I am trying to work on an article about Sylvia Plath. I'm thinking of expanding a blog I wrote about SP for the newspaper into a longer magazine piece. But without an actual deadline, I find that I am becoming a procrastinator. All talk, no action. Or, more to the point, all prep work, no actual finished product. (I always prefer training to races -- why, I wonder?).
In theory the piece will be about reading SP fifteen years ago when (to me) her life and subsequent suicide seemed so romantic and exciting; and re-reading her now when her life and suicide suddenly strike me as horrifying.
I went back to my old journals to help myself remember what exactly was going on in my life the first time I read through the Plath ouevre. Re-reading old journals is a strange experience. It's different from reading someone else's journals, you know it was you writing all of this, but it's difficult to believe it. Oddly, I have never done this before. Never "researched" myself.
Turns out I was reading SP right around the time Brian and I got married. In the weeks leading up to the wedding I was reading her biographies, and I took her letters with me on our honeymoon. I don't remember this. I guess I have to take my own word for it.
This is also right around the time I ran my first ultra. I was 26. I read about this 50K race in the paper on a Thursday and showed up that Saturday morning 10 minutes before the start. That's how it was back then. No training plans, no race calendars. Just show up and run. I figured I had just run my sixth marathon the month before, and how much harder could a 50K be?
The first ten miles were on the road. I tried to keep an 8-minute mile, but it was hard because it felt so slow. (Imagine!) And then, to my great surprise, we hit the trails and ran to Council Crest, 1000 feet straight up. And the remainder of the race was like that. Up down up down. My mile splits plummeted (to my great dismay). Brian rode his bike on the trails with me for the last 10 miles just to make sure I stayed alive. I walked the last 2. I survived.
Some people ran 50 miles that day and I thought they were crazy and amazing.
The other weird coincidence: my journal tells me that right after this race, I bought Zen Mind Beginner's Mind (Suzuki) and read it at night to fall asleep. I just bought that audio book last week to play on my iPod during long runs and hill repeats.
Sylvia Plath then. Sylvia Plath now.
Zen and ultras 15 years ago. Zen and ultras now. This has not been a continuous journey. I read two Zen books back then (The Long Quiet Highway by Natalie Goldberg and Zen Mind) and then dropped it in favor of studying the Medieval Mystics. I ran two ultras, both 50K, and then stopped in favor of long triathlons. Both things have come back into my life this year.
Very strange. What could it mean?
Showing posts with label running home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label running home. Show all posts
Friday, March 20, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Lane 4 Enlightenment
I don't think of myself as an angry person. I think I have a fairly long fuse. But there are a few things that truly piss me off: people speeding like freaking maniacs on the highway, pushy solicitors on the telephone, and clueless swimmers barreling right down the center of my lane.
I swim once a week for 45 minutes during Simon's swimming lesson. I'd like to swim more, but getting to and from the pool is difficult at this time in my life. So I cherish my 45 minutes every Tuesday afternoon. I try to swim at least 2000 yards.
There is one lane designated for lap swim at this particular time. I know most of the other swimmers and usually we have no trouble crowding 3 or 4 people into the lane. We respect each other's space and try to stay out of each other's way.
But this week a new person showed up. Laura (another swimming lesson mother) and I had been happily splitting the lane until this third woman jumped in, at which time we agreed to circle (meaning everyone stays on the right side of the lane coming and going).
This woman was clearly not a swimmer. She did a wide, slow breaststroke right down the middle of the lane. She did not give way, forcing Laura and me to swim around her, which was difficult with three people in the lane.
The breaststroker was not being deliberately obtuse. She was perfectly nice. It was obvious that she simply had no knowledge of lap lane etiquette. And I did not want to spend any of my precious swimming minutes clue-ing her in.
I spent about 10 seconds getting angry, and then I remembered my Zen. It sounds wacky, but it worked. I reminded myself that we are all one universe. I am the breaststroker and she is me.
Ping! Instant compassion. Instant loss of anger.
This is a better way to live. When I can remember to live like this.
I swim once a week for 45 minutes during Simon's swimming lesson. I'd like to swim more, but getting to and from the pool is difficult at this time in my life. So I cherish my 45 minutes every Tuesday afternoon. I try to swim at least 2000 yards.
There is one lane designated for lap swim at this particular time. I know most of the other swimmers and usually we have no trouble crowding 3 or 4 people into the lane. We respect each other's space and try to stay out of each other's way.
But this week a new person showed up. Laura (another swimming lesson mother) and I had been happily splitting the lane until this third woman jumped in, at which time we agreed to circle (meaning everyone stays on the right side of the lane coming and going).
This woman was clearly not a swimmer. She did a wide, slow breaststroke right down the middle of the lane. She did not give way, forcing Laura and me to swim around her, which was difficult with three people in the lane.
The breaststroker was not being deliberately obtuse. She was perfectly nice. It was obvious that she simply had no knowledge of lap lane etiquette. And I did not want to spend any of my precious swimming minutes clue-ing her in.
I spent about 10 seconds getting angry, and then I remembered my Zen. It sounds wacky, but it worked. I reminded myself that we are all one universe. I am the breaststroker and she is me.
Ping! Instant compassion. Instant loss of anger.
This is a better way to live. When I can remember to live like this.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Double Monday
I didn't run yesterday, which is starting to become a habit. By Sunday, I'm done. Rare is the Sunday this winter when I even get out of my pajamas. Though I admit IS difficult to distinguish my pajamas from my regular clothes. I usually sleep in whatever I happen to be wearing. And (huge confession here) sometimes even resurrect the fabulous outfit again the next day.
Whole new realms of creative outfitting have befallen me since becoming a homeschooling parent. I mean, who has time to change clothes?
I guess it's a good thing I run so much. Sort of forces the shower issue.
Anyway. Sunday I rode the bike. Not the sleek Specialized Roubaix road bike that fits my body like a glove and practically rides itself. I passed right by that beautiful thing and hopped on the early-90's vintage, got-it-for-ten-bucks-at-a-garage-sale Specialized Hard Rock. It's a stretch to call this thing a mountain bike. No suspension system, no cross bar and a barely-working rearr derailer that shifts with a mind of its own.
But my goal for the ride was to work my quads, so this bike was perfect. It's heavy and is not tricked out for clipless pedals. I rode it up the steepest hills I could find, pushing hard on every downstroke, burning up my quads, hoping to simulate the braking feeling of downhill running. I am going to need lots of leg strength if I expect my quads to survive the long downhills at Grindstone.
I finished my work a little early this morning (Monday), so the dogs and I headed out at 5:15 instead of our usual 5:45 for a nice 90-minute run in the dark. Slow, steady, hilly, fun.
I ran around with the kids all day, which involves different muscles entirely. We decided to ditch the books today and get outside. We went to the big beach in Charlestown, RI and to the playground at Ninnigret Park. I'm lucky to spend my days with these kids. They keep me young. I jumped off the swings and collected shells and stood in as pivot-man on the see-saw. Excellent day.
And for my second training run, I did hill repeats during Nell's swim practice in the evening. Round and round a ten-minute, two hill circuit for more than an hour. I repeatedly passed the same little farm with the same little ponies and llamas in the pasture. They kept asking me what I was doing. But how to explain it all to llamas and ponies?
I listened to my Zen book on the iPod (Alan Watts: The Way of Zen). There is absolutely nothing better to listen to than a Zen book when you are doing hill repeats. It gives the whole bizarre procedure new layers of meaning. Zen is all about losing your mind, letting yourself stop thinking about thinking. Forget the past and the future: all illusions. The idea (or not idea, exactly) is to become one with the universe. (AW: You are not born INTO the world, you are born FROM it. Like an apple from a tree).
Generally I am way too self-conscious to achieve anything remotely resembling Zen mind. But I do come closest when I am running hill repeats.
And now it's late at night (for me anyway) and I can't sleep. Overtrained?
Whole new realms of creative outfitting have befallen me since becoming a homeschooling parent. I mean, who has time to change clothes?
I guess it's a good thing I run so much. Sort of forces the shower issue.
Anyway. Sunday I rode the bike. Not the sleek Specialized Roubaix road bike that fits my body like a glove and practically rides itself. I passed right by that beautiful thing and hopped on the early-90's vintage, got-it-for-ten-bucks-at-a-garage-sale Specialized Hard Rock. It's a stretch to call this thing a mountain bike. No suspension system, no cross bar and a barely-working rearr derailer that shifts with a mind of its own.
But my goal for the ride was to work my quads, so this bike was perfect. It's heavy and is not tricked out for clipless pedals. I rode it up the steepest hills I could find, pushing hard on every downstroke, burning up my quads, hoping to simulate the braking feeling of downhill running. I am going to need lots of leg strength if I expect my quads to survive the long downhills at Grindstone.
I finished my work a little early this morning (Monday), so the dogs and I headed out at 5:15 instead of our usual 5:45 for a nice 90-minute run in the dark. Slow, steady, hilly, fun.
I ran around with the kids all day, which involves different muscles entirely. We decided to ditch the books today and get outside. We went to the big beach in Charlestown, RI and to the playground at Ninnigret Park. I'm lucky to spend my days with these kids. They keep me young. I jumped off the swings and collected shells and stood in as pivot-man on the see-saw. Excellent day.
And for my second training run, I did hill repeats during Nell's swim practice in the evening. Round and round a ten-minute, two hill circuit for more than an hour. I repeatedly passed the same little farm with the same little ponies and llamas in the pasture. They kept asking me what I was doing. But how to explain it all to llamas and ponies?
I listened to my Zen book on the iPod (Alan Watts: The Way of Zen). There is absolutely nothing better to listen to than a Zen book when you are doing hill repeats. It gives the whole bizarre procedure new layers of meaning. Zen is all about losing your mind, letting yourself stop thinking about thinking. Forget the past and the future: all illusions. The idea (or not idea, exactly) is to become one with the universe. (AW: You are not born INTO the world, you are born FROM it. Like an apple from a tree).
Generally I am way too self-conscious to achieve anything remotely resembling Zen mind. But I do come closest when I am running hill repeats.
And now it's late at night (for me anyway) and I can't sleep. Overtrained?
Saturday, March 14, 2009
25 Mile Morning
I left the house this morning at 5:30 with great energy, newly determined to sign up for the Grindstone 100 in October. I am told that registration opens April 1st. Sophie's excellent blog gave me all the details from last year's race. She loved it. Looks like my kind of race. Nice trails. Lots of climbs. Nice people.
