Race Day

5:00 AM. The race doesn't start until ten. Now what? Five hours! Internet news, two cups of coffee. That might eat up an hour. Some stretching? Not four hours of stretching. Can't take on a house-chore. Need to save my legs. Besides, no one else will be up for two more hours. I'm usually done running by eight o'clock. What do I do until ten?

Thankfully the pre-race jitters didn't start until yesterday. Sometimes they set in a week before, sometimes two weeks. I've been calm about this race. I've done it twice before, so I know what to expect. My training was disrupted by a lingering cold and a sore calf, so my plan is to take it easy. Start slow, have fun, and come in with a respectable, unimpressive time.

But yesterday I got an email with final race instructions. That set me off. Got me thinking about the race. A 10K trail run. Lung-burning hills. Enough rocks and roots to trip a mountain goat. Last year I pushed hard the whole race and age-grouped. This year, my legs feel great. Injury free for three or four weeks. Had a clean taper. Why am I holding back? I could smoke this race!

No. Stick with the plan. I haven't even charged my watch. Running on breath, on feel. I don't want to be a slave to pace. I don't want to stress about how slowly I'm hitting the hills. I picked out my travel music – a live Clash disk. Angry, driving music. Might help me release some steam, some tension.

It's freezing out. Frosty. What to wear? Tights? Shorts? How many layers? Which gloves? Where should I leave my stuff during the race? In my car? Too much extra walking. Should I take warm clothes for the after party? Should I have more coffee? Should I eat? What should I eat? Should I take food with me?

7:00 AM. The house is stirring. Kids are up and streaming Netflix. My wife is drinking coffee, watching me pace around the house. Go to the bathroom, foam-roll, go to the bathroom, stretch, go to the bathroom. Pack my bag. Take everything. Tights, shorts, four layers, a coat, two pairs of gloves. In the car fifteen minutes earlier than I expected. Glad to be gone -- I was driving everyone nuts.

8:45 AM. Packet pickup. Much colder than I expected. Maybe 28 degrees. The sun hasn't cleared the mountains and the trees. Everyone is shivering. Guess I'm running in tights, extra layers. Grabbed a coffee, discussed the course with other anxious runners. Too cold to stand outside. Back to the car -- my early start won me great parking. My feet are numb, heater blasting. Assess the race bag. Pin my bib to my shirt. Too low. Now crooked. Not centered. Fourth time, good enough.

9:30 AM. Pre-race briefing. Review of the course. Jokes about the perils of trail-running. Nervous laughter all around. Finally some sun is reaching the ground, much appreciated warmth. But the frost hasn't melted. I'm ditching the tights. Back to the car, back to the heater, back to the Clash. Minutes to go. Decide on my attire. Go minimalist. Shorts and a long-sleeve shirt. Plus the t-shirt with my bib. I can't possibly change that now.

10:00 AM. Halfway back in the pack, anticipating. A cannon roars and we’re running. Well, jogging. I usually start up front, set an early, unsustainable pace. This is different, more relaxing. Next mile and a half is up hill. Passing lots of runners. They’re slowing down, I'm speeding up. At the top of the hill, I'm all out. Race pace. Running with a man and woman who will be with me the rest of the race. The woman is fast and strong, but slow over the rocks. The man is a slightly stronger version of me. The woman and I pass each other several times. I wish she would just attack the technical stuff and stay in front of me. She wishes I'd quit jogging the flats and stay ahead of her. These guys are fit. And young. I must be running well, fast. I dig in.

10:42 AM. Starting up the mountain. Everyone is walking. I've vowed to run it this year. I’m not any faster, but it feels right. And I get a bit of an edge when I hit the top. I’m already running, not questioning when to restart. Back on the flats. That pair of runners pulls away from me. I'm used up, nicely. Still running hard, but no burst left.

11:06 AM. Out of the woods and onto the home stretch. I see the clock and I crack out an exhausted "Ha!" Five minutes slower than last year. But I finish strong. Folks cheer as I cross the line. My wife and kids are there. Some running friends. High-fives. A post-race beer. Camaraderie. Part of a tribe, 250 crazy souls willing to gut through a sub-freezing 10K in the mountains.

And then it's over. I go home and resume my day. I wonder if it is worth all the stress, all the worry. Yes it is. Two days later, and I'm still buzzing. Still feel the adrenaline. Picking a line through the rocks; hopping a creek; ducking a branch. Me against nature, or me in the midst of nature. Looking forward to this weekend, to my next trail run.

When Everything is Going Well

Twelve days ago, I stopped drinking, Almost. Maybe. Not sure yet. A lifetime of substance abuse. Serious and destructive in my teens, in my twenties and thirties. Under control in my forties and fifties, sort of. I drink daily, two drinks, three drinks. Never drunk but unable to quit. Afraid to quit. Always worried that without my relaxing, day-end glasses of wine, life won't be worth living. Now I'm not sure this is true.

