertainment. They tracked the movements of the sun and the stars and made up stories around the pictures they saw above them. They were entranced by the flow of our universe, and found solace in its workings, even if they didn't understand them. When I saw the moon there, the red of the light, and the faint stars above, I felt a kinship with those forebears, and was jealous of them.
At that point, I thought to myself, I wish I could take a picture of this. And I vowed to bring a camera with me the next day.
The next day I didn't get up as early, and it was quite bright out by the time I made to the Lake Wausau overlook. The moon wasn't full anymore, but it still was kind of full. It wasn't as big as it was the day before, either. And it wasn't situated right above the mountain, but it was slightly askew. It was like this:
Damn you universe! You ruined my shot.
More often, though, I wish I could (or would) have taken a picture. Such a situation occurred a couple of weeks ago.
I was running early in the morning -- pre-daylight-saving time change -- as the sun was coming up in the east. This is my favorite time to run, because the rising sun represents hope and the feeling that all things are possible, and I need to be reminded of both as much as possible.
By design, virtually all of my runs end along a street of quiet neighborhood street that overlooks Lake Wausau, and across the stretch of water, Rib Mountain. They are both pretty.
On this day, they were particularly pretty. As I said before, this was early, even more earlier than usual, and the first half of the run was predawn, and the sun was just blinking on the horizon when I reached this stretch of road. As I gazed across the water, a full moon planted itself just above Rib Mountain, and a ring of red from the sun colored the horizon where earth meets sky. It was astounding. It was breathtaking.
At one time on this planet of ours, people similar to us gazed up at the sky and made it their entertainment. They tracked the movements of the sun and the stars and made up stories around the pictures they saw above them. They were entranced by the flow of our universe, and found solace in its workings, even if they didn't understand them. When I saw the moon there, the red of the light, and the faint stars above, I felt a kinship with those forebears, and was jealous of them.
At that point, I thought to myself, I wish I could take a picture of this. And I vowed to bring a camera with me the next day.
The next day I didn't get up as early, and it was quite bright out by the time I made to the Lake Wausau overlook. The moon wasn't full anymore, but it still was kind of full. It wasn't as big as it was the day before, either. And it wasn't situated right above the mountain, but it was slightly askew. It was like this:
Damn you universe! You ruined my shot.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Setting the bar low
So I ran my first race on Saturday, a 5-kilometer jaunt through the heart of Wausau.
I really didn't want to run this race. I had all sorts of excuses. I haven't been running enough lately. The runs I have been doing have been agonizing slow. I'm not in shape to waste $20 on an activity that will end in embarrassment, pain and low self-esteem. I always figure I can do all that for free.
But this race had a lot going for it. It was sponsored by Wausau's Bull Falls Brewery so I knew there would be beer at the end of it. I told myself that this would be basically a ramped up workout. There would be beer. My boss was walking, and I knew some of the others who would be there, so it would be a social thing. There would be beer. I could run it slow, and use it as a measuring stick for the rest of the season. And, there would be beer.
The money raised from the run also went to a good cause, a program called Never Forgotten Honor Flight. Honor Flight flies World War II veterans from the Wausau area, free of charge, to the World War II memorial in Washington D.C. And, there would be beer.
About running it slow. It's been more than a year since I participated in anything competitive. So I really had no idea where I was, fitness wise. A person needs to be pushed to see where his limits are, and I hadn't been pushed in any meaningful running way since ... well, I couldn't remember. But I do have a benchmark for this year. I'm thinking I may particularly want to focus on 5-kilometer races in order to make my (slightly insane) goal of running as fast as I did in high school. My idea was that this race would be the starting point. If I ran it slow, I figured, I would at least be able to see some improvement in my performances through the summer, even if I never get close to those high school times. It's my typical goal-setting strategy. Set the bar low.
About the beer. I am not a heavy drinker, although I on occasions enjoy beer, red wine, gin and tonics or expensive scotch. I've found the most satisfying time to indulge is shortly after exerting myself physically. The tiredness from a run or a bike mixes pleasantly with the effects of the alcohol. When I am in this state, one beer brings forth an incredibly deep feeling of relaxation and contentment, while setting off a very pleasant fizzy feeling in my head. I'm not drunk. It's much, much better. So I love, love, love runs which end with beer. And I must say, the beer at Bull Falls Brewery is particularly good.
