Jenn, Lance & Me

Jenn Shelton keeps popping up in my life. You might be thinking "Who's Jenn Shelton?" She's a minor celebrity. A world-class ultra-marathon runner and a pretty good writer. She had a bit part in Christopher McDougall's massively bestselling Born to Run. Mostly as comic relief. The book made it seem like when she wasn't winning races, she was either lost, or drunk, or wiping out. I read an interview with her once where she said she was unfairly portrayed in Born to Run. To paraphrase: “Maybe everything written about her was technically correct, but it still wasn't fair. And not great for her career.”

Possibly, it wasn't fair, but I doubt it was bad for her career. The very fact that I read an interview with her suggests that Born to Run put her on the map. Maybe not in the ultra community, but definitely for the rest of the running world. I read Born to Run years ago, but suddenly I'm bumping into her left and right, figuratively, of course.

Last week, on a beach vacation, I read Scott Jurek's Eat & Run, his 2012 autobiographical account of his unlikely ultra career. In this book, he name-drops Shelton three or four times. As if he's trying to capture some of her status. The irony of this is that in McDougall's 2006 book, Shelton is portrayed as a star-struck kid when she meets Jurek. Now Shelton is the star. Wholesomely pretty, always smiling in pictures. Self-deprecating, acting like she doesn't have her life together. Living day-to-day, but on her own terms. She represents everyone's wild little sister. She's one of the few marketable ultra-runners.

When I returned home from the beach, I had two Trail Runner magazines waiting in my mailbox. Six weeks ago, I grabbed one in a book-store. I loved it and decided to subscribe. This always ends the same way. I'll buy a magazine at a newsstand for an absurd price. I'll see that I can subscribe for a whole year for a few dollars more than I just paid for the one issue. I wait and wait, and when the magazine arrives, there are two of them. The new month and a copy of last month, the one I've read three times while waiting for my subscription to start. Not only did I overpay for the first copy of the magazine, but I wasted eight percent of my new subscription on a magazine I've already memorized.

Jenn Shelton is a contributing editor for Trail Runner. And so far – two magazines worth of content – a pretty good one. An engaging, clean, thoughtful writer. In the July issue, she writes about a Grand Canyon running adventure with Lance Armstrong. If I have a hot-button, Armstrong is it. OK, I have more hot-buttons than I can count, but Armstrong is high on my list. Before I even started reading the article, I was crafting a letter to the editor in my head – full of contempt and smug self-righteousness. This kept my mind occupied on a scorchingly hot eight mile run.

Armstrong isn't a hero, he's a cheater. "Everyone else does it" isn't an excuse. He has no place in competitive sports, even for recreation. Gains made on performance enhancers don't disappear when the cheating stops. He dumped his wife after she nursed him through cancer. He dumped his girl-friend, Sheryl Crow, when she got cancer. I'm a counter-culture type – disdainful of those embraced by mass-media and the rest of the masses. Lance Armstrong was the anointed "prince of the fitness crowd." With his EverythingSTRONG brand and his stupid yellow bracelets. It made my eyes roll, and my head shake every time his name was mentioned, which, at his peak-popularity, was several times a week. I enjoyed his fall from grace. His clipped wings, his plummet from the clouds.

See? I'm really down on this guy. Judging him without really knowing anything about him. Unfair? That never stopped me before.

Eight miles is a long time to mull over a single subject. Eventually I softened a bit. The trail racing community hasn't banned Lance, so he has joined it. And why not? It's a perfect fit. The sport is littered with broken souls and checkered pasts. Substance abusers trading one addiction for a (questionably) healthier one. Runners who have hit the woods, not just for solitude, but to escape society. The mentally ill, the lonely souls, ex-cons, the chronically injured. It seems like every time I read something about the trail running, I'm reading about redemption.

I fit right in. A long history of alcohol abuse, social anxiety, OCD, and Tourettes. I've been a lifelong runner, but as a trail runner, I feel like I've finally found my sport. I might even say I found my identity. But this is something I work to avoid – gaining identity from activities. I've spent too much of my life putting myself in boxes : a runner, a writer, a drinker, a liberal, a guy with OCD. I took these definitions, I drew a circle around each of them, and I said "these are me". Over the past few years I've worked to switch my thinking. To see myself as something more than the contents of these circles.