On Sunday morning, I ran ten miles and change. Thirty years ago, I did this weekly, sometimes twice a week. Long exploring runs throughout Washington, DC. National parks, nice neighborhoods, not-so-nice neighborhoods. That was before knee-bursitis hobbled me. Limited my runs to four or five miles at a shot, my weekly total to less than fifteen. There have been times I've been able to push out longer runs, including a ten mile race three years ago, but since Sunday was actually a quarter-mile longer than ten, this was my longest run in at least twenty years.

Eighteen months ago, I started blogging.  Writing at a local coffee shop, once or twice a week. I envisioned myself a curmudgeon. I believed that I had funny, insightful complaints about society. My blog would be my outlet. I would get attention and become a syndicated columnist. Paid to bitch – everybody’s dream. This didn't happen, or it hasn't happened yet. I'm not funny, and for the most part, I only write about myself. My writing sessions have expanded to four or five per week, and the stuff that comes out, all very personal. Not about society, except in ways that I mirror society. Self-exploration in a way that has allowed me to better understand myself and make some positive changes.

And here, at the start of a new year, a time when it is natural to take stock of your life, I've been thinking about the impact that writing has had on my physical and mental health. We all have nagging thoughts. Weight issues, financial worries, chronic injuries, relationship problems. Because I have OCD, my nagging thoughts probably nag a bit more than others'. And when those thoughts become unbearable, when I develop the courage to face a topic, when I decide to spend four to eight hours thinking and writing about a problem, I often solve that problem. Probably too strong a word. Most problems are unsolvable. But I gain understanding, acceptance, peace. I change or improve the way the problem affects me.

At times we need to step back and assess. It is easy to get caught up in the problem of the day. Assume that because something isn't right, everything is wrong. By looking back at what I was concerned about a few years ago, I realize that I'm a completely different person. I'm more confident, more balanced, kinder. Actualized, at least a little. Three years ago, all I could think about was how much I hated my job. Frustration with co-workers, my boss, my pay, my responsibilities. I felt like a loser. A smallish fish in a small pond. I compared myself to those around me. Their profession, their pay, their athletic ability. Everyone was more impressive. Everyone else had their act together.

I was agitated, quick to anger, quick to put myself down. Obsessive thoughts, Tourette’s tics, chronic injuries that limited my running, my overall fitness. Social anxiety – unable to connect with those around me. That was three years ago. Today? OCD, Tourette’s Syndrome, injuries, social anxiety – they are all still present. But they leave me less agitated, less angry. As my wife’s Buddhist guru, Tara Brach would say, “by exploring these subjects, by inviting them in, by spending time with my problems, I take away their power."  

Last Monday morning, I was riding the double high of a week without alcohol, and a Sunday morning run long enough to leave me fully winded. I was buzzing. Feeling like all of my problems were solved. My OCD has been simmering on low. The unattractive retching I experience when stressed, unexpected dry-heaves, and occasionally vomiting, has disappeared. Missing for four weeks. I don’t know where it went, but I’m glad it’s gone. Tourette’s tics, omnipresent, have become a non-issue. I’ve told everyone I know that I have Tourette's Syndrome. The tics are just part of who I am. Take me or leave me.

Monday morning, everything was cured. Throw away the Prozac and cancel my therapy appointments. Sign up for a marathon and book me to give a presentation at the chamber of commerce. I was fixed. My blogging, my self-analysis, my therapy, my incessant foam rolling. Changes to my running style, my form.  All of the things I’ve incorporated to combat these problems, they worked. Not a problem left in the world.

Monday afternoon, I was a mess. Elevated, agitated beyond belief. Obsessing about everything in my life. Unable to focus at work, unable to control my tics, even a little. I know these ups and downs are part of mental illness, and actually part of everyone's life. Mine are likely to be more dramatic than the next person's, but I am now blessed with the ability to understand what's happening. When OCD and anxiety strike, I'm not blind-sided. I don't lash out at my co-workers, my wife, my kids. I'm able to fall back on my experiences to weather the storm, knowing that tomorrow – or even later today – will be better.

For the first time since I started my self-improvement regeime of therapy and theraputic writing, I am able to look at myself, my overall being and say I'm better. Not cured. This stuff isn't curable. But I'm better, much better, than I was.

Validation

Me: Like a teenager waiting for the phone to ring. Right, teenagers don't talk on phones. It's all texting, Facebook, tweets, other medium I haven't heard of yet. I don't use any of these. I use email, but no one else does. The spammers and me.

I don't get out much. Maybe a bit reclusive. My "public appearances" are infrequent. Everyone knows who I am, but few people actually know me. Twice weekly, I instruct a early morning spin class. I brief my company's board of directors monthly. I run a handful of road races each year. Recently I added a Wednesday night outing with a running group. This is pretty much all. The only times when I'm on display, out in my community. Well, this and my blog. But that's anonymous. And every week or two, we'll get together with another family for drinks, dinner, that sort of thing. Quiet life. Not a ton of social interaction.

When I do something in public and do it well, I want someone to notice, to comment, to validify. Great spin class! You smoked that 5K! Excellent briefing! Wow, you really nailed that! How do you grill your hot dogs so perfectly? I'm looking for that pat on the back. The affirming email. An acquaintance to approach me, tell me that people are talking about how great I was. Seriously. This has to be some sort of mental illness. If I was on Facebook, I'd be tallying "Likes".

