Went for a run this morning after week of sloth, no exercise whatsoever.
I'm not sure if I didn't exercise because the week was so stressful, or if the week was stressful because I didn't exercise. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that I woke up at 5:30 a.m. this Saturday morning, and was out in the dark 13 degree morning shuffling along.
Like all first runs after a lengthy layoff, this run was schizophrenic. My legs and knees felt stiff and slow in the beginning, but as I warmed up, they seemed to loosen up, and after a couple of miles, I felt just great.
It's as if a dark wool blanket was lifted off my mind, and my thoughts flowed freely, whereas just 20 minutes before they seemed to be mired in some kind of neurotic sludge.
A colleague told me that he believes that some runners are akin to drug addicts -- that in fact they are drug addicts because they need the endorphins and other natural mood enhancers that aerobic exercise can bring. It's certainly the case for me. So I need to run or bike or swim or do something to get my heart beating and blood flowing; that's OK. That's good.
What's bad is that all too often stress, worry, depression can overwhelm the feeling of wellness that I get from running.
That's when I have to go for a bike ride.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Heat wave
Two days ago, I went for a 14-mile bike ride -- maybe 15 -- and crashed. It was 10 degrees out, and because of the layers I had on it was a little like jumping into bed. OK, maybe not that soft, but I came out of it unscathed. I rode a mountain bike.
Today I went for a 23-mile ride on my touring bike. It was 28 degrees when I started, and about 35 when I finished. It took me about an hour and 50 minutes, so I was slow, slow, slow, but it still felt great.
The greatest thing about it was that, at 28 degrees, it was a pleasant jaunt, one in which I could enjoy my surroundings, cruise along and let my mind wander a bit.
When it's 15 degree or colder, biking takes on a different vibe. I don't feel the freedom of thought on a ride in that kind of cold. Instead, your mind is constantly taking stock of the status of various body parts. Are my feet freezing? No, they're just a little tingly. Are my hands frostbitten? Well, maybe just the tip of my left thumb. Is my head cold? Well, my cheeks are stinging, but that's to be expected. Are my private parts OK? Hmm, well, so far so good.
And then the thought cycle starts all over again. If at any point the internal warning lights go on, it's time to cut the ride short or find a warm library, coffee shop or bar or in desperation, a mall.
On that list my feet are the most problematic. My feet are constantly cold in the winter, and biking makes the problem worse times three. So I use wool socks, neoprene booties that go over regular biking shoes. My feet still get cold, but so far this year it's been manageable.
The wee-wee is the most worrisome. If that gets frostbitten, you're in for a world of hurt. It's happened to me twice,and although there doesn't seem to be any lingering long term effects, it's a private part status I am most anxious to avoid. So when it's really cold, the running list goes like this: Feet, check; wiener, OK; hands, all right; wiener, still OK; head, feels good ... and so on.
My wedding tool worries have dissipated somewhat after my purchase of Sugoi wind-cutting boxer briefs. These have a sort of fleece lining with a windbreaker codpiece. Oh my gosh, but these are life-changing terrific.
Of course none of that mattered today. At 35 degrees, I felt as if I were on spring break. Although it was windy, it was a soft wind, not cutting or biting. The sun shown down and warmed my back. It was heaven.
Today I went for a 23-mile ride on my touring bike. It was 28 degrees when I started, and about 35 when I finished. It took me about an hour and 50 minutes, so I was slow, slow, slow, but it still felt great.
The greatest thing about it was that, at 28 degrees, it was a pleasant jaunt, one in which I could enjoy my surroundings, cruise along and let my mind wander a bit.
When it's 15 degree or colder, biking takes on a different vibe. I don't feel the freedom of thought on a ride in that kind of cold. Instead, your mind is constantly taking stock of the status of various body parts. Are my feet freezing? No, they're just a little tingly. Are my hands frostbitten? Well, maybe just the tip of my left thumb. Is my head cold? Well, my cheeks are stinging, but that's to be expected. Are my private parts OK? Hmm, well, so far so good.
And then the thought cycle starts all over again. If at any point the internal warning lights go on, it's time to cut the ride short or find a warm library, coffee shop or bar or in desperation, a mall.
On that list my feet are the most problematic. My feet are constantly cold in the winter, and biking makes the problem worse times three. So I use wool socks, neoprene booties that go over regular biking shoes. My feet still get cold, but so far this year it's been manageable.
The wee-wee is the most worrisome. If that gets frostbitten, you're in for a world of hurt. It's happened to me twice,and although there doesn't seem to be any lingering long term effects, it's a private part status I am most anxious to avoid. So when it's really cold, the running list goes like this: Feet, check; wiener, OK; hands, all right; wiener, still OK; head, feels good ... and so on.
My wedding tool worries have dissipated somewhat after my purchase of Sugoi wind-cutting boxer briefs. These have a sort of fleece lining with a windbreaker codpiece. Oh my gosh, but these are life-changing terrific.