There is something about trail running that appeals to the beaten-up crowd. The misfits who feel uncomfortable in polite company. Those who prefer to compete against themselves rather than against others. Pace is all but meaningless on an ungroomed trail. Speed is sacrificed to technical-ness. The ability to navigate through a rock-garden without turning an ankle. Crossing an ice-glazed stream without dunking your feet. And of course there are the hills. Hills on the roadway are rounded down to save gas, to protect car engines. Natural wooded trails tend to follow the most efficient route. Sometimes this includes switchbacks, but usually the trail is a straight line up a hill. The fastest way to the top.

The hills and terrain can be brutal, even scary. And for many (most?) trail runners, this makes a running path even more appealing. There is an element of metaphorical self-flagellation in the trail community. Embracing punishing routes as preferable, maybe even enjoyable. As if the purpose of the run is to serve penance for our weaknesses, our vices. Society won't punish us, so we need to punish ourselves.

My beach trip last week was to North Carolina's Outer Banks. There is a park there that consists of nothing but sand dunes. All of my runs in North Carolina were run barefoot on soft sandy beaches. Uneven foot-strikes and poor traction. An attempt to toughen myself up. But my favorite run of the week was hill repeats on the dunes. Simultaneously burning my quads and calves with effort. And the soles of my feet with scorching sand.

I saw hundreds of runners in North Carolina. Virtually all of them on the bike path adjoining the main roadway. I saw a few on the beach, but in hard-packed sand down by the water. None in the soft, uneven sand where the tide rarely reaches. And certainly no one running the dunes. I have to believe that if Jenn Shelton or Scott Jurek or even Lance Armstrong were there, they would be blowing past me with a big grin on their collective faces. Running away from – or possibly chasing after their demons.

After reading Shelton's essay, I'm unable to write a rebuttal. There is nothing to rebut. Jenn is not apologetic for Armstrong. In fact she's kind of mean. She calls him a prima donna. A guy motivated by a soft bed and a good meal. Not as mentally tough as the trails-heads in her circle. But she also calls him a friend. She is not judgmental of his past sins. They have nothing to do with their relationship. They like to run, to joke, to poke fun at one another. Besides being a great runner and a fine writer, Jenn seems to be a pretty good person as well. I'm glad I'm getting to know her.

Cheat

Portrait of a Runner

It all starts with the feet. The birth-place of injuries. I'm a life-long heel striker, and I've paid the price for it. When I started running in the seventies, proper running form didn't exist. Well, this isn't true, but my cross country coach never once mentioned form. He talked about strategy. "Crest the hill" was his favorite saying. But form? Nope. He never mentioned nutrition either, except one time after a Friday practice, he said "Don't drink too much beer tonight, kids, we have a meet in the morning." This was the seventies. Things were different.

My long, loping stride, launch from the toe, land on the heel was common, fine with my coach. And the result was nasty bouts with shin-splints and twenty years of knee bursitis. I can be stubborn. I always think I know what's best – for me, for others. I could never be convinced that my running form was related to my injuries. Running partners would complain about my foot-slapping gate. Running on a treadmill was an embarrassing racket. A recent reading of Christopher McDougall's "Born to Run" changed all of this. His early chapters talking about form and injuries caught me off guard. Made me think of myself. And his descriptions of trail running reminded me that wooded trails were my favorite place to run.

Eighteen months ago, I set out to work on my foot strike, my stride. Move to a mid/front sole landing, with a tight, gliding stride. And I think I've finally got it. I have the evidence. A few weeks ago, I ran a five mile road race. My first in two years. Since coming off an injury (knee bursitis, again), and rebooting my stride, I've stuck to the trails, even in races. Nothing on the road for 24 months. But this race is special to me. I was its first race director, and I had the privilege of laying out the course. A simple out and back with nothing but hills. It's not a very popular race, too hard for the 5K crowd, not long enough for the half-marathoners. 8Ks and 10Ks seem to be out of favor these days. At least in my region.