Since it was so early in the morning, I tried to gather all of my running stuff as quietly as possible. A woken-up boy means trouble. Once those boys get up, there's just no getting out of the house. But I couldn't find the iPod. I knew Brian brought it with him last night to Simon's karate class. WHERE did he put it? WHERE?
I tiptoed past the Cinnamon's crate many times in search of the darn thing. It's a miracle she didn't start barking. She is a freaking barking machine. Nice dog, but man, enough with the barking. How do Brian's parents stand it, I wonder?
I never found the iPod, but I did find the little digital camera, so I brought that along in my running vest and took a few snaps along the way.
My Little Town at 5:30 in the morning.
This camera does not take great photos in the dark, but here are a few of the Mystic River. It was very low tide and there were lots of water fowl splashing about. None of which you can see here. Just use your imagination. Geese, a couple of different kind of ducks and a blue heron.
This camera is, however, exceptionally good at capturing supernatural phenomena. I did not see this river spirit in real life, but here it is in the picture. Plain as the nose on your face. River spirits come out early in the morning and bless the runners. I must have been blessed, because I had a great run.
After a dark trot up River Road and then up the always daunting Pequot Hill, I caught my stride and settled into my favorite part of the run through the rolling farmlands of North Stonington and Ledyard. Here is the first light on Al Harvey Road, just after I heard a barred owl sighing his familiar tune: Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?
Brief fantasy that I was actually running through Northern California....
But alas, no. It's Ledyard, Connecticut's one and only winery! Pinot noir? Cabernet? The mind stands still.
Good morning, cows!
I am about three hours into the run at this point and the bagel I ate at 5:15 has worn off completely. I am famished. All I have to eat are a couple of Clif bloks in my vest. I briefly consider busting through the fence and elbowing my way into the trough. Scuze me! Scuze me! Moo! Scuze me!
Shortly after my little snack, I hit the biggest climb of the run, up Gallup Hill Road. It's a mile or two up various grades of hill. I absolutely love it. I'll have to come run hill repeats up here this summer when I have a bit more time to train.
Down on the other side of the hill is the loveliest little farm. I don't think this photo does it justice, but here it is anyway. Sometimes a pair of twin Jack Russell terriers come running down the dirt road to greet me barking for all they're worth. I like to call them Jack and Russell. Why not? But they weren't out this morning.
And then I descend one final time down through the trees and back to good old Long Island Sound.
Please notice the house and boats on the right side of this next photo. We have contributed a hefty chunk to the mortgage on these fine items over the years. The whole business belongs to our family dentist. Great dentist, mind you, but still.
I don't know who owns this next house, but I wish I did. I imagine afternoon tea on the deck must be a feast for the eyes.
I'm a mile from home now and I'm falling down hungry. I'm trying to train my body to run on limited food because I always get sick in the long races. The less food I eat the better. But, man, if I had a couple of dollars with me I certainly would have stopped in here for a strudel topped blueberry muffin! Just thinking about it brings me to my knees.
Last hill! It doesn't look like much of a slope from this photo, so you're just going to have to take my word for it. It's tough. Especially at mile 25. Quite a haul up there.
Still going up the freaking hill. I'm more than half way up now. I'm getting there.....
And finally into my very own neighborhood and home sweet home.
Life seems to have gone on just fine without me. Nell and Brian brought the boys to their gymnastics class and played Rummy Cube while they waited. And now back home as I walk in the door, everyone is firmly entrenched in his or her own little world.
Brian is frying up some farm fresh eggs (from the farm where the kids take farm class).
Nell is reading the horse books that we got yesterday at the Book Barn (best used bookstore east of Powell's in Portland, OR). Nell is a horse crazy girl.
Simon is reading to his Webkinz. Simon has THE most literate Webkinz....
And Ben is having a ................. moment.
No matter what he's doing, Ben always makes me giggle. Either right away or much, much later.
Great run. Great day. Great life.
Since it was so early in the morning, I tried to gather all of my running stuff as quietly as possible. A woken-up boy means trouble. Once those boys get up, there's just no getting out of the house. But I couldn't find the iPod. I knew Brian brought it with him last night to Simon's karate class. WHERE did he put it? WHERE?
I tiptoed past the Cinnamon's crate many times in search of the darn thing. It's a miracle she didn't start barking. She is a freaking barking machine. Nice dog, but man, enough with the barking. How do Brian's parents stand it, I wonder?
I never found the iPod, but I did find the little digital camera, so I brought that along in my running vest and took a few snaps along the way.
My Little Town at 5:30 in the morning.
This camera does not take great photos in the dark, but here are a few of the Mystic River. It was very low tide and there were lots of water fowl splashing about. None of which you can see here. Just use your imagination. Geese, a couple of different kind of ducks and a blue heron.
This camera is, however, exceptionally good at capturing supernatural phenomena. I did not see this river spirit in real life, but here it is in the picture. Plain as the nose on your face. River spirits come out early in the morning and bless the runners. I must have been blessed, because I had a great run.
After a dark trot up River Road and then up the always daunting Pequot Hill, I caught my stride and settled into my favorite part of the run through the rolling farmlands of North Stonington and Ledyard. Here is the first light on Al Harvey Road, just after I heard a barred owl sighing his familiar tune: Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?
Brief fantasy that I was actually running through Northern California....
But alas, no. It's Ledyard, Connecticut's one and only winery! Pinot noir? Cabernet? The mind stands still.
Good morning, cows!
I am about three hours into the run at this point and the bagel I ate at 5:15 has worn off completely. I am famished. All I have to eat are a couple of Clif bloks in my vest. I briefly consider busting through the fence and elbowing my way into the trough. Scuze me! Scuze me! Moo! Scuze me!
Shortly after my little snack, I hit the biggest climb of the run, up Gallup Hill Road. It's a mile or two up various grades of hill. I absolutely love it. I'll have to come run hill repeats up here this summer when I have a bit more time to train.
Down on the other side of the hill is the loveliest little farm. I don't think this photo does it justice, but here it is anyway. Sometimes a pair of twin Jack Russell terriers come running down the dirt road to greet me barking for all they're worth. I like to call them Jack and Russell. Why not? But they weren't out this morning.
And then I descend one final time down through the trees and back to good old Long Island Sound.
Please notice the house and boats on the right side of this next photo. We have contributed a hefty chunk to the mortgage on these fine items over the years. The whole business belongs to our family dentist. Great dentist, mind you, but still.
I don't know who owns this next house, but I wish I did. I imagine afternoon tea on the deck must be a feast for the eyes.
I'm a mile from home now and I'm falling down hungry. I'm trying to train my body to run on limited food because I always get sick in the long races. The less food I eat the better. But, man, if I had a couple of dollars with me I certainly would have stopped in here for a strudel topped blueberry muffin! Just thinking about it brings me to my knees.
Last hill! It doesn't look like much of a slope from this photo, so you're just going to have to take my word for it. It's tough. Especially at mile 25. Quite a haul up there.
Still going up the freaking hill. I'm more than half way up now. I'm getting there.....
And finally into my very own neighborhood and home sweet home.
Life seems to have gone on just fine without me. Nell and Brian brought the boys to their gymnastics class and played Rummy Cube while they waited. And now back home as I walk in the door, everyone is firmly entrenched in his or her own little world.
Brian is frying up some farm fresh eggs (from the farm where the kids take farm class).
Nell is reading the horse books that we got yesterday at the Book Barn (best used bookstore east of Powell's in Portland, OR). Nell is a horse crazy girl.
Simon is reading to his Webkinz. Simon has THE most literate Webkinz....
And Ben is having a ................. moment.
No matter what he's doing, Ben always makes me giggle. Either right away or much, much later.
Great run. Great day. Great life.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Zen Friend
I'm just back from a two hour run in North Stonington. I get two hours to myself every other Thursday while the kids go to Farm Class at Terra Firma Farm. Amazingly wonderful place. The kids get to hold baby goats, collect eggs, chase chickens and ducks, sidle up to newborn calves and treat the donkeys and sheep to handfuls of compressed hay. All the lost arts.
And I get a good solid block of time to run.
Today my friend Karen joined me for the first hour. I adore Karen. She is Kindness Itself. She is the loveliest, most caring, easiest person in the world. And she's down in the dumps. Why does depression always hit the best people? Why? Why? WHY?
So I talked. I talked about our home school. About Nell's swimming and horse riding successes. About Simon's Buddha Nature. About Ben's (shall we say) personality. Ben is a darling boy. He is the cuddliest of the kids, the sweetest ("I just love you, Mom"), the most hyper and the most challenging. We are all going to be riding in Ben's wake someday.
But not yet.
I talked about my new book, Doubt: A History. Karen is the type of person who can get excited about doubt. We decided that we'd like to be centered, but we don't want to lose our edge. Judith Warner, in last week's Domestic Disturbances column in the NYT, said that centered, "mindful" people are boring. We don't want to be boring. We just want to stay calm. Mostly.
During the second hour I listened to Alan Watts on the iPod. The Essence of Zen.
I wish I had an iPod while I was in college. I can listen so much better while I am trotting along at a moderate, manageable pace. I could have downloaded all of my textbooks, run all day, and made Phi Beta Kappa easy peasy lemon squeazy.
Alas. I frittered away the time in stuffy lecture halls absorbing next to nothing. But I must say, I had the time of my life.
Here, according to Alan Watts, is the essence of Zen.
Sitting quietly. Doing nothing.
Spring comes.
The grass grows.
The idea is to connect your own lively mind to the entire universe. To understand that you are not just PART of the universe, but that you ARE the universe. Everything is of a piece. You cannot observe yourself thinking. You must shut off that "other mind." And meld into space.
The goal of Zen (but goal, of course, is the wrong word) is to break down the distinction between subject and object. To just be. To go forth into the world like a fish swims through water.
I can sometimes get there while I'm running. I am my feet, the trail, the air. My sweat is the heat. My body is the air. The moon. The universe.
Zen masters are funny. Actually funny. They tell funny little stories and instantly enlighten each other. They laugh from their bellies and they are enlightened.
This merits further study.
Though the idea of "studying" Zen is absurd.
I'll just listen. And be.
And I get a good solid block of time to run.
Today my friend Karen joined me for the first hour. I adore Karen. She is Kindness Itself. She is the loveliest, most caring, easiest person in the world. And she's down in the dumps. Why does depression always hit the best people? Why? Why? WHY?