So I started the run at what I felt to be a very casual, conversational pace. The great pack, at least 250 runners, were strung out in front of me. When I passed the mile mark painted on the street, I told myself, "Don't look at the watch, don't look at the watch."
I looked at the watch: 9 minutes. Ooo, I thought, that's a bit too fast. I didn't feel that fast. (Fast, of course, is relative. 9 minutes per mile is slow, of course. But I was aiming for 10 minutes per mile. So it was fast.) I told myself, hey, slow it down a bit. So I relaxed, and seemed to cut back on the throttle by a little.
Mile Two: "Don't look at the watch, don't look at the watch." Of course, I looked at the watch. It was almost 18 minutes on the head. Wow, I thought. That's kind of interesting. By this time I was feeling the effects of the pace, and my breathing was kind of hard. With about a half mile to go, I felt that old "my stomach is trying to crawl into my throat" feeling. But I kept going.
Mile Three: 27 minutes, almost on the button. I cruised the last tenth of mile to the finish line and looked at the watch. 27:48.
Now that's a long, long, long way off my goal of 21. And it's a good 10 minutes behind the winner. But when you run 3 minutes faster than what you expect, you feel pretty good.
It all made the Bull Falls bock taste better, and I stood there with some friends and enjoyed the fizzy feeling in my head.
Now, of course, I'll have to beat that time next time.
I really didn't want to run this race. I had all sorts of excuses. I haven't been running enough lately. The runs I have been doing have been agonizing slow. I'm not in shape to waste $20 on an activity that will end in embarrassment, pain and low self-esteem. I always figure I can do all that for free.
But this race had a lot going for it. It was sponsored by Wausau's Bull Falls Brewery so I knew there would be beer at the end of it. I told myself that this would be basically a ramped up workout. There would be beer. My boss was walking, and I knew some of the others who would be there, so it would be a social thing. There would be beer. I could run it slow, and use it as a measuring stick for the rest of the season. And, there would be beer.
The money raised from the run also went to a good cause, a program called Never Forgotten Honor Flight. Honor Flight flies World War II veterans from the Wausau area, free of charge, to the World War II memorial in Washington D.C. And, there would be beer.
About running it slow. It's been more than a year since I participated in anything competitive. So I really had no idea where I was, fitness wise. A person needs to be pushed to see where his limits are, and I hadn't been pushed in any meaningful running way since ... well, I couldn't remember. But I do have a benchmark for this year. I'm thinking I may particularly want to focus on 5-kilometer races in order to make my (slightly insane) goal of running as fast as I did in high school. My idea was that this race would be the starting point. If I ran it slow, I figured, I would at least be able to see some improvement in my performances through the summer, even if I never get close to those high school times. It's my typical goal-setting strategy. Set the bar low.
About the beer. I am not a heavy drinker, although I on occasions enjoy beer, red wine, gin and tonics or expensive scotch. I've found the most satisfying time to indulge is shortly after exerting myself physically. The tiredness from a run or a bike mixes pleasantly with the effects of the alcohol. When I am in this state, one beer brings forth an incredibly deep feeling of relaxation and contentment, while setting off a very pleasant fizzy feeling in my head. I'm not drunk. It's much, much better. So I love, love, love runs which end with beer. And I must say, the beer at Bull Falls Brewery is particularly good.
So I started the run at what I felt to be a very casual, conversational pace. The great pack, at least 250 runners, were strung out in front of me. When I passed the mile mark painted on the street, I told myself, "Don't look at the watch, don't look at the watch."
I looked at the watch: 9 minutes. Ooo, I thought, that's a bit too fast. I didn't feel that fast. (Fast, of course, is relative. 9 minutes per mile is slow, of course. But I was aiming for 10 minutes per mile. So it was fast.) I told myself, hey, slow it down a bit. So I relaxed, and seemed to cut back on the throttle by a little.