At the home stretch of this race a photographer was shooting the runners as we finished. He got a couple of good ones of me. One head on, and one from the side. With these, I'm able to evaluate my stride, my posture. And because it is the end of a race, when I'm tired, the data is more pertinent than when I set out – when proper form is foremost in my thoughts. Looking at these two photos of my finish, I'm elated but surprised to see good form. Upright posture, a perfect foot strike. Right on the ball of my foot. This success has been hard won. Switching strides thirty-five years into your running career takes effort, pain. Relearning what you know. Building new muscles. Back to basics, back to the start. Every run felt like my first. My calves hurt all the time. My foam-roller was my most important running equipment.

My pace took a two minute hit while I learned my new stride. Everything I ran was at a ten-minute pace. Not my normal eight. Short, long, it didn't matter. All runs came in with ten-minute splits. And my pace has been slowly creeping back down ever since. My overall time for this race was about thirty seconds off the time I posted four years ago. This race was 8:10 per mile, so I'm going to call myself done. I'm as fast a runner as I used to be, pre-switch, and now I have proper form.

Two years ago, I ran the same race and did fairly well. I can't compare times because the volunteer who set up the turn-around point missed by a quarter of a mile. Still, it was one of my faster race-paces since I left my thirties, down in the sevens. The same photographer was taking pictures at the finish and he got a clean one of me. I looked like hell. In pain, terrible form, and somewhat emaciated, skinny, old. Fast, but sickly.

I work at a community center with an awesome fitness center. Huge floor, comprehensive selection of weight machines and free weights. But I never used them. My exercise routine was spinning and yoga. I was disdainful of people who pumped weights. I didn't see the point. I was strong, flexible and fit. Most people at a fitness center are trying to lose weight. I couldn't have been any thinner, more lean. I felt that I was everything that everyone else was trying to achieve.

The guy who finished the race immediately after me was Brad, my co-worker's boyfriend. We were in the same age group, and he trash-talked me a bit before the race. There is a good photo of him finishing the race as well. And the contrast between his photo and mine is sickening. He is upright, buff, confident. Pumped up, almost cartoonish – like Captain America. He looked great. It doesn't matter that I beat him. He looked better losing. Much better. I was so shocked by the difference in the photos that I started lifting weights again.

Fitness-wise, this has been a ground-breaking two years for me. My entire adult life, I've exercised, a lot. But I've never really had an exercise program, a clear idea of what I was trying to achieve, (other than fitness). Running, mountain biking, soccer. Weight-lifting, swimming, yoga, spinning. I've been fairly fit, but without a plan. In and out of fads, focus areas. Essentially working however I wanted, whatever felt right. Without thought to an overall fitness goal. Imbalanced muscles – especially my quads – countless injuries.

After comparing myself to Brad, I wanted some muscle mass. I wanted to look fit, not just thin. And I'm a much healthier person for it. I began to put as much mental effort into my fitness program as the physical. I began researching workouts, proper form, muscle balance. I incorporated plyometric drills and compound lifts a la Crossfit. Stole bear-crawls and power-ups from Parkour. I inserted intensity drills into my spinning class after completing a HIIT certification. And I added body-weight exercises from www.bodyrock.tv (I go to that site for the workouts, really). Gone is the split-system weight training I used twenty years ago. My exercises now are much more in line with real-world activities, not just pressing weights.

The results have been remarkable. Not only do I look more fit, I am more fit. Better muscle balance, fewer exercise injuries, faster recovery. A stronger runner, more of an athlete. Body awareness, tighter, sturdier, stable. This all helps my trail running, and it helps me age. Now in my fifties, I feel that my fitness is still improving, or once again improving after a long break. It gives me hope that in ten or twenty years, I'll still be running trails, working out, instructing spin classes. My current retirement-career goal is to be a personal trainer to the over-fifty crowd. Not for people just wanting to tone up or lose some weight. Folks who are looking for true fitness. Setting new goals, stretching to achieve them. But for now, I'm working on myself.

Snow

In the winter of our discontent, also known as 2014, my part of the U.S. has had cold weather, Really cold weather. And repeated ice storms. My kids had time off school, at least a delay, several times a week throughout all of January. But it wasn't until early February that we got a real snow storm. Finally a dumping that we could do something with. Snowman by the street, snow angles in the backyard, snow forts on either side of the driveway.