So I talked. I talked about our home school. About Nell's swimming and horse riding successes. About Simon's Buddha Nature. About Ben's (shall we say) personality. Ben is a darling boy. He is the cuddliest of the kids, the sweetest ("I just love you, Mom"), the most hyper and the most challenging. We are all going to be riding in Ben's wake someday.
But not yet.
I talked about my new book, Doubt: A History. Karen is the type of person who can get excited about doubt. We decided that we'd like to be centered, but we don't want to lose our edge. Judith Warner, in last week's Domestic Disturbances column in the NYT, said that centered, "mindful" people are boring. We don't want to be boring. We just want to stay calm. Mostly.
During the second hour I listened to Alan Watts on the iPod. The Essence of Zen.
I wish I had an iPod while I was in college. I can listen so much better while I am trotting along at a moderate, manageable pace. I could have downloaded all of my textbooks, run all day, and made Phi Beta Kappa easy peasy lemon squeazy.
Alas. I frittered away the time in stuffy lecture halls absorbing next to nothing. But I must say, I had the time of my life.
Here, according to Alan Watts, is the essence of Zen.
Sitting quietly. Doing nothing.
Spring comes.
The grass grows.
The idea is to connect your own lively mind to the entire universe. To understand that you are not just PART of the universe, but that you ARE the universe. Everything is of a piece. You cannot observe yourself thinking. You must shut off that "other mind." And meld into space.
The goal of Zen (but goal, of course, is the wrong word) is to break down the distinction between subject and object. To just be. To go forth into the world like a fish swims through water.
I can sometimes get there while I'm running. I am my feet, the trail, the air. My sweat is the heat. My body is the air. The moon. The universe.
Zen masters are funny. Actually funny. They tell funny little stories and instantly enlighten each other. They laugh from their bellies and they are enlightened.
This merits further study.
Though the idea of "studying" Zen is absurd.
I'll just listen. And be.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Read or Swim?
Every Tuesday afternoon I take Simon to his forty-five minute swimming lesson at the Y. While I'm there I like to jump into the lap lane and swim. This is my only easy opportunity to get into the pool, so it's usually the only time I swim every week.
This from an ex-triathlete who used to swim three or four times a week on top of everything else.
But this Tuesday I was tired. My legs were sore from yoga class Monday, and they were tired from all the running. I had run in the morning with the dogs, so I already had my workout done for the day. And my new book, Doubt: A History, had just arrived in the UPS truck.
I entertained a vision of myself sitting on the bleachers at the pool reading the book, cocooned in the warm, humid air. It was an enticing little scene.
Why didn't I give into it? Why did I leave the book on the counter and grab my swim bag on the way out the door? What, exactly am I trying to prove?
I find it very interesting when people tell me that they would love to start some sort of exercise program, but they just can't seem to get motivated. This baffles me, stuck as I am in this bizarro world in which I can't seem to stop being motivated to get out and run or swim or bike or whatever.
I wonder what need this is filling, all of this trotting around town, racking up the miles and the hours on the roads and trails. Endurance athletes are a weird bunch. Especially ultra-runners. We try to pass ourselves off as mellow and laid back, but just try to cancel our morning run. Then the truth comes out. Without the run, we are undone. Or at least I am.
A day without some sort of exercise? I shudder to think of it.
I'm off to run with the dogs......
This from an ex-triathlete who used to swim three or four times a week on top of everything else.
But this Tuesday I was tired. My legs were sore from yoga class Monday, and they were tired from all the running. I had run in the morning with the dogs, so I already had my workout done for the day. And my new book, Doubt: A History, had just arrived in the UPS truck.
I entertained a vision of myself sitting on the bleachers at the pool reading the book, cocooned in the warm, humid air. It was an enticing little scene.
Why didn't I give into it? Why did I leave the book on the counter and grab my swim bag on the way out the door? What, exactly am I trying to prove?
I find it very interesting when people tell me that they would love to start some sort of exercise program, but they just can't seem to get motivated. This baffles me, stuck as I am in this bizarro world in which I can't seem to stop being motivated to get out and run or swim or bike or whatever.
I wonder what need this is filling, all of this trotting around town, racking up the miles and the hours on the roads and trails. Endurance athletes are a weird bunch. Especially ultra-runners. We try to pass ourselves off as mellow and laid back, but just try to cancel our morning run. Then the truth comes out. Without the run, we are undone. Or at least I am.
A day without some sort of exercise? I shudder to think of it.
I'm off to run with the dogs......
Monday, March 9, 2009
Dark
What with Daylight Savings Time, I am plunged into morning darkness during my runs once again. It was dark as December this morning -- and just when I was able to get out at 5:30 without a flashlight. Raining, too. But I didn't run yesterday, so I had to get out there this morning.
Once out, the dogs and I had a lovely run. I am getting the hang of handling two dogs: Cinny in the right hand, Eddie in the left. And always leave the house with pocketfuls of plastic bags for the poops. The only problem was the shaking of the coats. Every once in a while, with absolutely no warning, one or the other of the dogs would stop dead and shake off rainwater from from tip to toe, sending me reeling half blind into the gutter.
But here I am. I survived.
We ran for an hour and I thought about absolutely nothing. Which I guess is good. Very Zen of me, you might say.
The kids and I went nowhere today, which was also nice. We played games, read books, did our one obligatory page of math, and welcomed the piano teacher at two o'clock in the afternoon. Our dear and darling teacher, Elizabeth, has agreed to come to our house rather than have us schlep over to hers once a week and clutter her floor with Legos and K'Nex and crayons and books. Good decision for all involved.
I took a yoga class during Nell's swim practice. I haven't taken yoga in years. For some reason it always gives me a headache. I had forgotten that. All the dust on the floor gets sucked into my sinuses and plagues me something terrible. I have to remember to take some sort of sinus pill before I go next week. Alleve or something. Not quite the Yoga way, I guess. I should probably take a fresh, organic herb, but what the hell.
Aside from the throbbing head and face, I enjoyed the class. My quads got a burning workout, my shoulders are sore and my back feels better than it has in some months. I hope I can stick with the class. Seems like a good antidote to the wear and tear on the hips and hamstrings from all the running miles. Either that or it's going to knock me all out of whack, disturb my delicate equilibrium, and send me back to the chiropractor.
So here I sit, all yoga-ed out, a little shaky in the unused muscles. I'm off to join Nell on the couch. She's watching Anne of Green Gables on DVD. She's been listening to it on CD for a couple of weeks and loves it. And in her Nell way, she's full of chatter about all the differences between the movie and the book. Off I go....
Once out, the dogs and I had a lovely run. I am getting the hang of handling two dogs: Cinny in the right hand, Eddie in the left. And always leave the house with pocketfuls of plastic bags for the poops. The only problem was the shaking of the coats. Every once in a while, with absolutely no warning, one or the other of the dogs would stop dead and shake off rainwater from from tip to toe, sending me reeling half blind into the gutter.
But here I am. I survived.
We ran for an hour and I thought about absolutely nothing. Which I guess is good. Very Zen of me, you might say.
The kids and I went nowhere today, which was also nice. We played games, read books, did our one obligatory page of math, and welcomed the piano teacher at two o'clock in the afternoon. Our dear and darling teacher, Elizabeth, has agreed to come to our house rather than have us schlep over to hers once a week and clutter her floor with Legos and K'Nex and crayons and books. Good decision for all involved.
I took a yoga class during Nell's swim practice. I haven't taken yoga in years. For some reason it always gives me a headache. I had forgotten that. All the dust on the floor gets sucked into my sinuses and plagues me something terrible. I have to remember to take some sort of sinus pill before I go next week. Alleve or something. Not quite the Yoga way, I guess. I should probably take a fresh, organic herb, but what the hell.
Aside from the throbbing head and face, I enjoyed the class. My quads got a burning workout, my shoulders are sore and my back feels better than it has in some months. I hope I can stick with the class. Seems like a good antidote to the wear and tear on the hips and hamstrings from all the running miles. Either that or it's going to knock me all out of whack, disturb my delicate equilibrium, and send me back to the chiropractor.
So here I sit, all yoga-ed out, a little shaky in the unused muscles. I'm off to join Nell on the couch. She's watching Anne of Green Gables on DVD. She's been listening to it on CD for a couple of weeks and loves it. And in her Nell way, she's full of chatter about all the differences between the movie and the book. Off I go....
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Doubt
I ran for four hours yesterday morning, 5:15 - 9:15. I loved that it was almost light at 5:15, but learned later that Daylight Savings Time is starting. So I am plunged back into morning darkness for a few weeks. Alas.
I saw a fox at the top of River Road. It crossed the street in front of me then ran across the ice and into the woods. That ice was about six hours away from melting completely. I think the temperature hit sixty degrees by noon. Also heard, but did not see, a bunch of wild turkeys gobbling half way up Pequot Hill. Later in the evening I heard Garrison Keilor call wild turkeys "tiny-brained" during the News from Lake Woebegone. He called them just a big nervous system on two feet. I guess he's no fan of wild turkeys. But I was happy to hear them. And him.
I had a few giggles at Simon's expense as I trotted along. Friday night he was playing with the dogs and the three of them were getting all worked up: dogs circling each other and Simon jumping into the fray. In his exuberance, Simon tossed Eddie's chew bone way up in the air. It hit the ceiling, the hanging pots and pans, the kitchen table, the chairs and finally smashed onto the tile floor. Crash, bing, clang, boom, smash. You could watch the expression on Simon's face go from delight, to dismay, to horror, to fright as the thing careened around the kitchen. When it crash landed at his feet, he said sort of quietly, just to himself, "Oh. I threw it too high."
You gotta love Simon.
About three hours into the run I pulled out the iPod. My own thoughts are sufficiently entertaining for three hour intervals, and then I need some outside help.
I like listening to podcasts of Speaking of Faith, an NPR program about religion and ideas. Not being particularly religious myself, I admire people who are and I like to hear about them. The program I listened to on this run was called The History of Doubt.
Jennifer Michael Hecht talked about Famous Doubters starting in ancient Greece and Rome and moving up through history into the present day. She said that equating doubt with atheism or agnosticism is a modern concept, that doubt was an integral part of religion in the ancient world. She said that many of the great doubters were actually great thinkers. She said that the idea of the Leap of Faith embraced by modern Christianity (I cannot prove the existence of God, but I believe it anyway) was a stern reaction against doubt, because Christianity was the first major religion to come into being AFTER the idea of doubt had been well documented and accepted. Christianity created the leap of faith to silence the doubters. Older religions like Judaism had incorporated doubt right into the religion and is therefore not nearly so skittish about doubters.
