Running with the Dead

Dead Reckoning

2009-11-04T05:36:00.000-08:00

So we're back in Flagstaff. Back among the pines and the peaks. But not in the same place. Immediately upon crossing that zany finish line in Central Park, our feet slowed. Our muscle were taut. Our bones worn. Time ebbed. A cluster of medical volunteers poked us to make sure we were still alive. They covered us in foil capes. We hobbled into the corrals like a queue of zombies, with brains making quick exits. The doors of our bodies had been left open. Wide open. And our minds really started to move. Smashing forward. In double time. Aiming for a new outpost. Go! Now this wasn't the greatest mental leap I've ever experienced, but I did enjoy a smidge of transcendence. And maybe that's why people do these stupid things.

The strangest part though was that M and I ended up in completely different (and unexpected) places.

Okay, back to the beginning. I left the hotel at 4:50 AM, under the shadow of the Empire State Building. M would leave fifteen minutes later. She was in the blue wave. I was in orange. She took the ferry to Staten Island. I was on the bus. When I climbed out of the subway at 42nd Street, runners appeared everywhere. Climbing out of tunnels. Slipping from yellow cabs. Hopping out of doorways. The city held a silent fire drill. Runners only please. Forty-three-thousand nylon-clad athletes crawled into the light.

The bus dumped me on Staten Island with nearly four hours until the race began. It was drizzling and cold. Runners huddled together. Refuge camps formed. M and I were in different camps, but I got a call from her. I knew her position. The advantage went to those familiar with the prolonged wait. Some showed up with sleeping bags and small tents. Rain gear and cook tops. Entire meals were being prepared. Before the start, you could bag all your gear and send it to the finish line. Since I got to Staten Island early, I was able to squirm into a large tent. I sat in a circle of five runners, swapping stories and laughing over our paths. They were running geeks, but fairly normal. Not idiots.

The light crept over the Verrazano Bridge and we were ordered into the corals in ten different languages. I ate my last Clif Bar, used the Port-o-Potty and rubbed Vaseline over my body. I hooked up my ear buds and turned on the Garmin. At one point, somebody bumped me. Fire on the Mountain came on. I didn't realize that it came from player. I thought it was from the overhead speakers and that the NYC Marathon was playing the Grateful Dead at the start of the race. Wow! Cosmic! But then I realized the source and felt like a moron. There were no supernatural forces at work in NYC this morning. Nothing was going to save me.

The race started with a bang and Sinatra sent us into Brooklyn. New York, New York. Okay, that made more sense. I could see the towers of Manhattan over the water. They looked gray and miniature. A long way off. When I got over the bridge and into Brooklyn, I quickly realized the best and worst parts of the NYC Marathon. The best part? The crowds. I felt like I was in the Tour de France. The crowds were three or four people deep. Cheering and ringing cow bells. The signs were a constant source of entertainment. The bands rocked. And the worst part? The pavement. Damn, those streets were rough. Bumpy and pot-holed. I was cringing after three miles. My body was used to the dirt trails in Flagstaff. My bones rattled until I thought my legs would fall off.

I wish I could say I felt good during this marathon. But, nope. Felt like crap the entire time. L had been up coughing half the night. Neither M nor I got any sleep. That said, my breathing and cardio were fine. Training at altitude must have helped. But still, my legs were like cement. I started running nine minute miles, thinking I would aim for four hours. It was not hard, but not pleasant either. Maybe it was the lack of sleep? Or the month-long sinus infection? Or my fear of running fast? Anyway, I had no juice.

The crowds were so loud in Brooklyn, that I could not hear my player. Which was fine at first. Dead or no dead, I was taking it easy. As I crossed into Queens, my Garmin freaked out. It lost all satellites. I kept peering at it, pleading, hoping it would come alive. But nope. The thing was stuck at fourteen. So I switched it off. From that point on, I was clueless. Running blind. I knew that I had slowed down, but by how much? Blah. Stupid Garmin. I put too much trust in it. Now, my only means for determining pace was the Grateful Dead. I estimated my speed by recalling the position of each song. My calculations were double-checked by cross-referencing jams, teasers and guitar solos. I was truly, dead reckoning.