On Sunday, I posted an essay to my blog. Beer Running. I loved it. I started writing it as a promotion piece for a fitness oriented council I serve on, but it morphed into a heartfelt piece about my inability to connect with others. And then... Silence. These postings don't come easy. Lots of work. Heart and soul, innermost thoughts, all that crap. I'm looking for a nod. A "plus-one". A positive comment. "Your essay changed my life." This doesn't happen. And why should it? I don't do much of that either. I don't even know why people read my blog. It's all over the place. Fitness, mental illness, ranting about society, technology, teachers. In truth, I don't even know if anyone reads my blog. Lots of page views. From all around the world. But how long do they stay? Stumble in, think "what the hell is this?" Then quickly click out. 

And why do I care? I blog for myself. To work through my issues. Give myself space and a backdrop where I can ponder. To improve my writing. And it works. On the days I write, I feel better. More at peace. I've purged my demons. Opened a valve to let out some steam. But once I post the essay, the peace is gone. Now I'm just looking for someone to prop me up. Acknowledge that they read the essay. Argue a point. Anything. 

I have the same issue with spinning. I instruct the class that I want to take. The workout has purpose, the music too. But the workout and the music are unlike the other classes at my fitness center. Especially the music. Hard driving classic rock and punk. A bit of Reggae. Some middle-eastern folk music, weird kids' music. Anything. Except the radio pop and country the other instructors use. I started my own class because I was sick of other instructors calling off, sleeping in. This way I knew that if I showed up before dawn, the class would happen, the instructor would be there. Initially, I said I didn't care if anyone came. The point was the workout. Now I'm disappointed if only five people or six people show up. Disappointed if they don't walk out of the room mumbling "best.spin.class.ever."

And then I wait for the feedback. The feedback that never comes. An email. A phone call. "I never understood a balance sheet until I heard you explained it!" Or a link to someone's Facebook post. Telling the world how great I am. "Guys, you have to read this blog!" "... take this spin class!" It's pathetic, needy, high school.

I confessed this to my wife, Susan the other day. My need for external validation. BTW – Susan doesn't like it when I write about her on my blog. She feels that I make her seem too together, too evolved. But the fact is that she is more balanced and thoughtful than me. I am more instinctual. Primal. Impulsive. Childlike. And of course she told me exactly what I needed to hear, and what I already knew, but needed to be reminded. The only one who will give me the validation I need, the props I crave, is me. I am the only person I need to impress. Peace comes from actualization. Not from pats on the back. When I do my best, nail something – a run, a class, an essay, grilled meat – I should just soak it in, feel proud. And strive to improve next time. An audience of one.

A stupid validation joke from my past.

Me, handing my parking stub to the bartender: "Can you validate me?"

Bartender: "You're a wonderful person!"

Everyone is looking for it. I know this. I see posts on Google begging for plus-ones. To be circled. At work, I see posturing in meetings, bragging about achievements. This is the result of a lifetime of conditioning. Feedback from parents, teachers, employers. We are supposed to impress others. It's the American way. It might be the Malaysian way as well, I've never been to Malaysia. But I've learned from my below average educational achievements and my above average career that how others perceive me has a direct impact on how I feel about myself. How standards set by others dictate my self-worth.

Susan reminds me that I can only do my best. Once I've done that, I can coast. I don't need to worry anymore, I'm maxed out. Actualized. If it sucks, so be it. If no one else cares, so be that, too. I don't need to be awesome, better than everyone. Just as good as I can be. If I think I rocked a spin class, nailed a briefing, smoked a race, that's where peace lies, not in praise from others. But still, the phone doesn't ring. My email is full of spam, and I don't know what people write on Facebook. Wish they were writing about me.  

Beer Running

I'm a solitary dude. My hobbies are reading, writing and trail running (alone). I work at a large community center. Pool, fitness center, child care. A hangout for kids, teens, adults and seniors. It is arguably the most public workplace in the county. And I have pretty much the only job that does not routinely interact with the public. On a quiet day, I can sit in my office for two, three, four hours without talking to single person. But I like people. At least occasionally. Once or twice a day I'll leave my office to walk around to enjoy a quick "dose of humanity." And then I'm good. Had enough people-time. Happy to be alone again.

A year ago, a handful of runners, runners who actually like to run with others, started a local Beer Runners chapter. The idea is that a group of people can bond over a run – three to four miles, and then bond some more over a beer (or two). Because my co-worker, Nancy, is close friends with one of the founding members, I've been receiving Beer Runner teaser emails for about forty-eight weeks. But because the Beer Runners run in a group, I've completely ignored them. For me, running is a meditative process. Silent, serene. Plus the Beer Runners run on roads. I keep to the trails. Easier on my joints, tougher on my muscles.

I used to be a very social person. Twenty-five years ago, I was the guy that everyone would call to see what was going on that night. Out with friends most nights a week. Lots of friends. A big group. We'd take over a bar. Mingle, joke, drink (lots), sometimes hook-up. Back then, beer running would have been one of my favorite activities. A social run, and then a chance to drink, mingle, hook-up. This is actually the sort of thing I commonly did. Lots of adult-league soccer. We'd play and then we'd party. Sometimes three nights a week. And that didn’t include the weekend, the big party nights.