At the end of the program Krista Tippet asked Hecht how she classified herself: agnostic, atheist, believer? Hetcht more or less dismissed the question as limiting. She does not believe in God as creator of the universe, in an afterlife, or in any sort of energy field running through nature. But she does not dismiss those who do. She finds much about religion to be beautiful and worthwhile. She can live with doubt without closing her mind to the possibility of belief.
I like that.
I ordered her book from Amazon as soon as I got home.
About a mile and a half from home I came to a crossroads. Turn right to go home for a few quiet minutes before Brian and the kids return from gymnastics, or turn left to the gym class. I missed my family, so I turned left up the enormous hill to the gym class. No one was expecting me. Brian smiled. Nell gave me a friendly look: like I resembled someone she knew, but could not quite place. And then the smile turned to recognition and lit up her face. She and I watched the boys' class, giggling at Ben's antics, amazed at Simon's (assisted) back handspring.
It was a good run.
I saw a fox at the top of River Road. It crossed the street in front of me then ran across the ice and into the woods. That ice was about six hours away from melting completely. I think the temperature hit sixty degrees by noon. Also heard, but did not see, a bunch of wild turkeys gobbling half way up Pequot Hill. Later in the evening I heard Garrison Keilor call wild turkeys "tiny-brained" during the News from Lake Woebegone. He called them just a big nervous system on two feet. I guess he's no fan of wild turkeys. But I was happy to hear them. And him.
I had a few giggles at Simon's expense as I trotted along. Friday night he was playing with the dogs and the three of them were getting all worked up: dogs circling each other and Simon jumping into the fray. In his exuberance, Simon tossed Eddie's chew bone way up in the air. It hit the ceiling, the hanging pots and pans, the kitchen table, the chairs and finally smashed onto the tile floor. Crash, bing, clang, boom, smash. You could watch the expression on Simon's face go from delight, to dismay, to horror, to fright as the thing careened around the kitchen. When it crash landed at his feet, he said sort of quietly, just to himself, "Oh. I threw it too high."
You gotta love Simon.
About three hours into the run I pulled out the iPod. My own thoughts are sufficiently entertaining for three hour intervals, and then I need some outside help.
I like listening to podcasts of Speaking of Faith, an NPR program about religion and ideas. Not being particularly religious myself, I admire people who are and I like to hear about them. The program I listened to on this run was called The History of Doubt.
Jennifer Michael Hecht talked about Famous Doubters starting in ancient Greece and Rome and moving up through history into the present day. She said that equating doubt with atheism or agnosticism is a modern concept, that doubt was an integral part of religion in the ancient world. She said that many of the great doubters were actually great thinkers. She said that the idea of the Leap of Faith embraced by modern Christianity (I cannot prove the existence of God, but I believe it anyway) was a stern reaction against doubt, because Christianity was the first major religion to come into being AFTER the idea of doubt had been well documented and accepted. Christianity created the leap of faith to silence the doubters. Older religions like Judaism had incorporated doubt right into the religion and is therefore not nearly so skittish about doubters.
At the end of the program Krista Tippet asked Hecht how she classified herself: agnostic, atheist, believer? Hetcht more or less dismissed the question as limiting. She does not believe in God as creator of the universe, in an afterlife, or in any sort of energy field running through nature. But she does not dismiss those who do. She finds much about religion to be beautiful and worthwhile. She can live with doubt without closing her mind to the possibility of belief.
I like that.
I ordered her book from Amazon as soon as I got home.
About a mile and a half from home I came to a crossroads. Turn right to go home for a few quiet minutes before Brian and the kids return from gymnastics, or turn left to the gym class. I missed my family, so I turned left up the enormous hill to the gym class. No one was expecting me. Brian smiled. Nell gave me a friendly look: like I resembled someone she knew, but could not quite place. And then the smile turned to recognition and lit up her face. She and I watched the boys' class, giggling at Ben's antics, amazed at Simon's (assisted) back handspring.
It was a good run.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Boredom
I ran this morning with both dogs and could was again distracted by the logistics of keeping them out of traffic and out of my way. All I could think about was dogs. It was a lovely morning, though. Cold. A thin scrim of ice topped the river all the way across. Lots of ducks and geese sitting there on the ice. Cold assed ducks.
As we ran by the tidal pond we heard the ice crack. A big, deep noise. Both dogs stopped and whipped their heads around at the same time. I had to do some fancy dancing to stay on my feet. These dogs have no sense of Personal Space.
I spent the rest of the day thinking about boredom. When I wasn't actively engaged in actual work, that is (ie, overseeing math pages, piano practice, board games, driving around, that sort of thing).
I read in the New Yorker yesterday that David Foster Wallace was working on a novel about boredom when he committed suicide. He had been working on it for years and despaired ever finishing it. The magazine excerpted a chapter for this week's short story. The first paragraph takes up several pages. Too daunting to even attempt to read. Visually quite frightening.
He was trying to embrace boredom. He said that we spend enormous amounts of time and energy evading boredom. We are afraid of being bored. Afraid of being left alone with our own thoughts. His novel is set in an IRS office and centers on the tax workers. A more boring job cannot be imagined.
I thought of this while I played Fast Track with the boys - a homemade math board (bored) game. They love it, but I find that after two or three go rounds its limited charms wear thin. So I embraced boredom. I enjoyed the boys. And I lost. Over and over.
As we ran by the tidal pond we heard the ice crack. A big, deep noise. Both dogs stopped and whipped their heads around at the same time. I had to do some fancy dancing to stay on my feet. These dogs have no sense of Personal Space.
I spent the rest of the day thinking about boredom. When I wasn't actively engaged in actual work, that is (ie, overseeing math pages, piano practice, board games, driving around, that sort of thing).
I read in the New Yorker yesterday that David Foster Wallace was working on a novel about boredom when he committed suicide. He had been working on it for years and despaired ever finishing it. The magazine excerpted a chapter for this week's short story. The first paragraph takes up several pages. Too daunting to even attempt to read. Visually quite frightening.
He was trying to embrace boredom. He said that we spend enormous amounts of time and energy evading boredom. We are afraid of being bored. Afraid of being left alone with our own thoughts. His novel is set in an IRS office and centers on the tax workers. A more boring job cannot be imagined.
I thought of this while I played Fast Track with the boys - a homemade math board (bored) game. They love it, but I find that after two or three go rounds its limited charms wear thin. So I embraced boredom. I enjoyed the boys. And I lost. Over and over.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Two Run Wednesday
I was able to fit in two runs today: one early in the morning with the dogs and the second later in the afternoon/evening during Nell's swim practice.
My brain was taken up with dog concerns during the morning run. We have my in-laws' Irish terrier, Cinny, with us for about a month. This was her first morning run. I dare say it may have been her first run ever. But she kept up like a champ. Her stride is much choppier than Eddie's. Very different cadence. We did 4 or 5 miles. I spent all of my mental energy keeping the dogs from tangling their leashes and tripping me.
On the second run, between 4:30 and 5:30 p.m, I thought about David Foster Wallace. I spent part of the afternoon sort of skimming a New Yorker piece about David Foster Wallace, one eye on the magazine, the other eye on the kids.
David Foster Wallace killed himself. Last year or the year before. Depression got him. One of his characters spoke of being afraid of thinking about being afraid for fear of setting off an unstoppable chain reaction of fear. I remember that feeling. After running I saw my friend back at the Y. He is going through all of that himself right now. His eyes looked ragged out and hollow. He says I'm his hero. He'll make it through. Just remember to breathe.
Right in the middle of thinking about David Foster Wallace I saw a blue heron come in for a landing on a thin and ice-rimmed estuary. That snapped me out of it. The heron looked like a plane with its landing gear deployed. It hit the water with a satisfying scroosh.
After that I worked on my last blog post for the newspaper. Due Friday. Something to walk out on. Love your kids. Look at them, listen to them, and for mercy sake, just love them.
Something like that. The only piece of parenting advice I feel qualified to give.
My brain was taken up with dog concerns during the morning run. We have my in-laws' Irish terrier, Cinny, with us for about a month. This was her first morning run. I dare say it may have been her first run ever. But she kept up like a champ. Her stride is much choppier than Eddie's. Very different cadence. We did 4 or 5 miles. I spent all of my mental energy keeping the dogs from tangling their leashes and tripping me.
On the second run, between 4:30 and 5:30 p.m, I thought about David Foster Wallace. I spent part of the afternoon sort of skimming a New Yorker piece about David Foster Wallace, one eye on the magazine, the other eye on the kids.
David Foster Wallace killed himself. Last year or the year before. Depression got him. One of his characters spoke of being afraid of thinking about being afraid for fear of setting off an unstoppable chain reaction of fear. I remember that feeling. After running I saw my friend back at the Y. He is going through all of that himself right now. His eyes looked ragged out and hollow. He says I'm his hero. He'll make it through. Just remember to breathe.
Right in the middle of thinking about David Foster Wallace I saw a blue heron come in for a landing on a thin and ice-rimmed estuary. That snapped me out of it. The heron looked like a plane with its landing gear deployed. It hit the water with a satisfying scroosh.
After that I worked on my last blog post for the newspaper. Due Friday. Something to walk out on. Love your kids. Look at them, listen to them, and for mercy sake, just love them.
Something like that. The only piece of parenting advice I feel qualified to give.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
I Ran Today
How 'bout me! 6 miles early in the morning with Eddie the Coonhound. Swam too! 45 minutes during Simon's swim class.
I ran and thought about my lost job. I quit my newspaper blog officially today. It's one thing to say you are going to quit your job. It's easy. Every reason in the world sounds valid and true. But to actually cut that cord, well, that's another thing.
I am absolutely ready to move on from that parenting blog. My kids are getting too big for me to be sharing their stories all around town. Their stories belong to them now. And the very public comments on were getting horrendous. Someone called me a dorkface. Me! I am so the opposite of a dorkface.
But still. We did have some good times, that job and me. I loved it when I first got it. And I loved it for about 4 years. But I feel like I have run out of things to say. And I am self-censoring way too much with ear cocked to the comments. It's like running with the brakes on. Writing handcuffed.