So on I went. The idea of cheating never crossed my mind. I stayed safe. And well below the line. Finishing never seemed like a problem. We ran through a viaduct and wasteland in the Bronx and then headed into Harlem. The crowds were huge. Central Park was on the horizon. My legs hurt, but I never walked nor lost my hop. At one point a woman looked at me and said, you can do it!, and I nodded and thought, Yeah, I can. Big deal. Yet, my body hurt. It moved through various stages of exhaustion. And I cried.

Before the park, I stopped to pee, unconcerned about time. Whenever I passed a medical tent, I peaked inside to make sure M had not quit. I checked my phone near the end and saw that she had called. She must have finished.

At the end, I felt okay. Just like after a long run. Man, I played it safe. Maybe too safe. I came in during The Wheel. I checked the clock and calculated my time. Under four-forty-five. M had come in an hour before I did. What was I doing during that hour? Stopping for a beer in Brooklyn? Chatting with the crowd? Tying my shoes? Nope. I was just damn slow. And so here at the end, as I trudged along in my foil cape and finisher medal, was where my thoughts erupted. Where something bizarre happened at the center of my pea-sized brain. And a new and alien thought emerged. I can do better, I thought. Huh? Did I really think that? Yep. . . Had I gone insane? Maybe. And then I wondered whether I would train for another marathon. And part of me hoped I did.

And the funniest thing of all? After a mile of wandering through the corals, searching for M, I found her. She looked crazy beautiful. Wearing a silver vest, blue sweats, and covered in a red blanket. Her hair tied in pigtails. Smiling and hopping back and forth. We hugged and found an open space. And then she looked up at me, shaking her head, and said: That's it. I'm done. I never want to do a marathon again!

Finished. . . well, almost

2009-11-02T04:31:00.000-08:00

Here is a picture from the expo for the marathon. I didn't take my camera on the run, so no race pictures . . There are some on the NYC Times website if you are curious. Also M may have some pictures on her Iphone. . . but those will have to wait. As will my final blog on this marathon. We did finish. And neither of us have died (yet). It was pretty fun, but also miserable. Both M and I felt under-trained. Also L was up most of the previous night coughing. But, enough excuses. It's done. I'm not sure about my official time. I think I got under 4:45. . . M finished an hour before me. I will post a recap when we get back to Flag.

Thanks to my friend Sam for meeting us for Thai food last night. Today we will likely go up in the Empire State Building before heading home. . . I can barely move my legs!

Oh, somebody happened to take a photo of me at the finish line. I was damn tired, but still managed to raise my arms to celebrate.

In the Belly of the Beast

2009-10-30T13:59:00.000-07:00

Hey, where is the sky?

After a brutal day of travel, we made it to our midtown hotel. The photo above is the view from our window. In a mad attempt to adjust to the three-hour timezone shift, we'll eat early and crash. L already crashed. He was coughing through most of the night in Phoenix. And again coughing on the entire five-hour-plus flight, causing passengers around us to say, how cute, while ducking their faces beneath their sweaters. Poor tyke. He did pretty well though.

M is trying to follow Greg McMillan's running tips for preparing for a marathon. So far, we are failing miserably. You are supposed to accrue sleep on the days leading up to the race and not worry about the night before. Failed. We were up half the night. Also, you are not supposed to let yourself get hungry. Failed. We rushed to the airport and had no food for the flight. Oops.

We just got some Italian food from around the corner. And filled our bellies with pasta. And let the carbo-loading begin. It was nice to walk the streets of Manhattan, even though it was only a few blocks. I've only been in the city for a few hours, but like usual, I can unequivocally say, I love New York. It's a beast. But a beautiful one. The energy. The in-your-face people. The hidden places. As we slurped our pasta, M and I had our which-city is-better-New-York-or-San-Francisco-conversation for the one billionth time. As always, she argues for SF. I for NYC. And then we drop it. It doesn't really matter. In the end, we both prefer the peaks.