Mile Two: "Don't look at the watch, don't look at the watch." Of course, I looked at the watch. It was almost 18 minutes on the head. Wow, I thought. That's kind of interesting. By this time I was feeling the effects of the pace, and my breathing was kind of hard. With about a half mile to go, I felt that old "my stomach is trying to crawl into my throat" feeling. But I kept going.
Mile Three: 27 minutes, almost on the button. I cruised the last tenth of mile to the finish line and looked at the watch. 27:48.
Now that's a long, long, long way off my goal of 21. And it's a good 10 minutes behind the winner. But when you run 3 minutes faster than what you expect, you feel pretty good.
It all made the Bull Falls bock taste better, and I stood there with some friends and enjoyed the fizzy feeling in my head.
Now, of course, I'll have to beat that time next time.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Milwaukee
Whirlwind weekend in Milwaukee:
** Overnighting in The Pfister Hotel, and feeling like a rube when asking the valet whether I have to pay him to park the Toyota Matrix. The answer is yes, $35. I parked it myself for $25. Riding in the elevator with two men who I presume were Cleveland Cavaliers, who played the Bucks later that night.
** Eating a Serbian dinner at the Three Brothers Restaurant in the Bay View neighborhood. A half order of chevapchichi (Serbian beef sausauges served with raw onions and tomato) and a half order of chicken paprikash (a bone-in chicken breast simmered in a sweet paprika sauce served with a potato dumpling). Washed down with a Czech beer and ending with a small cup of sweet/strong Serbian style coffee. Sitting at '50s style tables in old converted bar. Awesome.
** Attending a concert by The Avett Brothers, a North Carolina band that blasted out bluegrass/punk at the Riverside Theater. Loved it. (Although I worried about the kid passed out in the second row.)
** Getting entralled by 18th-century German art and Biedermeier style furniture at the Milwaukee Art Museum. (And man, to I love that building, with its wings sweeping over Lake Michigan.)
All thanks to Mark and Jen. Whenever I am with them, I am dragged out of my rut and my vision widens.
** Overnighting in The Pfister Hotel, and feeling like a rube when asking the valet whether I have to pay him to park the Toyota Matrix. The answer is yes, $35. I parked it myself for $25. Riding in the elevator with two men who I presume were Cleveland Cavaliers, who played the Bucks later that night.
** Eating a Serbian dinner at the Three Brothers Restaurant in the Bay View neighborhood. A half order of chevapchichi (Serbian beef sausauges served with raw onions and tomato) and a half order of chicken paprikash (a bone-in chicken breast simmered in a sweet paprika sauce served with a potato dumpling). Washed down with a Czech beer and ending with a small cup of sweet/strong Serbian style coffee. Sitting at '50s style tables in old converted bar. Awesome.
** Attending a concert by The Avett Brothers, a North Carolina band that blasted out bluegrass/punk at the Riverside Theater. Loved it. (Although I worried about the kid passed out in the second row.)
** Getting entralled by 18th-century German art and Biedermeier style furniture at the Milwaukee Art Museum. (And man, to I love that building, with its wings sweeping over Lake Michigan.)
All thanks to Mark and Jen. Whenever I am with them, I am dragged out of my rut and my vision widens.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Lake Superior speaks
It took about an hour to trudge the two miles through northern Wisconsin woods to reach the spot on the south shore of Lake Superior.
Suddenly, we were walking near a cliff's edge, looking down several hundred feet to a field of ice chunks shifting and groaning along the shore. The ice pushed into the famous sea caves of the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore. We reached the area about an hour and a half before sundown, a piece of rich serendipity because the sun's light shined into the caves, and it brought out the rich browns and reds of the sandstone.
We stood there for a few moments, looking at the ice oozing out of the cliff walls, listening the lake ice murmuring as the cold water moved below it. I wish I had an audio recorder with me, because even though I try to recreate the sound in my mind now, three days later, I can't quite get it. I remember it as a combination of wind chimes and groaning, and for a moment, it felt like the lake was speaking right to me.