So I'm on to other things. But during my run this morning I took a few moments to mourn the lost job. Making anecdotes out of my life helped give meaning to the toddler years. Made it seem like there was a reason (a good reason) why I was apoplectic over lost boots or brain dead from one too many games of Candy Land. It gave my brain cells a few minutes to stretch every morning. Brace themselves for the day.
But I don't have babies or toddlers anymore. So I'm moving on. To what, I don't know. Graphic novel? Longer articles? Stories? I think it would be fun to write fiction. To not be tied to the truth all the time. Take wing every now and then.
But I need time to figure it all out. I need to allow myself that time. Chill. Take a break. Sleep.
I ran and thought about my lost job. I quit my newspaper blog officially today. It's one thing to say you are going to quit your job. It's easy. Every reason in the world sounds valid and true. But to actually cut that cord, well, that's another thing.
I am absolutely ready to move on from that parenting blog. My kids are getting too big for me to be sharing their stories all around town. Their stories belong to them now. And the very public comments on were getting horrendous. Someone called me a dorkface. Me! I am so the opposite of a dorkface.
But still. We did have some good times, that job and me. I loved it when I first got it. And I loved it for about 4 years. But I feel like I have run out of things to say. And I am self-censoring way too much with ear cocked to the comments. It's like running with the brakes on. Writing handcuffed.
So I'm on to other things. But during my run this morning I took a few moments to mourn the lost job. Making anecdotes out of my life helped give meaning to the toddler years. Made it seem like there was a reason (a good reason) why I was apoplectic over lost boots or brain dead from one too many games of Candy Land. It gave my brain cells a few minutes to stretch every morning. Brace themselves for the day.
But I don't have babies or toddlers anymore. So I'm moving on. To what, I don't know. Graphic novel? Longer articles? Stories? I think it would be fun to write fiction. To not be tied to the truth all the time. Take wing every now and then.
But I need time to figure it all out. I need to allow myself that time. Chill. Take a break. Sleep.
Monday, March 2, 2009
It Snowed Today
Weird to re-start a running blog and the proceed to NOT run for two days in a row. Very unusual. But we got a foot of snow today.
I skied in the street this morning ahead of the plows and thought about running.
I shoveled until lunch and thought about running.
The whole family got together to make a quinzee hut. While making the hut, I did not think about running. The quinzee hut was engaging.
First we had to shovel a whole bunch of snow into a pile.
And then we took turns digging it out. This was the most fun.
I just love our quinzee hut. It's supposed to stay cold all week, so I hope it will stick around. Sitting inside the quinzee hut I am perfectly happy. Surrounded by white, just cold enough to remind you that you're alive, but out of the wind. Silent. Nell stood outside and yelled at the top of her lungs and I could barely hear her. No slow blower sounds, no barking dogs.
I want to take my sleeping bag and spend the night out there. Or maybe just lay there for an hour and imagine I'm on top of the mountain at the end of the world.
I skied in the street this morning ahead of the plows and thought about running.
I shoveled until lunch and thought about running.
The whole family got together to make a quinzee hut. While making the hut, I did not think about running. The quinzee hut was engaging.
First we had to shovel a whole bunch of snow into a pile.
And then we took turns digging it out. This was the most fun.
I just love our quinzee hut. It's supposed to stay cold all week, so I hope it will stick around. Sitting inside the quinzee hut I am perfectly happy. Surrounded by white, just cold enough to remind you that you're alive, but out of the wind. Silent. Nell stood outside and yelled at the top of her lungs and I could barely hear her. No slow blower sounds, no barking dogs.
I want to take my sleeping bag and spend the night out there. Or maybe just lay there for an hour and imagine I'm on top of the mountain at the end of the world.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
No Run Today
Some days I sort of force myself to take a day off from running. These days are unusual, but I was so tired today that it wasn't much of an effort.
I ran 20 miles early yesterday morning and decided with something less than absolute certainty to quit my job. For the last hour of the run I listened to a podcast of Speaking of Faith. Krista Tippet was speaking to a man about Buddha in the world. The man spoke against capitalist greed (can only lead to physical violence in the end, he said). He said every person should try to get right with themselves. And leave it at that.
He cited the example of tortured Tibetans. Tibetan Buddhism is rigorous. Many of the Buddhists tortured by the Chinese evidently do not suffer long term effects (PTSD and the like). The Tibetan Buddhists are able to forgive and even feel compassion for their tormentors. The wind blows through their souls. They are remarkable.
So I will quit the blog job for the paper. Soul sucking work. I used to love it and I no longer do. I have been writing about myself and my family for five years and I don't want to do it anymore. I am quitting the job that I once would have characterized as a dream job. I'm giving up a tiny bit of money and a healthy dose of local prestige. I'm getting right with myself.
So in the spirit of giving in, I had a rare and lazy day. Never once changed out of the clothes I slept in. Took a nap. Read my book (Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami). Read a New Yorker piece about Ian McEwan. Played with the kids. Walked and talked with friends I have not seen in months. Rejuvenation day. The first day....
And I dreamed about running the Grindstone 100. It's evidently a tough race in Virginia in October. The timing is great. I can train all summer while Brian is home, then taper when he goes back to school in the fall. The race is all hills and rocks and trail. Just my cup of tea.
I ran 20 miles early yesterday morning and decided with something less than absolute certainty to quit my job. For the last hour of the run I listened to a podcast of Speaking of Faith. Krista Tippet was speaking to a man about Buddha in the world. The man spoke against capitalist greed (can only lead to physical violence in the end, he said). He said every person should try to get right with themselves. And leave it at that.
He cited the example of tortured Tibetans. Tibetan Buddhism is rigorous. Many of the Buddhists tortured by the Chinese evidently do not suffer long term effects (PTSD and the like). The Tibetan Buddhists are able to forgive and even feel compassion for their tormentors. The wind blows through their souls. They are remarkable.
So I will quit the blog job for the paper. Soul sucking work. I used to love it and I no longer do. I have been writing about myself and my family for five years and I don't want to do it anymore. I am quitting the job that I once would have characterized as a dream job. I'm giving up a tiny bit of money and a healthy dose of local prestige. I'm getting right with myself.
So in the spirit of giving in, I had a rare and lazy day. Never once changed out of the clothes I slept in. Took a nap. Read my book (Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami). Read a New Yorker piece about Ian McEwan. Played with the kids. Walked and talked with friends I have not seen in months. Rejuvenation day. The first day....
And I dreamed about running the Grindstone 100. It's evidently a tough race in Virginia in October. The timing is great. I can train all summer while Brian is home, then taper when he goes back to school in the fall. The race is all hills and rocks and trail. Just my cup of tea.
Back to the Blog
After several months of not writing anything here, I am changing the focus of this blog. I recently read Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, and I like his style. I am making no claims for myself. Old Haruki is way more engaging than I am. But still. I am going to talk here only about running, what I am thinking about while I am running, and what I am doing while I'm thinking about running.
That should give me plenty to work with.
I am on the cusp of quitting my newspaper blog. I have been writing about myself and my family for the benefit of the (mostly) good people of greater New London, CT for the past five years and I think I'm done. The comments on the blog can be soul suckingly horrendous, and I no longer want to expose myself and my kids to all of that nastiness. So I'm taking my show over here.
That should give me plenty to work with.
I am on the cusp of quitting my newspaper blog. I have been writing about myself and my family for the benefit of the (mostly) good people of greater New London, CT for the past five years and I think I'm done. The comments on the blog can be soul suckingly horrendous, and I no longer want to expose myself and my kids to all of that nastiness. So I'm taking my show over here.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Stone Cat 50
Last Saturday marked the one-year anniversary of my ultrarunning career (if , as I do, you only count races of 50 miles and up). What better way to celebrate than run the race that started it all: the Stone Cat 50 in Ipswich, MA.
This year's course was a different. It was still four 12.5 mile laps, but single track sections were added (hooray!), and I could be mistaken, but it seemed like the course looped backwards from last year's direction. Admittedly, I have no head for remembering terrain, but I recognized almost nothing from last year's course, save the in and out section at the beginning and end of each loop. (But then again, each loop seemed like a brand new course to me, so take whatever I say with a huge grain of salt.)
I liked the new course. The single track was twisty and fun. Kept my mind off running. Every time I came off the single track onto the wider carriage road my body felt heavy and clunky.
I must be getting used to running these long races, because the whole day went by in a weird time warp. Hours and hours drifted by without my quite noticing. At one point I looked down at my watch to see that I had been running for something like 5 or 6 hours, but I swear it felt like 15 minutes. It was a very enjoyable day.
I kept a conservative pace for the first three laps, because I was worried about my stomach. I ran with Penny, whom I found in the bathroom just before the pre-race meeting. We moved in and out of a big group of women for the first two laps. Oddly, most of the women had three kids at home. There was lots of parenting talk, Halloween stories, etc. I have to say, I wanted no part of that conversation. This was my parenting vacation.
The aid stations were wonderful. I recognized many of the same people working them from last year. I think many of the GAC runners work this race to satisfy their volunteer requirements for the VT 100. It's so great when the volunteers are ultrarunners themselves, because they know exactly how you are feeling and exactly what you need. Penny used to run with these guys before she got injured, so everyone at the aid stations knew her by name. I felt like I was running with the mayor of the race.
Just before heading out for the fourth and final lap, I changed my shoes and socks, which had been thoroughly soaked during my three traverses of the beaver dam section of the course. This gave me new life, and I fairly flew through the last lap (or at least it felt like I was flying -- I think I kept up a 12-minute mile, hee hee). I felt bad leaving Penny behind, but she had run a road marathon the weekend before and a 50K the weekend before that. I think her legs were done.
Miraculously, my stomach held up all day. As per the advice of Vespa Peter, I have continued to cut back on carbs in my daily diet and to eat minimally at all the aid stations during races. And Penny, who is a trainer and dietitian, gave me great advice as well: no fiber and minimal dairy for the last 2 days before the race.
I ate a little pasta with ground beef and mushrooms the night before the race and a sunflower bagel with jam a couple of hours before (while driving in the car listening to my book on tape). At the aid stations I had only a single piece of potato with salt or a couple of Saltine crackers. This was just enough (with the occasional addition of a Clif Block left to dissolve between my cheek and gum like those guys back in high school with the milk carton spittoons at the back of the class) to get me from aid station to aid station. The aid stations were roughly 4 miles apart.
After picking up the pace in the fourth lap, I kept waiting for the old queasiness to kick in. But it never did. At the last aid station I had a little chicken broth. It tasted like the best, most expensive meal you can imagine. After an entire day of nothing but potatoes and Saltines, the broth was like manna from heaven.