But my personality has changed. I don't like big group get-togethers any more. Married and happy, I’m not looking to hook-up. I don't get drunk. I work hard to control my drinking. Two drinks, maybe three. Not six, eight, fourteen. Large parties annoy me, intimidate me. Mingling is a waste of time. Too shallow, too fake, too much effort. I'm much more of a one-on-one discussion person. I'm not sure what caused this radical personality change. It happened fairly suddenly. A four-month solo bike tour? Possibly head-trauma from a bike accident? These life-changing events happened within a year of each other. Regardless, since that time I’ve been much less of a people-person. Not a likely candidate for a social running group. Plus, they pound pavement. I run trails. I run alone.

Until last week. For a variety of reasons, none of which have anything to do with wanting to run in a group, I finally gave in and went for a Beer Run.

For the past year, my running schedule has been one moderate distance run on the weekend. Seven miles on the trail behind my house. A tempo run with short walking breaks when I pass horse-riders. This isn't laziness. I'd love to be a fifty mile per week runner, but things hurt. Knee bursitis when my mileage creeps above ten to twelve miles per week. Tendon issues, aches and pains. But improving my form has helped. Recently I noticed that after my seven mile run, things felt good. So I've decided to add an extra weekly run. Short and fast, mid-week. Which is when the Beer Runners run.

Last month, I ran a five mile road race. My first in a couple of years. I was happy with my overall time, but not how I got there. Stupidly, I left my watch at home. It had been so long since I ran on a road, I had no idea what pace to run. I figured that I would be better off pacing by feel, by breath than trying to use a watch. Ugly. Out fast with the lead-pack. Fast first mile split and then I fell off from there. (Disclosure: this is a small community race. I'm talking high sixes, not high fours). People passed me the rest of the race. I hit the time I was shooting for, but every mile was slower than the last. I've completely lost my concept of pacing during a race. Weekly beer runs will give me a chance to work on my pacing at a variety of distances. And gutting through the final miles after going out too fast.

But the primary reason I've started beer running is the beer. Well, the social part after the the run. I read an article in a old Runners' World magazine about running tribes. How group runs are a growing phenomenon. In all the pictures, everyone looks like they are having a blast. They look cool, connected. This is something I wanted to join. I miss my social days. The easy conversation over a beer. Meeting new people. Taking over a bar with a like minded crowd. Part of something big. But I don't miss getting drunk, hooking up.

Two weeks now and I'm hooked on the Beer Run. And surprisingly, the thing that has hooked me is the group-run. It was motivating, much like running a race. The first week I was planning on a light workout, a slow pace. I had already instructed a spin class that day. My legs were spent. But I went out thirty seconds faster than planned, and mid-way through the run, I caught two women pacing off me. I had to step it up - too competitive. Attack the hills. Hard tempo on the flats. No breaks on the downs. The three of us knocked another 30 seconds off our pace for the next mile and a half.

The social part is painful. Group situations shut me down. I know many of the runners, but not well. We don't hang out, aren't close. This is a mingling situation, and I don't remember how to do that. I'm sure that many of the beer runners endure the run for the social-time afterwards. For me it is more like I endure the social-time for the run. I'm socially awkward, sort of weird. I need practice, and I've decided the beer runners will be my training ground. We all have something in common – running, beer. It's an entry point.

After two weeks, my future-inclination is to complete the run and head home. End on a high-note. But I won't allow it. At some point I need to address my lost social nature. Now is the time. I plan to stick it out. Get to know people by the routine of my presence. Once I get past the mingling, friendships will form. I'll be part of the tribe. Cool, connected? Doubt it. But more social, less awkward. Looking forward to the run and the beer.

Moab

"Why do we live here?" We asked each other this question over ten years ago. Susan and I had recently returned from yet another trip to Moab, Utah. A small desert town surrounded by red sandstone mountains on the edge of Arches National Park. Susan was showing me some Moab properties she found for sale on the internet, dreaming about retirement. Truly dreaming, we had a two year old daughter at the time, and it would be another year before her brother was born. Retirement? We were just getting started. In Washington, DC, we were living a yuppie life. We had a senior, well-paying job at our respective companies, money for travel. Extra money for gadgets, toys. A nice, modest house on a semi-urban street. We were bored with it.

Each visit to Moab reminded us that we prefer open-space and small towns. Our hobbies were running, biking and hiking. Our friendships were tired. The only thing holding us back from moving away was fear – and jobs. Moab is remote. Hours from any metropolitan area. A continent away from our families and friends. Once a bustling mining town – uranium, primarily – now it is essentially a tourist destination. Not the sort of place to capitalize on our managerial careers. Not the kind of town to raise a family.