"Wow, it's no wonder the Indians thought the lake was a living thing," Kris said.
The spot is located about two miles north Meyer Beach on the Bayfield Peninsula, about 18 miles northwest of Bayfield.
During many winters, people are able to walk to the base of the cliff on the lake's ice. But this year has been too warm, and wind conditions have created the field of broken chunks that shift and crash into each other about a half mile along the shore. Beyond the ice was open water. A sign at Meyers Beach, put up by the National Park Service, strongly discouraged people from walking along the shore. We took that advice, although it was disappointing.
Even so, taking the overland route was interesting, and not without a bit of adventure. The trail was packed and well-used, but it was slippery, and as we got closer to the caves, it was easy to imagine one taking on false step and sliding into Lake Superior oblivion.
So I still want to see those sea caves close up. I think there might be a kayak trip this summer.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Contentment
I spent about half of last weekend in Madison, the home of our state capitol and the University of Wisconsin.
There was a time when I believed that I would have liked to live in that town. After all, it is a great place. There are terrific restaurants (I'm particularly taken with Buraka, an East African restaurant on State Street. (Great stews, reasonable prices.)There's a youthful vibe. Great museums. An outdoor ethic. I love the fact that it's a great place to ride a bicycle.
But I found that as I was driving around the city, I spent most of my time trying to get to the left hand side of streets. Most of the main streets in the city are four lanes and split by medians. This means that every time I wanted to get to, say a bike shop on the left hand side of the road, I would have to drive past it, take a left, and then drive another half mile away from my destination before making some kind of illegal u-turn, then head back. I grew increasingly frustrated with this ordeal, which had to be repeated time and time again.
Now, I'm sure if I were more familiar with the city, I would rapidly adapt and find better ways of getting around. For example, I wouldn't drive. I would bike. I would learn short cuts and back alleys.
Most of my time in Madison was spent in bike shops and one super running shop. It was a nice time for me, but I found myself wanting to get home, so I could actually go running, or cross country skiing, or ride a bike.
I've found that this place in central Wisconsin is about the best place in the world to indulge those kinds of passion. The bike riding here is terrific. There's abundant cross country ski areas. There's even a relatively decent downhill ski hill. And it's all right out my door. And I don't have to make three left-hand turns and an illegal u-turn to get to them.
Madison is a great place to visit. But I like the livin' here. This contentment thing feels kinda weird.
There was a time when I believed that I would have liked to live in that town. After all, it is a great place. There are terrific restaurants (I'm particularly taken with Buraka, an East African restaurant on State Street. (Great stews, reasonable prices.)There's a youthful vibe. Great museums. An outdoor ethic. I love the fact that it's a great place to ride a bicycle.
But I found that as I was driving around the city, I spent most of my time trying to get to the left hand side of streets. Most of the main streets in the city are four lanes and split by medians. This means that every time I wanted to get to, say a bike shop on the left hand side of the road, I would have to drive past it, take a left, and then drive another half mile away from my destination before making some kind of illegal u-turn, then head back. I grew increasingly frustrated with this ordeal, which had to be repeated time and time again.
Now, I'm sure if I were more familiar with the city, I would rapidly adapt and find better ways of getting around. For example, I wouldn't drive. I would bike. I would learn short cuts and back alleys.
Most of my time in Madison was spent in bike shops and one super running shop. It was a nice time for me, but I found myself wanting to get home, so I could actually go running, or cross country skiing, or ride a bike.
I've found that this place in central Wisconsin is about the best place in the world to indulge those kinds of passion. The bike riding here is terrific. There's abundant cross country ski areas. There's even a relatively decent downhill ski hill. And it's all right out my door. And I don't have to make three left-hand turns and an illegal u-turn to get to them.
Madison is a great place to visit. But I like the livin' here. This contentment thing feels kinda weird.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Cool running
Now that I have gotten back into running after the ailment, I've been thinking about this theory that I have.
Everything is more difficult in the winter. For example, gas mileage in cars suffer in the cold, because oil gets thicker and the engine works harder.