I once again passed on the Scotch at Fred's Cafe, though I must admit it was tempting.
By the end of the second lap I noticed that someone had tapped a keg in the woods and there were a few people milling around it. Mind you, this was maybe 11 in the morning. By the end of the third lap the crowd around the keg had grown and the unmistakable smell of sour beer, reminiscent of fraternity parties and office Christmas galas of old, wafted across the field. These people were clearly having too much fun.
I finished the race half an hour faster than last year, though I'm not sure how significant that is given the course changes. But I felt way, WAY better. Last year my father had to practically carry me to the car. This year I spent half an hour trotting up and down the road trying to figure out where I had parked the darn thing.
All in all, it has been a great year of running. Happy anniversary to me, and here's to another healthy, enjoyable year!
This year's course was a different. It was still four 12.5 mile laps, but single track sections were added (hooray!), and I could be mistaken, but it seemed like the course looped backwards from last year's direction. Admittedly, I have no head for remembering terrain, but I recognized almost nothing from last year's course, save the in and out section at the beginning and end of each loop. (But then again, each loop seemed like a brand new course to me, so take whatever I say with a huge grain of salt.)
I liked the new course. The single track was twisty and fun. Kept my mind off running. Every time I came off the single track onto the wider carriage road my body felt heavy and clunky.
I must be getting used to running these long races, because the whole day went by in a weird time warp. Hours and hours drifted by without my quite noticing. At one point I looked down at my watch to see that I had been running for something like 5 or 6 hours, but I swear it felt like 15 minutes. It was a very enjoyable day.
I kept a conservative pace for the first three laps, because I was worried about my stomach. I ran with Penny, whom I found in the bathroom just before the pre-race meeting. We moved in and out of a big group of women for the first two laps. Oddly, most of the women had three kids at home. There was lots of parenting talk, Halloween stories, etc. I have to say, I wanted no part of that conversation. This was my parenting vacation.
The aid stations were wonderful. I recognized many of the same people working them from last year. I think many of the GAC runners work this race to satisfy their volunteer requirements for the VT 100. It's so great when the volunteers are ultrarunners themselves, because they know exactly how you are feeling and exactly what you need. Penny used to run with these guys before she got injured, so everyone at the aid stations knew her by name. I felt like I was running with the mayor of the race.
Just before heading out for the fourth and final lap, I changed my shoes and socks, which had been thoroughly soaked during my three traverses of the beaver dam section of the course. This gave me new life, and I fairly flew through the last lap (or at least it felt like I was flying -- I think I kept up a 12-minute mile, hee hee). I felt bad leaving Penny behind, but she had run a road marathon the weekend before and a 50K the weekend before that. I think her legs were done.
Miraculously, my stomach held up all day. As per the advice of Vespa Peter, I have continued to cut back on carbs in my daily diet and to eat minimally at all the aid stations during races. And Penny, who is a trainer and dietitian, gave me great advice as well: no fiber and minimal dairy for the last 2 days before the race.
I ate a little pasta with ground beef and mushrooms the night before the race and a sunflower bagel with jam a couple of hours before (while driving in the car listening to my book on tape). At the aid stations I had only a single piece of potato with salt or a couple of Saltine crackers. This was just enough (with the occasional addition of a Clif Block left to dissolve between my cheek and gum like those guys back in high school with the milk carton spittoons at the back of the class) to get me from aid station to aid station. The aid stations were roughly 4 miles apart.
After picking up the pace in the fourth lap, I kept waiting for the old queasiness to kick in. But it never did. At the last aid station I had a little chicken broth. It tasted like the best, most expensive meal you can imagine. After an entire day of nothing but potatoes and Saltines, the broth was like manna from heaven.
I once again passed on the Scotch at Fred's Cafe, though I must admit it was tempting.
By the end of the second lap I noticed that someone had tapped a keg in the woods and there were a few people milling around it. Mind you, this was maybe 11 in the morning. By the end of the third lap the crowd around the keg had grown and the unmistakable smell of sour beer, reminiscent of fraternity parties and office Christmas galas of old, wafted across the field. These people were clearly having too much fun.
I finished the race half an hour faster than last year, though I'm not sure how significant that is given the course changes. But I felt way, WAY better. Last year my father had to practically carry me to the car. This year I spent half an hour trotting up and down the road trying to figure out where I had parked the darn thing.
All in all, it has been a great year of running. Happy anniversary to me, and here's to another healthy, enjoyable year!
Thursday, November 6, 2008
One thing leads to another...
Today was one of those days that unfolded to its own rhythm. These are the best kind of days, unasked for and freely given.
We started out at the big table in the playroom drawing and writing -- Nell from Draw Write Now and Simon from Draw Then Write. Ben colored pictures of his choosing that I drew for him. We listened to a Rabbit Ears Radio collection of Christmas stories.
When the drawing had run its course I pulled out David Macaulay's book, The Way Things Work. We had a little discussion about the inclined plane, and then made a couple of ramps with out K'Nex. We used a spring loaded scale to pull Webkinz up the ramps. We proved to ourselves that longer ramps make for less effort, steeper ramps less distance, though more effort.
We then raided the loose change bowl and had fun estimating how many quarters, how many nickels, etc. The combination of money and Webkinz naturally led to a rousing game of Pet Store. We slapped a price tag on each animal and sold them to each other. Ben made 10-cents-off coupons. This was the first time Simon got the abstract concept of money. A dime is worth ten cents, etc.
We wiled away the afternoon at the Nature Center. Simon studied centipedes and millipedes while Nell learned how to make a stick and leaf shelter in the woods. Ben and I went to the health food store and then wandered around after Nell's group. Ben spent a long time rolling a slug down a big rock and retrieving it. Sorry, slug.
We started out at the big table in the playroom drawing and writing -- Nell from Draw Write Now and Simon from Draw Then Write. Ben colored pictures of his choosing that I drew for him. We listened to a Rabbit Ears Radio collection of Christmas stories.
When the drawing had run its course I pulled out David Macaulay's book, The Way Things Work. We had a little discussion about the inclined plane, and then made a couple of ramps with out K'Nex. We used a spring loaded scale to pull Webkinz up the ramps. We proved to ourselves that longer ramps make for less effort, steeper ramps less distance, though more effort.
We then raided the loose change bowl and had fun estimating how many quarters, how many nickels, etc. The combination of money and Webkinz naturally led to a rousing game of Pet Store. We slapped a price tag on each animal and sold them to each other. Ben made 10-cents-off coupons. This was the first time Simon got the abstract concept of money. A dime is worth ten cents, etc.
We wiled away the afternoon at the Nature Center. Simon studied centipedes and millipedes while Nell learned how to make a stick and leaf shelter in the woods. Ben and I went to the health food store and then wandered around after Nell's group. Ben spent a long time rolling a slug down a big rock and retrieving it. Sorry, slug.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Little Jacksons Everywhere
Today Grandma came for art class and the kids make Jackson Pollock splatter paintings. They were tired from an afternoon at the beach (IN the water on November 4th!), but they perked right up for this art project. It was a tremendous hit.
Here's everybody getting started with the brushes and the paint outside on the driveway. We were lucky that it wasn't too cold.
And then the kids got to work.
Jackson Pollock must have been quite a child at heart, because these kids took to this project like pigs to the mud bath. And the results weren't too far off the mark. All three kids spent about an hour channeling our friend Jackson.
When all was said and done, it was hard to tell the artist from the art.
Here's everybody getting started with the brushes and the paint outside on the driveway. We were lucky that it wasn't too cold.
And then the kids got to work.
Jackson Pollock must have been quite a child at heart, because these kids took to this project like pigs to the mud bath. And the results weren't too far off the mark. All three kids spent about an hour channeling our friend Jackson.
When all was said and done, it was hard to tell the artist from the art.
Training Eddie, Raising Kids
Here is a piece I wrote for my newspaper. I thought it was funny, but some of the commenters thought I was inhumane for crating the dog while we run errands and for bringing the electric fence into the house. No sense of humor? Or am I inhumane?
Training Eddie
About a month ago we brought home a 2-year-old Walker coonhound named Eddie from the Quaker Hill Humane Society. Eddie is a lovely dog with a sweet personality, but he has spent much of his young life being shunted from shelter to shelter and has never been properly trained.
Having just escorted our spirited third child through “the terrible twos” and half way into “the turbulent threes” I have a few thoughts on the differences between training a dog and training a child (and yes, I realize we do not TRAIN our children, we RAISE and NURTURE them, but please bear with me).
I have always been against bribing the kids. This doesn’t mean that I have not on occasion stooped to saying, for example, “Get in the car right now and I’ll give you a bag of popcorn,” but these instances are few and far between, and most often uttered in moments of extreme duress – late picking up my mother at the airport, or late for a sibling’s very expensive horseback riding lesson. And I always feel slimy afterwards.
But training the dog is a whole different thing. Dog training is nothing but bribery:
“Come over here, Eddie, and I’ll give you a hot dog.”
“Get off the new sofa and I’ll give you a heart-shaped organic dog treat.”
“Get into your crate and I’ll give you a pig’s ear.”
I was at first reluctant to partake in these blatantly shameless and corrupt enticements. My parenting instinct was to reason with the dog, make him see how it was in his best interest to come down off the new sofa, make him WANT to get down off the sofa from the center of his being. Let him learn for himself how his dog nails were ruining the upholstery and greatly reducing overall quality of this fine piece of furniture.
I do this with the kids every day: “Stop jumping on the couch. You’re wrecking it!”
Never works. The couch is just too cushy and fun. But Eddie gets off in a hot second whenever the treats come out.
I worry that all of this bribery will stunt his emerging sense of ethics. How will he truly know right from wrong when his entire moral structure is based solely on the presence or absence of a kosher beef frankfurter?
Oh, Eddie, what are we doing to you?
I especially appreciate Eddie’s dog self whenever its time to, say, go to the grocery store. 2-year-olds are the worst grocery shoppers. You have to force them into their jackets and shoes, stuff them into their car seats, and keep a constant eye on them in the store to make sure they are not tossing candy and cinnamon buns into the back of the cart from their high perch in the front.
Eddie is so much easier. You simply bribe him into his crate with a pig’s ear, where he will munch and take a little nap until his people return. Easy as pie.