Of course none of that mattered today. At 35 degrees, I felt as if I were on spring break. Although it was windy, it was a soft wind, not cutting or biting. The sun shown down and warmed my back. It was heaven.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Crashing in the cold
"Are you all right?"
The sweet little old lady asked me the question while sitting in the bus stop shelter, as she watched me disentangle myself from my bike. The bike and I were sprawled in the lane of traffic on Sturgeon Eddy Road, and my first thought was that the bus she was waiting for would come around the corner and forever press me into the blacktop.
It was at mile 13 of a 14-mile loop I was riding in 10-degree weather.
I quickly stood up, and dragged my body and bike off the street. Once on the sidewalk, I moved my joints, checked my legs and looked for fresh blood. Everything worked, and nothing was leaking out of my body, except for the clear viscous snot dripping out of my nose. I wiped it with a leather mitten and turned to the lady.
"You know I think I am all right," I said.
"That was a nasty fall," she said. "You were going quite fast."
I'm not exactly sure how fast I was going. It did not seem to be an unreasonable or reckless speed at the time, but the result proved that judgment to be overly optimistic.
All I did was come around a corner of Grand Avenue, a stretch of road that requires bicyclists to use the sidewalk, and turn onto Sturgeon Eddy. I glanced back over my left shoulder to see if traffic was clear and angled to make the move from sidewalk to street at a driveway. What I didn't see was a small frozen mound of snow, which I hit dead on. My front wheel jumped up, and down, and my mittened hands were jerked from the handlebars.
I went down, sliding and rolling into the lane of traffic. All in front of the little old lady in the bus shelter, who watched it all with wide eyes.
My helmet protected my head, and three layers of warm clothes, including neoprene booties on my feet, protected everything else. I apologized to the lady for scaring her, for crashing in front of her, for causing her worry.
And then I rode home. It actually was a great ride.
The sweet little old lady asked me the question while sitting in the bus stop shelter, as she watched me disentangle myself from my bike. The bike and I were sprawled in the lane of traffic on Sturgeon Eddy Road, and my first thought was that the bus she was waiting for would come around the corner and forever press me into the blacktop.
It was at mile 13 of a 14-mile loop I was riding in 10-degree weather.
I quickly stood up, and dragged my body and bike off the street. Once on the sidewalk, I moved my joints, checked my legs and looked for fresh blood. Everything worked, and nothing was leaking out of my body, except for the clear viscous snot dripping out of my nose. I wiped it with a leather mitten and turned to the lady.
"You know I think I am all right," I said.
"That was a nasty fall," she said. "You were going quite fast."
I'm not exactly sure how fast I was going. It did not seem to be an unreasonable or reckless speed at the time, but the result proved that judgment to be overly optimistic.
All I did was come around a corner of Grand Avenue, a stretch of road that requires bicyclists to use the sidewalk, and turn onto Sturgeon Eddy. I glanced back over my left shoulder to see if traffic was clear and angled to make the move from sidewalk to street at a driveway. What I didn't see was a small frozen mound of snow, which I hit dead on. My front wheel jumped up, and down, and my mittened hands were jerked from the handlebars.
I went down, sliding and rolling into the lane of traffic. All in front of the little old lady in the bus shelter, who watched it all with wide eyes.
My helmet protected my head, and three layers of warm clothes, including neoprene booties on my feet, protected everything else. I apologized to the lady for scaring her, for crashing in front of her, for causing her worry.
And then I rode home. It actually was a great ride.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Poser
My favorite running jacket is a New York City Marathon coat.
It's black, high-tech, full of reflective piping, warm and comfortable.
I bought a few years ago before going for a run in Central Park. I was completely unprepared for the snow that was falling.
When running in New York, I change and lock up my stuff at the offices of the New York Road Runner's Club, located right on Central Park. There was some discounted gear from the previous fall's race, and I decided to buy the coat.
Although it's great, I feel a bit guilty every time I put it on, because it leaves the impression that I actually ran one of the world's greatest races. Every time I see someone while I'm wearing it, I want to explain the whole story.
So I mostly wear it in the winter, when most of my runs are in the dark and no one can see the stitched New York Marathon logo.
I probably should just run the race. It would remove all this angst.
It's black, high-tech, full of reflective piping, warm and comfortable.
I bought a few years ago before going for a run in Central Park. I was completely unprepared for the snow that was falling.
When running in New York, I change and lock up my stuff at the offices of the New York Road Runner's Club, located right on Central Park. There was some discounted gear from the previous fall's race, and I decided to buy the coat.
Although it's great, I feel a bit guilty every time I put it on, because it leaves the impression that I actually ran one of the world's greatest races. Every time I see someone while I'm wearing it, I want to explain the whole story.
So I mostly wear it in the winter, when most of my runs are in the dark and no one can see the stitched New York Marathon logo.
I probably should just run the race. It would remove all this angst.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