As a runner, I am much slower in the winter, and I think it is more than the treacherous footing and the 12 layers of clothes required to run through a Wisconsin February. I think that running in cold weather is just plain harder, and that if you can persevere to May, you will be tougher.
I've read that capillaries constrict when it is cold. Therefore the heart must work harder to do the same amount of work to get the blood into the muscles. Common sense would tell me that in order to adapt, the heart must get stronger. And if gas mileage goes down, a human body must burn more calories to go, too. This is what I tell myself when I am slogging through my gray morning run. I tell myself I am getting tougher, stronger, and burning more calories. And when things thaw, I am going to be a monster.
In the course of my job, I get to talk to a lot of different people, and many of these people are smart. This week, I've talked to exercise and heart experts, so I asked them about my theory.
Corey Huck, an assistant professor at the School of Health Promotion and Human Development at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point, wasn't buying it. A body acclimatizes to cold and heat, he said. There is a constriction of arteries, it's true,but that's in skin exposed to the cold, he said. A runner wearing proper clothing wouldn't experience it.
His theory is that I'm actually warmer when I run in the winter. Because I'm wearing layers (and a hat on my head), evaporation of sweat doesn't take place, and my body can't cool down as well as it can in the summer, when I'm wearing shorts and t-shirt that allow my sweat to evaporate away, and cool me down. So ironically, I'm overheating when I'm running in the cold, and it may be that that's slowing me down.
However, Dr. Paul Luetmer, a cardiologist for Cardiovascular Associates in Wausau, and the medical director for the Aspirus Heart and Vascular Institute, thinks I might have a point. "Cold air can cause coronary constriction," Luetmer said, and exercising in the cold can put more stress than usual on a person's cardiovascular system. That's why people who aren't fit can get into heart trouble in the winter, like "having the proverbial heart attack while shoveling," Luetmer said.
But that's good news for fit people who want to get fitter.
That means that I can feel superior to runners from California,those poor souls who never get to adapt to the frigid weather.
But running in the cold probably isn't as effective as running at altitude. When a person trains at high elevations where oxygen levels are low, a whole slew of adaptations take place, including changes in the blood and muscles, all of which allows oxygen to get to muscles in a more efficient manner.
That means I should feel drastically inferior to people from Colorado, who have both altitude and cold working for them.
Everything is more difficult in the winter. For example, gas mileage in cars suffer in the cold, because oil gets thicker and the engine works harder.
As a runner, I am much slower in the winter, and I think it is more than the treacherous footing and the 12 layers of clothes required to run through a Wisconsin February. I think that running in cold weather is just plain harder, and that if you can persevere to May, you will be tougher.
I've read that capillaries constrict when it is cold. Therefore the heart must work harder to do the same amount of work to get the blood into the muscles. Common sense would tell me that in order to adapt, the heart must get stronger. And if gas mileage goes down, a human body must burn more calories to go, too. This is what I tell myself when I am slogging through my gray morning run. I tell myself I am getting tougher, stronger, and burning more calories. And when things thaw, I am going to be a monster.
In the course of my job, I get to talk to a lot of different people, and many of these people are smart. This week, I've talked to exercise and heart experts, so I asked them about my theory.
Corey Huck, an assistant professor at the School of Health Promotion and Human Development at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point, wasn't buying it. A body acclimatizes to cold and heat, he said. There is a constriction of arteries, it's true,but that's in skin exposed to the cold, he said. A runner wearing proper clothing wouldn't experience it.
His theory is that I'm actually warmer when I run in the winter. Because I'm wearing layers (and a hat on my head), evaporation of sweat doesn't take place, and my body can't cool down as well as it can in the summer, when I'm wearing shorts and t-shirt that allow my sweat to evaporate away, and cool me down. So ironically, I'm overheating when I'm running in the cold, and it may be that that's slowing me down.
However, Dr. Paul Luetmer, a cardiologist for Cardiovascular Associates in Wausau, and the medical director for the Aspirus Heart and Vascular Institute, thinks I might have a point. "Cold air can cause coronary constriction," Luetmer said, and exercising in the cold can put more stress than usual on a person's cardiovascular system. That's why people who aren't fit can get into heart trouble in the winter, like "having the proverbial heart attack while shoveling," Luetmer said.