Another remarkable fact: Eddie can go outside and play in the yard ALL BY HIMSELF. He does not leave the yard (or at least not very often – we’re still working on this), because crossing the border to the neighbor’s yard results in an electric shock (or, as the invisible fence people so comfortingly state it, a STATIC CORRECTION) from a wire buried two inches under the grass.
There is simply no equivalent for the kids. You have to watch them every second.
And if you REALLY don’t want the dog on the sofa, and you don’t want him chewing the toys, and you feel like you are going out of your mind because you are trying to home school your three kids, but you are getting nothing done because you are spending all of your time making sure the dog doesn’t nip the boys’ butts, well – you simply demand that your handy husband splice into that wire outside and run it through the middle of the house. And when he tells you it will take three or four days to figure out a path for the wire under the floorboards and through the joists, you count to ten and growl, “No! No! We will run the wire in through the window and tape it to the floor. RIGHT NOW!”
And then you head out to T.J. Maxx to purchase a few funky throw rugs to cover the unsightly wire snaking across the floorboards.
Eddie now receives a static correction whenever he tries to venture into the living room or the playroom. One little shock and he never tries it again. My life is like a dream!
I really could have used this device when Simon and Ben were going through their bookcase-climbing phase. And their kitchen-counter-scaling phase. And their banister-sliding phase. And their table-jumping phase….
Training Eddie
About a month ago we brought home a 2-year-old Walker coonhound named Eddie from the Quaker Hill Humane Society. Eddie is a lovely dog with a sweet personality, but he has spent much of his young life being shunted from shelter to shelter and has never been properly trained.
Having just escorted our spirited third child through “the terrible twos” and half way into “the turbulent threes” I have a few thoughts on the differences between training a dog and training a child (and yes, I realize we do not TRAIN our children, we RAISE and NURTURE them, but please bear with me).
I have always been against bribing the kids. This doesn’t mean that I have not on occasion stooped to saying, for example, “Get in the car right now and I’ll give you a bag of popcorn,” but these instances are few and far between, and most often uttered in moments of extreme duress – late picking up my mother at the airport, or late for a sibling’s very expensive horseback riding lesson. And I always feel slimy afterwards.
But training the dog is a whole different thing. Dog training is nothing but bribery:
“Come over here, Eddie, and I’ll give you a hot dog.”
“Get off the new sofa and I’ll give you a heart-shaped organic dog treat.”
“Get into your crate and I’ll give you a pig’s ear.”
I was at first reluctant to partake in these blatantly shameless and corrupt enticements. My parenting instinct was to reason with the dog, make him see how it was in his best interest to come down off the new sofa, make him WANT to get down off the sofa from the center of his being. Let him learn for himself how his dog nails were ruining the upholstery and greatly reducing overall quality of this fine piece of furniture.
I do this with the kids every day: “Stop jumping on the couch. You’re wrecking it!”
Never works. The couch is just too cushy and fun. But Eddie gets off in a hot second whenever the treats come out.
I worry that all of this bribery will stunt his emerging sense of ethics. How will he truly know right from wrong when his entire moral structure is based solely on the presence or absence of a kosher beef frankfurter?
Oh, Eddie, what are we doing to you?
I especially appreciate Eddie’s dog self whenever its time to, say, go to the grocery store. 2-year-olds are the worst grocery shoppers. You have to force them into their jackets and shoes, stuff them into their car seats, and keep a constant eye on them in the store to make sure they are not tossing candy and cinnamon buns into the back of the cart from their high perch in the front.
Eddie is so much easier. You simply bribe him into his crate with a pig’s ear, where he will munch and take a little nap until his people return. Easy as pie.
Another remarkable fact: Eddie can go outside and play in the yard ALL BY HIMSELF. He does not leave the yard (or at least not very often – we’re still working on this), because crossing the border to the neighbor’s yard results in an electric shock (or, as the invisible fence people so comfortingly state it, a STATIC CORRECTION) from a wire buried two inches under the grass.
There is simply no equivalent for the kids. You have to watch them every second.
And if you REALLY don’t want the dog on the sofa, and you don’t want him chewing the toys, and you feel like you are going out of your mind because you are trying to home school your three kids, but you are getting nothing done because you are spending all of your time making sure the dog doesn’t nip the boys’ butts, well – you simply demand that your handy husband splice into that wire outside and run it through the middle of the house. And when he tells you it will take three or four days to figure out a path for the wire under the floorboards and through the joists, you count to ten and growl, “No! No! We will run the wire in through the window and tape it to the floor. RIGHT NOW!”
And then you head out to T.J. Maxx to purchase a few funky throw rugs to cover the unsightly wire snaking across the floorboards.
Eddie now receives a static correction whenever he tries to venture into the living room or the playroom. One little shock and he never tries it again. My life is like a dream!
I really could have used this device when Simon and Ben were going through their bookcase-climbing phase. And their kitchen-counter-scaling phase. And their banister-sliding phase. And their table-jumping phase….
Friday, October 31, 2008
Tipping the balance to unschool
It happened yesterday. The balance in our homeschool finally tipped from "eclectic schooling" to "unschooling." And, man, did it feel good.
After two days of trying to force the workbooks -- math, writing and Draw Write Now being the last vestiges of the crop from early September -- I finally gave in, gave up, gave over. At least for the moment, we are unschooling. Though I tend to shy away from labels, this on does seem to fit.
I think the addition of a 2-year-old dog to the mix is what finally did it. Between walking the dog, letting him in and out, keeping him away from the boys (who love him, but get him riled up), and stopping him from chewing every hat, mitten and sock in the house, all semblance of structure eroded.
When Brian came home from work Tuesday afternoon, I was fit to be tied. "This dog needs to be contained!" I yelled. (Actually, that's not what I yelled at all. It was more like, "We need to keep this fucking dog out of the playroom and living room or he's going back to the pound, so help me!").
Whatever it was I said - I only remember a day full of yelling -- it worked. I don't get easily worked up. Brian saw I was a mess. He said he could splice into the electric fence outside and run a wire through the middle of the house. But it would take a few days to figure out the path the wire would need to take underneath the floorboards and through the joists. (Brian has a lively working knowledge of the innards of the house, which I lack entirely.)
"Oh, no, no, NO!" I said. "You run the wire through the window and tape it to the freaking floor!"
Bless him, he did it. He brought the wire in through some duct work in the basement and taped it across the playroom and living room floors. It almost killed him aesthetically, but he did it.
So yesterday we had a dog-free day in half of the house, which made all the difference. We love the dog, lovely Eddie, but he simply cannot have run of the house.
The kids were so thrilled to be able to play with their toys in the living room and play room without fear of Eddie stealing them and chewing them that they more or less played all day. All three together. Not wanting to disturb that magic, I let them.
They built a city for the guinea pigs while I made whole wheat anadama bread. We all played a fractions game from Family Math (best book I've bought this year, which is really saying something). They created a town for their stuffed animals in the living room complete with houses, stores and a library. I went online to research unschooling on Sandra Dodd's wonderful site. I read to them from American Tall Tales while they painted and drew. We went apple picking in the afternoon (last time this season) and carved pumpkins when we got home. And Brian and Nell took Eddie to obedience school.
It was a great day. I did not feel like my head was going into orbit at sundown.
It seems to be a question of control and trust. Do I trust the kids have some (or all) control of their learning, or do I not. I am slowly giving over. I can plainly see that their instinct is to learn. Left to their own devices, they learn beautifully. And get along beautifully. Which is itself perhaps the best lesson of all.
After two days of trying to force the workbooks -- math, writing and Draw Write Now being the last vestiges of the crop from early September -- I finally gave in, gave up, gave over. At least for the moment, we are unschooling. Though I tend to shy away from labels, this on does seem to fit.
I think the addition of a 2-year-old dog to the mix is what finally did it. Between walking the dog, letting him in and out, keeping him away from the boys (who love him, but get him riled up), and stopping him from chewing every hat, mitten and sock in the house, all semblance of structure eroded.
When Brian came home from work Tuesday afternoon, I was fit to be tied. "This dog needs to be contained!" I yelled. (Actually, that's not what I yelled at all. It was more like, "We need to keep this fucking dog out of the playroom and living room or he's going back to the pound, so help me!").
Whatever it was I said - I only remember a day full of yelling -- it worked. I don't get easily worked up. Brian saw I was a mess. He said he could splice into the electric fence outside and run a wire through the middle of the house. But it would take a few days to figure out the path the wire would need to take underneath the floorboards and through the joists. (Brian has a lively working knowledge of the innards of the house, which I lack entirely.)
"Oh, no, no, NO!" I said. "You run the wire through the window and tape it to the freaking floor!"
Bless him, he did it. He brought the wire in through some duct work in the basement and taped it across the playroom and living room floors. It almost killed him aesthetically, but he did it.
So yesterday we had a dog-free day in half of the house, which made all the difference. We love the dog, lovely Eddie, but he simply cannot have run of the house.
The kids were so thrilled to be able to play with their toys in the living room and play room without fear of Eddie stealing them and chewing them that they more or less played all day. All three together. Not wanting to disturb that magic, I let them.
They built a city for the guinea pigs while I made whole wheat anadama bread. We all played a fractions game from Family Math (best book I've bought this year, which is really saying something). They created a town for their stuffed animals in the living room complete with houses, stores and a library. I went online to research unschooling on Sandra Dodd's wonderful site. I read to them from American Tall Tales while they painted and drew. We went apple picking in the afternoon (last time this season) and carved pumpkins when we got home. And Brian and Nell took Eddie to obedience school.
It was a great day. I did not feel like my head was going into orbit at sundown.
It seems to be a question of control and trust. Do I trust the kids have some (or all) control of their learning, or do I not. I am slowly giving over. I can plainly see that their instinct is to learn. Left to their own devices, they learn beautifully. And get along beautifully. Which is itself perhaps the best lesson of all.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Bimblers Bluff 50K
Much of this post is lifted from a blog I wrote for my newspaper.
Sitting around our tent site last summer the tense and unreal evening before the Vermont 100, local Connecticut runner Kerry Arsenault dropped over to tell Chuck and Grace and me that her husband, Jerry Turk, was planning to direct a 50K (31-mile) race called Bimblers Bluff on October 26th right here in Southeastern Connecticut.
I took a flier and kept the race in the back of my mind during the intervening months, knowing that I was planning to run a 50-miler just two weeks later, but thrillingly tempted by the possibility of running an ultra just 45 minutes from home. The race was to be run entirely on trails in and around Guilford and Madison, CT.