"So, why do we live here?" Before we had kids, DC was our playground. Great restaurants and bars, gyms, cultural activities. Rock creek park, a giant swath of nature in the middle of the city was a mile from our house. But with a toddler, it was all simply annoying. The noise, the crowds, hunting for street parking to go to the grocery store, driving to the suburbs to shop for anything else -- to use a decent library or go to a swimming pool. Going for a bike ride was like an urban war-game. Certainly not relaxing. Plus, the mosquitoes were intolerable. Asian Tiger Mosquitoes. They are truly demons. Out all day, eight months of the year. Ten minutes in the yard watering our garden would result in a dozen bites.

Looking at a map one evening, we were searching for a Moab-like town closer to DC. My job was flexible. A tech firm, we all communicated with instant messaging, even to the next office. It wouldn't matter if I was down the hall or two states away. But if I wanted to keep my job, I needed to maintain a presence in the office. My boss telecommuted from Los Angeles. He came to town for a week a month. Slept on the office floor, showered in the building's gym. It seemed pathetic, unsustainable. Rather than a week a month, I was planning on a day or two per week. My new home needed to be drivable from DC. Three to four hours max.

Moab is our center. The place where we feel at peace, whole. A secular dude-ville in the middle of Mormon country. A mecca. For hikers, bikers, and unfortunately 4X4 enthusiasts. A completely unique landscape. A geological oddity that exists no place else on earth. Undulating sandstone flats, towering "fins" of rock. And arches, thousands of them. Natural gaps formed in the rock. They create an arch of stone. The town is a mess. Nestled between two ridges, it is a meandering strip. If zoning exists, it isn't obvious. A haphazard splatter of commercial, industrial and residential abutting each other in coexistent tolerance. The irony is hard to miss. Natural beauty adjoining man-made blight.

Our map-quest was challenging. Many of the likely candidate-towns quickly dismissed. Asheville, NC? Too far. Mountain towns in West Virginia? Already turned into mini-DCs. The Delaware shore? Not really the life-style we were seeking. Eventually, we noticed Gettysburg, PA. Practically in our backyard. Less than two hours away, maybe a bit more in rush hour. An unlikely choice. Certainly not dude-ville. Conservative. Aging. Overweight. Yet, it had many of the attributes that appealed to us about Moab, and some extras as well. Small town, largely blocked from sprawling growth by a national park. Long vistas. Open-space. Runnable, bike-able. A family-town, well planned, too.

When Susan and I met, we each harbored an interest in living in a small town. We were both fans of the TV show Northern Exposure. It featured the interwoven and (figuratively) incestuous relationships in fictional Cicely, Alaska. A disparate cast of characters. Each celebrated for their flaws as well as their strengths. Relationships formed out of proximity. More like family than friends. And amenities? One restaurant, doubled as a bar. One grocery store, one radio station. You get the point. City life offers choice. And choice, at times, can be stifling. My friendships, all left over from college or from my adult soccer team. Everyone the same age, college educated, working professional jobs. Shared interests, backgrounds, race. A metropolitan area of five million people and I'm hanging out with clones of myself.

Last week, we were in Moab again. This was our sixth or seventh visit. It is a pain in the ass to get there. We fly on Southwest with credit card points. Undesirable flights into a less than ideal airport. With Southwest, our choices are Denver or Vegas non-stop and then a 6 hour car ride . Or Salt Lake with a Chicago layover and then 4 hours in the car. This trip to Moab, we brought our kids. We opted of the shorter drive and longer flying time. Still, it is a full day of travel. Longer and more complex than going to England or France. This was Sophie's third visit and Eli's second. But neither of them can remember being there before. Just what they've seen in photos. Perhaps kids catch their parents’ energy and interest, or maybe Moab is really that awesome, but as our trip was winding down, Sophie asked "Why don't we live here?"

While not Northern Exposure's Cicely, Gettysburg certainly offers a small-town experience. If you don't know someone, one of your friends will. Personality quirks are accepted, sometimes respected. Everything in my life is within a five-mile radius of my house. My job, my friends, shopping, library. We know our neighbors. Because Susan and I work at the town's primary community center, we know pretty much everyone. Every road is bike-able. Miles of running trails start at my back door. Obviously more than one restaurant, more than one grocery store, but the choices are pretty limited. It can be frustrating, but it is also freeing. My son Eli's friend "L" is from Namibia. Last year, "L" and his mom spent the whole summer there. Upon returning, "L" was complaining that the United States offers too much choice. Too many options. Too much stress. He missed the simplicity of his Namibian village. Like "L", we see limited choices as a positive. Make do with what you have, keep it simple.

The draw of Moab is strong. Every visit helps cement the feeling that we are going to retire there. The landscape, the desert, the rock. It appeals to us aesthetically. The hiking, without parallel. If there is a deal-breaker, it's the car culture. Tourists in RVs. The 4X4 crowd. Dune buggies. Lots of revving engines. Macho-men (and women). But it is a short walk to silence, to beauty, to that undefinable Moab-aura that sinks into our soul and gives us peace. And as near as I can tell, no Tiger Mosquitoes. At least not yet. 