But that's good news for fit people who want to get fitter.
That means that I can feel superior to runners from California,those poor souls who never get to adapt to the frigid weather.
But running in the cold probably isn't as effective as running at altitude. When a person trains at high elevations where oxygen levels are low, a whole slew of adaptations take place, including changes in the blood and muscles, all of which allows oxygen to get to muscles in a more efficient manner.
That means I should feel drastically inferior to people from Colorado, who have both altitude and cold working for them.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Why did I get sick? Because it feels so good when it goes away.
A couple of weeks ago a gray illness descended upon me, forcing me to the couch and hours of daytime television watching.
I knew I was sick, because normally I would relished such an opportunity. But the headaches, nausea, sore throat and the general malaise took the fun out of it. This particular bug wasn't particularly intense, but it's taken me a long time to feel well again. That meant that running, skiing or any sort of activity was put on a back burner for a while.
That, in turn, has meant higher anxiety and stress levels, a minor weight gain and a general lethargic view of life.
When I get caught in this cycle of physical and psychical ennui, I begin to believe that it will last forever, and perhaps there is something seriously wrong with my brain or body. Do I have lupus? Fibromyalgia? Some kind of cancer? A symptom of some serious mental illness or a deep depression?
It doesn't help that Kris is constantly watching those reality medical shows such as "Mystery Diagnosis." The storyline of these shows usually begin with something small -- a toothache, for example -- that balloons into a health problem that consumes a person for years.
But this isn't about that. This is about the aftermath, that feeling of recovery that begins with that sweet burst of energy and well-being. Usually my first run after an illness does not go well. The desperation for breath comes early in that run, accompanied by a deep sort of ache. That lasts for maybe 20 minutes, and then it seems to ease, and the steps get lighter.
There are all kinds of cliches that describe this feeling. A curtain lifting, a fog diminishing, the emerging from a tunnel. Suddenly, I'm good again, and that particular rush makes getting sick almost worth it.
***
P.S. -- This is the second installment in "The Great Blog Throwdown" between my nephew Mark and me. I believe we need to include Luke in this, as well. The throwdown is part competition, part external inspiration, and it seems to be working. Check out Mark's blog at http://penelopesa.livejournal.com/. Luke's can be found at http://frubert.livejournal.com/.
I should point out that at this point, I am winning the blog throwdown, two posts to one for Mark, and none for Luke. Although Luke technically isn't an official competitor at this point, so he should get some slack, for now. Get on it guys.
I knew I was sick, because normally I would relished such an opportunity. But the headaches, nausea, sore throat and the general malaise took the fun out of it. This particular bug wasn't particularly intense, but it's taken me a long time to feel well again. That meant that running, skiing or any sort of activity was put on a back burner for a while.
That, in turn, has meant higher anxiety and stress levels, a minor weight gain and a general lethargic view of life.
When I get caught in this cycle of physical and psychical ennui, I begin to believe that it will last forever, and perhaps there is something seriously wrong with my brain or body. Do I have lupus? Fibromyalgia? Some kind of cancer? A symptom of some serious mental illness or a deep depression?
It doesn't help that Kris is constantly watching those reality medical shows such as "Mystery Diagnosis." The storyline of these shows usually begin with something small -- a toothache, for example -- that balloons into a health problem that consumes a person for years.
But this isn't about that. This is about the aftermath, that feeling of recovery that begins with that sweet burst of energy and well-being. Usually my first run after an illness does not go well. The desperation for breath comes early in that run, accompanied by a deep sort of ache. That lasts for maybe 20 minutes, and then it seems to ease, and the steps get lighter.
There are all kinds of cliches that describe this feeling. A curtain lifting, a fog diminishing, the emerging from a tunnel. Suddenly, I'm good again, and that particular rush makes getting sick almost worth it.