About a month ago I bit the bullet and signed up. Having just run a pair of races in the mountains of Vermont and New Hampshire I was feeling cocky. I thought to myself, “A 50K here in mountain-less, gently rolling shoreline Connecticut – piece of cake!”
Oh how wrong I was. I had failed to take into account just how narrow and rocky and rooty and twisty and oh, so difficult-to-find the trails in Guilford and Madison can be.
I talked my friend Susan into running with me, telling her that I was not planning to break any records, but merely to indulge in a long, leisurely training run in the woods. Had we known just how long we were going to be in the woods, I’m not sure we would have gone ahead. Ultimately I’m glad we did, and I had fabulous time. Susan, however, is terrified of getting lost and felt tortured for much of the run. She was a trooper (for the most part).
We arrived at a Guilford elementary school gym just in time for the pre-race meeting and joked with Stonington runner, Davnet, her husband, Paul, and our trail friend Nipmuck Dave about how slow we all were. We gathered for the start and took off comfortably in last place, where Susan and I stayed for most of the day.
I have never in my life gotten so lost on a course. It was confusing and poorly marked. We hadn’t run 2 miles when we got lost for the first time. We had run about half a mile off course before realizing that we hadn’t seen any of the pink ribbons that marked the course in quite a while. We backtracked with our new friend, Marv from Colorado, telling ourselves how lucky we were to have gotten lost so early in the race, and how we would all be much more careful to look for pink ribbons. We eventually found the trail, only to head off in the wrong direction, running half way back to the start before realizing that everything was looking a little too familiar.
Alas, it was to be a full day of losing the trail and searching for pink ribbons. But the weather was perfect – crystal blue and warm after a week of forecasted rain – and the forest was lovely with the yellow leaves backlit against the trees.
Our pace was excruciatingly slow. We were running at a snail’s pace to begin with, and all of the route finding and rock dodging slowed us to a near crawl. Suffice it to say that it took us almost 3 hours to get to the second aid station at Mile 10.
The aid stations in this race were outstanding. All of the volunteers were cheerful and encouraging, especially to the pour souls in last place. Each time we came to an aid station (there were 5 on the course) I would stagger in gasping, “We’re alive!”. The volunteers joked with us, filled out bottles, and tried to feed us. I was eating only one piece of salted potato at each station, trying to run on a minimum amount of food to keep my poor stomach from getting sick. This strategy worked. During all of the 9 hours we were out on the trail, I only felt sick for about 10 minutes near the end, having finally indulged in a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup with 2 miles to go.
The climb up Bluff Head after Aid Station 2 was epic (at least by Southeastern CT standards). Once at the top we could see for miles into the lake and rolling hills below. The view was remarkably reminiscent of Vermont.
I was chomping at the bit by now to go faster. But this would have been dumb. I kept reminding myself that this was a training run. Stone Cat in 2 weeks! Stone Cat in 2 weeks! Susan's ankle brace was killing her and this, combined with lots of little climbs, was slowing us down to a walking pace for long stretches. Every inch of me wanted to go faster.
Around mile 20, I started to up the pace and Susan and I briefly parted ways. Half an hour later I got a call on my cell phone: Susan saying she had lost the trail and was hopelessly lost. I ran back as quickly as I could, maybe a mile, yelling SUSAN! into the woods over and over. She called me again to tell me she could hear me. She somehow followed my voice back to the trail.
I had meanwhile gotten a bit lost myself. In my crazed state of mind, I missed a critical turn and was now looping back, still on the course, but now in a section we had run hours ago. I backtracked, found the crossroads and thankfully got myself back on the green-dot trail I had left. I was now, however, several minutes behind Susan. She ran/walked slowly until I caught up and, hugely relieved to have found each other, we stayed together for the rest of the run.
She owed me her VERY LIFE! Though, on second thought, she wouldn't have been out there in the first place if I hadn't talked her into running with me.
The last 8 miles or so were a repeat (more or less) of the first 8, so we did not loose the trail nearly as often toward the end of the race. We found one guy at a road crossing wandering up and down looking for the way back into the woods and we ran with him for a while, figuring six eyes looking for pink were better than four.
A quarter mile from the finish we popped out onto another road, having missed a turn on the trail a few yards back. We spent about 10 desperate minutes asking neighbors and construction workers where the elementary school was. Finally a woman stepped out of her house and directed us back onto the trail.
The finish line was a glorious sight. Susan’s kids were there to cheer us on and seeing their smiling faces was absolutely delightful. We both received a cool Buff (kind of a headband-hat type thing) as a finisher’s award, as well as bags of bagels and cider (if you stay out long enough you get to take home the leftover aid station food!).
All in all, I probably ran between 35 and 37 miles. The course itself was long (32.5 miles) and I ran at least three extra miles off it. Even so, I had a great day in the woods. I loved the race and will definitely be back next year with the detailed course description (available on The Bimbler’s Sound Web Page) tucked into my pocket.
I have a year to convince Susan to join me. She says NO WAY.
Sitting around our tent site last summer the tense and unreal evening before the Vermont 100, local Connecticut runner Kerry Arsenault dropped over to tell Chuck and Grace and me that her husband, Jerry Turk, was planning to direct a 50K (31-mile) race called Bimblers Bluff on October 26th right here in Southeastern Connecticut.
I took a flier and kept the race in the back of my mind during the intervening months, knowing that I was planning to run a 50-miler just two weeks later, but thrillingly tempted by the possibility of running an ultra just 45 minutes from home. The race was to be run entirely on trails in and around Guilford and Madison, CT.
About a month ago I bit the bullet and signed up. Having just run a pair of races in the mountains of Vermont and New Hampshire I was feeling cocky. I thought to myself, “A 50K here in mountain-less, gently rolling shoreline Connecticut – piece of cake!”
Oh how wrong I was. I had failed to take into account just how narrow and rocky and rooty and twisty and oh, so difficult-to-find the trails in Guilford and Madison can be.
I talked my friend Susan into running with me, telling her that I was not planning to break any records, but merely to indulge in a long, leisurely training run in the woods. Had we known just how long we were going to be in the woods, I’m not sure we would have gone ahead. Ultimately I’m glad we did, and I had fabulous time. Susan, however, is terrified of getting lost and felt tortured for much of the run. She was a trooper (for the most part).
We arrived at a Guilford elementary school gym just in time for the pre-race meeting and joked with Stonington runner, Davnet, her husband, Paul, and our trail friend Nipmuck Dave about how slow we all were. We gathered for the start and took off comfortably in last place, where Susan and I stayed for most of the day.
I have never in my life gotten so lost on a course. It was confusing and poorly marked. We hadn’t run 2 miles when we got lost for the first time. We had run about half a mile off course before realizing that we hadn’t seen any of the pink ribbons that marked the course in quite a while. We backtracked with our new friend, Marv from Colorado, telling ourselves how lucky we were to have gotten lost so early in the race, and how we would all be much more careful to look for pink ribbons. We eventually found the trail, only to head off in the wrong direction, running half way back to the start before realizing that everything was looking a little too familiar.
Alas, it was to be a full day of losing the trail and searching for pink ribbons. But the weather was perfect – crystal blue and warm after a week of forecasted rain – and the forest was lovely with the yellow leaves backlit against the trees.
Our pace was excruciatingly slow. We were running at a snail’s pace to begin with, and all of the route finding and rock dodging slowed us to a near crawl. Suffice it to say that it took us almost 3 hours to get to the second aid station at Mile 10.
The aid stations in this race were outstanding. All of the volunteers were cheerful and encouraging, especially to the pour souls in last place. Each time we came to an aid station (there were 5 on the course) I would stagger in gasping, “We’re alive!”. The volunteers joked with us, filled out bottles, and tried to feed us. I was eating only one piece of salted potato at each station, trying to run on a minimum amount of food to keep my poor stomach from getting sick. This strategy worked. During all of the 9 hours we were out on the trail, I only felt sick for about 10 minutes near the end, having finally indulged in a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup with 2 miles to go.
The climb up Bluff Head after Aid Station 2 was epic (at least by Southeastern CT standards). Once at the top we could see for miles into the lake and rolling hills below. The view was remarkably reminiscent of Vermont.
I was chomping at the bit by now to go faster. But this would have been dumb. I kept reminding myself that this was a training run. Stone Cat in 2 weeks! Stone Cat in 2 weeks! Susan's ankle brace was killing her and this, combined with lots of little climbs, was slowing us down to a walking pace for long stretches. Every inch of me wanted to go faster.
Around mile 20, I started to up the pace and Susan and I briefly parted ways. Half an hour later I got a call on my cell phone: Susan saying she had lost the trail and was hopelessly lost. I ran back as quickly as I could, maybe a mile, yelling SUSAN! into the woods over and over. She called me again to tell me she could hear me. She somehow followed my voice back to the trail.
I had meanwhile gotten a bit lost myself. In my crazed state of mind, I missed a critical turn and was now looping back, still on the course, but now in a section we had run hours ago. I backtracked, found the crossroads and thankfully got myself back on the green-dot trail I had left. I was now, however, several minutes behind Susan. She ran/walked slowly until I caught up and, hugely relieved to have found each other, we stayed together for the rest of the run.
She owed me her VERY LIFE! Though, on second thought, she wouldn't have been out there in the first place if I hadn't talked her into running with me.
The last 8 miles or so were a repeat (more or less) of the first 8, so we did not loose the trail nearly as often toward the end of the race. We found one guy at a road crossing wandering up and down looking for the way back into the woods and we ran with him for a while, figuring six eyes looking for pink were better than four.
A quarter mile from the finish we popped out onto another road, having missed a turn on the trail a few yards back. We spent about 10 desperate minutes asking neighbors and construction workers where the elementary school was. Finally a woman stepped out of her house and directed us back onto the trail.
The finish line was a glorious sight. Susan’s kids were there to cheer us on and seeing their smiling faces was absolutely delightful. We both received a cool Buff (kind of a headband-hat type thing) as a finisher’s award, as well as bags of bagels and cider (if you stay out long enough you get to take home the leftover aid station food!).
All in all, I probably ran between 35 and 37 miles. The course itself was long (32.5 miles) and I ran at least three extra miles off it. Even so, I had a great day in the woods. I loved the race and will definitely be back next year with the detailed course description (available on The Bimbler’s Sound Web Page) tucked into my pocket.
I have a year to convince Susan to join me. She says NO WAY.
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