10K

Last Fall, I ran a 10K. I'm really surprised by myself, proud of myself. I hear people make comments like this all the time. "I just ran a half." "I've decided to train for a marathon." The community center where I work is ground-zero for area runners. I am continually surrounded by running talk. Marathoners, Ultra-runners, trail-runners, and people training for their first 5K. With many of these proclamations, people are taking about their first half, their first marathon. What makes my statement different is that I've run scores of 10Ks, and countless longer races, longer runs. The achievement of my race was that I opted for an easier, shorter distance. By-passed the 10 Mile race that started simultaneously. And I had fun.

I've been a 'runner' since 1984. I ran cross-country in high school in the late seventies, but it didn't stick, it just planted a seed. Through college, I went running with friends a few times a year, but this was usually after getting high and feeling bored and restless. A few times I got stoned just so I could put on a walkman with spacey, psychedelic music and run around the inside of the field house late at night and all alone. But over 4 years of college, I doubt if I even knocked out 50 miles.

My recent race was a trail-run. This was the "4th annual", and it is becoming a "thing". Catching on as a brutal event to cap-off the local running season. Held in a nearby nature preserve, it covers some pretty rough terrain – rocks, roots, logs, creeks. But by far, the biggest challenge is the hills. There are 2 of them in the 10K and one more in the 10 Mile. Well actually, both races are all hills – there is no flat, but these three hills are bigger and steeper than any other hills I've run. Last year I ran the 10 Mile. When I hit the hill at mile 5, I actually stopped for a couple of seconds to contemplate it. I had already been running up a fairly steep grade for over a mile. Coming around a bend, I saw what is essentially a tilted wall to run up. Fortunately, from the bottom, you can only see half of the hill. If I saw the whole thing, I might have quit right there.

Last year, my race-time sucked. While I ran in the middle of my age group (50 – 100), I was clearly a back of the pack runner. Unfamiliar territory for me. I was happy to have completed the race - serious distance runners give it the deferential respect of a marathon - but I was also embarrassed by how badly beaten I was by several of my peers, people I see around my workplace. Because of the terrain, mile splits are meaningless. Times are completely incomparable to road races or even many other trail-runs. The only gauge to track your achievement is how you stack up against others. For me, this isn't optimum. A large part of why I'm drawn to running is the ability to compete against myself. Train to a goal, achieve that goal. In theory, I try to avoid comparisons with other runners. Try to banish the thought of age-grouping from my mind. If it happens, great. But chasing a winning time, trying to out-run specific people, for me, that is the birth-place of injuries. When I focus solely on myself, I'm more likely stay healthy and injury free.

Theory and reality collide infrequently. Not only does the specter of age-grouping pop into my mind frequently as a race approaches, and so does the knowledge that my time will be posted on the internet. Others will see my performance, see my place. A bad race impacts my credibility as a runner, as a spin instructor. Getting stomped by my peers, my friends, just makes me look bad. So like too many runners, I take a very individual sport, a sport designed for self-actualization, a sport that uses the holistic term 'personal record', and I turn it into a competition against everyone else.

Although I consider myself a runner first and foremost, I actually spend very little time running. Over the past year, I've run a little less than once per week – and for me, that's a lot. For years, my typical yearly training would be to pick a fall or spring race, put in about six runs leading up to that race, perform reasonably well and then knock off all running until the next year. My lack of running is not laziness; it is injury, knee pain. Not an ACL tear like most people have. Simply bursitis. Anytime my weekly mileage creeps up to 8 or 10 miles, my knee hurts. Then it takes 2 weeks of rest and handfuls of ibuprofen for the swelling to abate enough to start up running again. This has been going on for 20 years.

But I also have a tendency to over-reach and push myself to extremes. Every few years, I convince myself that if I try again, this time it will be different. I'll add mileage slowly; never go beyond two runs per week. Never more than 6 miles at a time. I'll beat the bursitis. And every time I wind up frustrated and limping. Last year's 10 Mile race was a great example. I used my typical training routine. Six weeks before the race I tried out a seven mile run and it went well. Two weeks later I ran ten or eleven miles without injury so I signed up for the race. Two months later I was injured again, limping, angry, bummed. For the umpteenth time in my life, I swore-off running.

And then I read 'Born to Run.'

Right now, you may be thinking "What? This is just another 'Born to Run' testimonial?" Well, yes. One night at a party, my friend Annie gave me a copy of the book. At first I was dismissive to the point of rudeness. "The barefoot running book? I'm not going to read that." I thought she was passing on a copy she had read. When she told me that it was a gift she had bought me, I shut-up, thanked her and dove into the book. I was instantly hooked. I loved the story, the voice, and the author's need to run through injury. The characters were engaging, the race segments were motivating. And for whatever reason, the sections on proper running form, stuff I've heard and read dozens of time, finally made an impression on me.

I finished the book, and I started running again. This time, my running was all about form. After 30 years of heel-striking and foot slapping – a style so obnoxious that people frequently complain to me about how loud a runner I am – I knocked out 3 miles with a mid-sole strike. It took me over 30 minutes. For years, I've been running an 8 minute pace, a bit faster on shorter runs, so I assumed that I messed up on the mileage and ran longer than I planned. But the biggest surprise of my run was the pain in my calves the next day. The pain reminded me of the day after my first cross-country practice in high school – the first time I ever 'went running'. Over the next few months, I tried longer runs, increasing a half mile every couple of weeks. And every run was the same. 10 minute pace, sore calves. No bursitis.