***
P.S. -- This is the second installment in "The Great Blog Throwdown" between my nephew Mark and me. I believe we need to include Luke in this, as well. The throwdown is part competition, part external inspiration, and it seems to be working. Check out Mark's blog at http://penelopesa.livejournal.com/. Luke's can be found at http://frubert.livejournal.com/.
I should point out that at this point, I am winning the blog throwdown, two posts to one for Mark, and none for Luke. Although Luke technically isn't an official competitor at this point, so he should get some slack, for now. Get on it guys.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
A nephew's influence
It is with a lukewarm, viscous mixture of self-pity, self-loathing, shame and mild depression that I begin typing this entry. It's been more than a quarter of year since I've updated this blog, although I'm sure I've written some things. I somehow must have clicked on the wrong button or something and it never got posted. (It was great stuff, too. You would have loved it. Unfortunately, I can't remember any of it.)
So imagine my surprise this morning when I mistakenly clicked on the wrong title in "Bookmarks" and was taken to the long-neglected "Never Quite Enough." There was a comment! And instead of the usual online messages I receive, profanity-laced tirades encouraging me to -- I'm paraphrasing here -- to indulge in self love, it was a message from my nephew. (It was posted a month ago. I had to blow the dust off of it in order to read it.)
He challenged me to post more, and even promised to match me update for update. I promptly went to his blog, , and noticed that he hadn't updated it since Dec. 20. And in fact, his last post is about the guilt he's felt about not posting. He should feel guilty about this. He is living an interesting, exotic and vibrant life, and there are many people here who care about him and want to know more about it. So by doing this update, I hope that Mark will update his blog, and we'll all be richer for it.
I should tell you that I have been thinking about updating this blog for some time. But there have been so many hurdles preventing me from writing. The most significant: It's so much easier to not write than it is to write.
But I'm not one to step away from a challenge. OK, I usually am one to step away from a challenge (or run, if necessary.) But not this time.
It occurs to me that this is an example of the powerful influence friends and family have on us. The concept is outlined in a book called "Connected: The Surprising Power of Our Social Networks and How They Shape Our Lives," by Nicholas Christakis and James Fowler. The authors posit that we are influenced not only by the people we hang around, but the people they hang around. This means that if you hang around around people who read a lot, you'll probably read a lot. If you hang around heavy drinkers, you're probably drunk right now.
(From now on, I will only hang out with smart, urbane, thin and rich people. I only hope that they don't read the book.)
So Mark has influenced me to write. And now hopefully, he'll be influenced to write. And it's the dawning of a new day.
So imagine my surprise this morning when I mistakenly clicked on the wrong title in "Bookmarks" and was taken to the long-neglected "Never Quite Enough." There was a comment! And instead of the usual online messages I receive, profanity-laced tirades encouraging me to -- I'm paraphrasing here -- to indulge in self love, it was a message from my nephew. (It was posted a month ago. I had to blow the dust off of it in order to read it.)
He challenged me to post more, and even promised to match me update for update. I promptly went to his blog, , and noticed that he hadn't updated it since Dec. 20. And in fact, his last post is about the guilt he's felt about not posting. He should feel guilty about this. He is living an interesting, exotic and vibrant life, and there are many people here who care about him and want to know more about it. So by doing this update, I hope that Mark will update his blog, and we'll all be richer for it.
I should tell you that I have been thinking about updating this blog for some time. But there have been so many hurdles preventing me from writing. The most significant: It's so much easier to not write than it is to write.
But I'm not one to step away from a challenge. OK, I usually am one to step away from a challenge (or run, if necessary.) But not this time.
It occurs to me that this is an example of the powerful influence friends and family have on us. The concept is outlined in a book called "Connected: The Surprising Power of Our Social Networks and How They Shape Our Lives," by Nicholas Christakis and James Fowler. The authors posit that we are influenced not only by the people we hang around, but the people they hang around. This means that if you hang around around people who read a lot, you'll probably read a lot. If you hang around heavy drinkers, you're probably drunk right now.
(From now on, I will only hang out with smart, urbane, thin and rich people. I only hope that they don't read the book.)
So Mark has influenced me to write. And now hopefully, he'll be influenced to write. And it's the dawning of a new day.
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