The morning after our 'storm of the winter' I went for a run. In fact the snow was still coming down, but barely. Just a light flurry with almost no additional accumulation. The end of the storm. My town borders a national park, and a trailhead into that park starts from my back yard. This isn't coincidence or luck. This is days of hard work. Blazing a trail, digging up poison ivy and thorn bushes, bridging streams. But the result is a wooded path that links up with ten miles of existing horse-trails that surround most of the park.

This winter, I've taken a break from running. After a tough trail race in mid-November, I took a week off. I went for a Thanksgiving Day run (because I always do), but then nothing until New Year’s Day. I guess I needed a break. Then the weather got cold. So cold that I just couldn't bring myself to go out and exercise. I'm definitely not a weather-wimp. I ride my bike to work every day, in all conditions, even in sub-zero temps. But the prospect of pounding out miles on rock-hard, icy ground never sounded appealing. And because I work at a community center with a huge gym, I have warmer options.

I won't run on a treadmill. It assaults my sensibilities of what running is all about. Which is communing with nature, enjoying the terrain. Strangely enough, I have no problem riding a spin bike, and even instructing spin classes. Most of the serious fitness folks around town are perfectly content knocking out long runs on a treadmill, but many see spinning as an abomination. But for me, this winter has been all about spinning, weight lifting, and H.I.I.T. circuits.

With our snowstorm came warmer temperatures. Barely below freezing. After commuting daily in single digit and low-teen temperatures, this felt like a heat wave. I woke up in the morning with one goal. A long, deep-snow run. The woods were pristine. Twelve inches of unmarred snow. Every now and then, I would join up with deer trails, but for the most part, the only foot prints were mine. And when I was done, I was shocked at how great a workout it had been. An hour of my slow loping gate, high knees the whole way. Each foot fall, an unpredictable angle. This was more about core than legs. My whole body was exhausted. Even my shoulders, chest and back were used up.

The next day, I had a standing monthly meeting that includes some of our most frequent gym patrons. They were complaining about missing a workout day. These are people who will spend upwards to two hours per day in the gym. Pounding on a treadmill, sweating through hour-long spin classes, riding an elliptical for forty minutes at a shot. I suggested that shoveling snow was probably just as good a workout as what they would have gotten at the gym, and each uniformly reported that they clean their driveway with a snow-blower.

This disgusts me. Ignoring the environmental impact and the unnecessary noise pollution, what the hell is the point of being fit if you aren't going to use it. These aren't people with long country lanes as driveways. They have short two-car drives on their quarter-acre lots. Snow-shoveling, a total body workout. Quads, hamstrings, glutes, back, shoulders, arms. Deep breathing – fresh, cleanly scrubbed air. Conversations like this one helps realign my thinking. Helps me remember that the best gym has no walls. 

A week later, I repeated my run. Since our storm, we have had several warm days and even a couple of rainy ones. The temperatures dip below freezing each night, but then back into the forties during the day. We even had a few days in the fifties. When I headed out for my run, I expected a sloppy, muddy mess. It was warm, high in the forties. Running in shorts, a long sleeve shirt, gloves and a hat. There was no mud. The snow had survived the week. Under the crusty surface was a bed of soft, wet snow. Three to four inches of drop for each footfall. Because the snow was not as deep as the previous week, I could go farther, longer on this run. The crustiness made for a more unpredictable foot-strike, which created a heightened core workout, but my legs had much more stamina than on my last run. Things were not as pristine as my last time out. A few other people had been out on the trail. Someone with skis, a dog walker. But no other runners. I just don't understand this.

Nature offers so few opportunities to shake it up. My snow runs are my most memorable workouts of the winter. They were hard, slow, deliberate workouts. All alone, no one to witness what I was doing. In my house, we joke that if no one you know sees you when you go out for a run or a bike-ride, it doesn't count. Well these runs don’t count at all. I didn't see a single person on either day. But what these runs did was re-energized my desire to get outside and experience the world. I've had my pampered winter, and now I'm ready to toughen up and start crushing some unpaved miles. Re-explore the trails as they begin to green-up with Spring. All winter I've been worried about whether I was going to have the motivation to start running again, but now I can't wait for my next opportunity to get outside. And I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I hope it snows again this year.