As part of my devotion to 'Born to Run,' I've become a trail runner. I've always loved the solitude of running through the woods. It always seemed more 'real,' and more private. Like I was running for myself. But it was always much easier to head out my front door rather than drive to a trail head. My town has 10 miles of horse trails surrounding a public park. And while the park backs up to my house, there was no trail. Just a swampy mess of poison ivy and thorn bushes.

So like any obsessed runner, I cut a path. I've lived in this house for 9 years, and while I always wished we had direct park access, it never once occurred to me to make a path. In the winters, my family has gone on countless snowy hikes across iced over swamps, but once spring hit, the park was always off-limits. But after weeks of cutting and scraping, mulching and scratching at poison ivy rashes, we have a path of our own... And I have ten miles of running trails starting at my back door.

Over my decades of running, I've learned that many runners have obsessive tendencies. This is a large part of what takes a moderately athletic person and creates an unusually strong runner. Without a deeper glimpse into others lives, I can't tell if their obsessions extend beyond running and into other aspects of their lives. Mine do. I'm obsessive about running, and just about everything else. Once I decide that I want something, my mind dwells on that topic. I lay awake at night planning. I research, and slowly, I act. I'm thankful that my obsessive tendencies don't translate into compulsive behavior. My approach to all things is deliberate and well planned. I rarely start anything without a clear path to completion.

My recent 10K was no different. More than a half a year ago, I decided that I was going to repeat my trail race, the 10 Mile, but I was going to post a much stronger time. Some thing I could be proud of, something I could show off. For five months, I slowly increased my mileage and worked to push my pace back into eights. Holding myself to one weekly run, I determined the only way I could meet my goal was to rework the format of my spin classes. Every class was designed to focus on active recovery. Push to exhaustion, back off just enough to catch my breath, and then push some more. And in my training runs, I could see slow progress. My pace was picking up, and after hill-attacks, I could settle back into a tempo run with even-breath. The only problem was that every time I hit 7 miles, my knee would start to hurt. Not my bursa, not even the same knee. This was a totally different problem.

30 years of soccer, running and cycling have left me with obnoxiously tight Iliotibial (IT) Bands. For years, my only symptom was an annoying habit of punching at my thighs with the heal of my hand – an attempt to loosen my IT bands. My running form change seems to have sparked a full-blown case of IT Band Syndrome. And every time my run exceeded 7 miles, I was stopped cold by pain. Sometimes miles from home.

And then something surprising happened. I decided that I would skip the 10 Mile race and sign-up for the 10K instead. To most, this would seem an obvious move. To me, this was one of the more mature, thoughtful decisions I've made. An underlying subplot in 'Born to Run' is finding joy in running. Changing races gave me a chance to do this. It took the stress out of the event. Now I wasn't racing to finish, pushing through pain for a respectable time. Now I was set up to excel at a comfortable distance. I could go out and have fun with my 'brutal end to the racing season'.

In an attempt to race against myself rather than others, I set a time-goal of 60 minutes for the race. Without much to go on, I looked at last year's winning time and made some adjustments for myself. I missed my goal by 30 seconds, but I finished the race perfectly spent. I raced hard the whole way, and I had nothing left when I was done. It was the most enjoyable race I've run. And while I try not to care, I do. I'm happy to say that I won my age group.

Credibility

Mr. G is stronger than you. Mr. G is a real runner. I've been hearing this for years now. As my kids grow into opinionated humans, I'm forced to listen to comparisons with other adults, and repeatedly, with Mr. G, their popular gym teacher. Mr. G is 20 years younger than me. He probably is stronger than me. I know that he's a faster runner, I've heard him talking about his half-marathon time. Remember, 20 years younger! My response is typically "Mr. G should take my spin class, then we'll talk." 20 years ago, I could run a full marathon at a faster mile pace than Mr. G's half, but my kids aren’t impressed by the past.

If this seems like an immature topic to write about, well it probably is. But also, if it seems immature, it's likely that you’re not a runner. This isn't really just about Mr. G's running pace or comparing athleticism, but about garnering credibility from my kids in areas where I am actually credible. I hear it all this time. A guy bikes past my family looking like an advertisement for Pearl Izumi and Sophie says "Dad, that guys a real biker". As if fashion makes the athlete. Perhaps it does.

Each year, my kids' school holds a "Race for Education". It's a fund-raiser that culminates in the kids running laps around the school track – I like that part. The rest of the fund-raiser is particularly annoying. There are several incentives that keep the kids actively asking for money for weeks. It is so prominently discussed during the school day that Eli, 8 years old, wants to donate his own money to ensure that his school meets their goal and earns a bounce-house party after the race.

Last year, Eli ran the whole “race” with Mrs. W, his second-grade teacher. Mrs. W was a brand new runner. She had been at it for about 6 months, after she got the idea that she and her husband should run a half-marathon. A week or so after the fund-raiser, Eli and I were running around our neighborhood; I complimented him on his sustainable pace, and he said that Mrs. W, the real runner, taught him how he should pace himself. Never mind that I had given him the same advice 20 times. I could go on and on with these stories, but you get the point. For some reason, everyone else is a real runner, a real cyclist, and I'm a hack.

At 51, I've been a 'runner' for 35 years. Cycling seriously for 30 years. I've participated in running races of all distances up to a marathon – aged grouped many of the smaller ones, raced biathlons, ridden my bike across the United States, commuted to work for years. As a spin instructor, I research cycling and running workouts to help my participants grow and develop. Dammit, I would think I'm about as real as it gets. But my kids don't see it.

It wasn't always like this. Several years ago, I was discussing the Tour de France with my kids' babysitter. After listening for a few minutes, Sophie asked me why I wasn't in the race. Ah, those were the days when Dad could do anything. So how did I fall from world class athlete to beginner in a few short years?

I'm starting to learn that everyone else's parent seems nicer, cooler, worldly, exotic. Coaches and teachers are the ultimate authority on everything. It stands to reason. These other adults aren't harping on my kids to clean their rooms, eat their vegetables. My kids only see them at their best. Never under the sink working on a clogged drain. Trying to figure out how to assemble a new toy. If familiarity breeds contempt, it is surprising that our kids take anything we say seriously.

While I want my kids to respect the adults in their lives, I do get concerned about them giving too much credibility to those adult's beliefs. Many ideas my kids bring home from their teachers are in direct conflict with the belief system I've developed. I'm not trying to mold my kids (probably), but I want them to consider both sides of every issue, not be told what to think. A couple of weeks ago, one of Sophie's middle school teachers was ranting on the debate to change the Washington Redskins name. Mrs. H, a Skins fan, pointed out that only one in ten American Indians are offended by the name – obviously not enough to worry about. Sophie came home parroting this statistic, seemingly in agreement with Mrs. H.

I pointed out that one in ten didn't seem like a big deal, but 100 of 1,000 started to sound like a real opposition group, and that got Sophie thinking. By the time I researched some numbers on the internet and I found that 10% of all American Indians equals 38,000,000, that the fan base of the Redskins probably didn't exceed15 million people, Sophie had altogether lost interest in discussing the topic. Wished she never brought it up at all. Maybe some of it stuck.

I first seriously started questioning the credibility of adults around me in 10^th grade. I had a Human Development teacher (remember, this was the 70s), who was primarily interested in looking good in front of the class. Everyone called him Ken. Class "lessons" would involve breaking into small groups to discuss various topics and issues. At the end of the period, we would report what we learned to the rest of the class. Ken always joined a group with the popular kids, and the popular group always presented the funniest, the most intelligent responses. All of the other kids would listen with the feeling that they somehow didn't measure up.

Once, towards the end of the year, I wound up as part of Ken's group. As my group-mates and I tried to participate in the exercise, Ken would shut us down and force in responses that he knew were winners from previous years. He did the exercise, and we watched. As we gave our responses to the class, everyone was howling with laughter, nodding at our insightful understanding of human nature. I felt dirty, fraudulent. Ken ultimately lost his job due to an inappropriate relationship with a teen-age girl, and I was left with a growing disdain for authority figures.

From discussions with my father, I know that I had a rebellious streak from the start. A desire to do my own thing, be my own person. Question everything. As I matured, it solidified into a cynical, counter-cultural ethos. This wasn't a conscious decision. I didn't strive to be unique or unusual. I just felt that I was different from everyone else. As I looked around, anything that seemed normal, established, conventional, was beneath me. The jocks, the brains, the popular kids were sheep, following a societal shepherd telling them where to go, how to act. I even harbored contempt for the stoners, living their stereotype. By making myself different from everyone else, I could not, cannot be compared, cannot be measured. I still do this today.

As I sink into middle-age, I appear more bourgeois. A senior manager at a mid-sized non-profit, a husband, father, home-owner, scout-leader. It is hard to consider myself anything but normal – until I notice how my opinions differ so radically from those around me. I think the conservative trappings of Scouting are ridiculous, narrow, constricting. I harbor a natural distrust for work-place authority figures (even though I am definitely one of them). I am a socialist thinker in a libertarian town. And for my kids, I want the opinions of teachers, coaches, and even their parents to be questioned, analyzed.

A friend suggested that when Sophie brought up the Redskins topic to me, she may have, consciously or subconsciously, been uncomfortable with the conclusion. With the hundreds of events and conversations that take place during the school day, possibly it wasn't chance that she would bring up a topic that would set me off, send me to internet-research to prove my point. Possibly, my kids give my opinion a bit more credence than I suspect.

While they no longer believe I'm capable of joining the Tour de France, my kids do still come to my races and cheer. And they genuinely like spending time with me, hearing me tell stories from my childhood, listening to my thoughts on various topics. I know they will be exposed to ideas and opinions throughout entire lives. As they grow, their ethos will form into something unique. I don't want them to turn into me – fueled by skepticism, hobbled by feelings of outsiderness. But I want them to develop the tools to filter the information they receive, To determine if it requires more thought, more research. And in the meantime, I'd like them to let me coach their running – at least a little bit.