Snow and Crayons

2009-10-29T07:35:00.000-07:00

Spent much of the past two days with a sick L at home. He is doing better this morning, but still has a cough. We'll see if they let him back in school. Notice the photo above, taken through a window, some of L's creative work. I call it Crayon on Glass with Snow.

We got a dusting of snow last night. Neither M nor I ran this morning. Too cold. And we only need a couple miles because we are in hardcore tapering. Not a big deal. We'll just do some stretching. Start packing. Put the house in order. Tonight we drive to Phoenix. Our flight for NYC leaves tomorrow early. I will tote the computer and try to post a couple things from the big city. Three more days until the race!

Running with the Dead: Final Mix

2009-10-28T04:50:00.000-07:00

Okay, here's my final running-with-the-dead mix for the NYC Marathon. I went a little nuts with the amount of detail. Can't help it. M freaked me out the other day when she told me, the NYC Marathon does not allow players. She was messing with me. Headphones are allowed, but frowned upon. NYC is also having a bunch of live bands along the way. So, I'll keep the volume low. And be aware of my fellow runners. And yeah, enjoy the live bands. Still, I need my tunes:

27:05 - Scarlet > Fire (1978/12/31 - Closing at Winterland): M bought me this cd a while back. It is clean and everybody is "on" (even Donna). It's a good starter for setting my pace.

11:47 (38:52) - Birdsong (1972/09/27 Dick's Picks 11): This song keeps me calm and helps me get through my initial breathing issues. I especially like when they sing, "don't cry."

4:43 (43:35) - Cassidy (1976/09/26-28 Dick's Picks 20): A reminder to run by my own design.

9:40 (53:25) - U.S. Blues (1974/06/26-28 Dick's Picks 12): A very bluesy, heavy stepping version.

10:42 (1h4:07) - Franklin's Tower (1991/09/25 Dick's Picks 17):Roll away one hour.

6:18 (1h10:25)- Hard to Handle (from D's collection): Pigpen time.

7:22 (1h17:47)- Bertha (1977/12/29 Dick's Picks 10): Should be seeing the Statue of Liberty to my left.

4:06 (1h21:53)- Friend of the Devil (1972/09/27 Dick's Picks 11)

14:02 (1h35:55)- The Eleven (1969/11/08 Dick's Picks 16): I thought about trying to put this song at mile eleven, but that is silly (unless I'm running way too fast). It started out here and I like it here.

5:41 (1h41:36)- Me and Bobbie McGee (from D's collection): Great cover song. Especially the line, "a marathon's just another word for nothing left to lose."

11:06 (1h52:42)- China > Rider (1977/12/29 Dick's Picks 10): Nice and clean. Short transition. This should push me past the first third, unless I'm dreadfully slow.

6:33 (1h59:15)- Sugar Magnolia (1970/10/31 Dick's Picks 2): An early hopping beep-dah-beep version.

5:16 (2h4:31)- Big River (1975/9/28 Audience recording): Another great cover. Johnny Cash. Likely hitting my first bonk. Cry cry cry.

30:05 (2h34:36)- Scarlet > Touch > Fire (1984/7/13 Audience Recording): This one is speedy and I love the transition. The band seems to be heading into Fire on the Mountain, but going way too fast. Mickey starts thumping. Fire riffs fly out everywhere. And then out of nowhere, the band flips into Touch of Grey. It's unreal. This should push me well over the halfway point.

4:25 (2h39:01)- Greatest Story Ever Told (1981/05/06 Dick's Picks 13): Time for a laugh. Should be in Manhattan.

4:51 (2h44:52)- Deal (1972/09/27 Dick's Picks 11): Another great Dead song that I never talked about. . . Oh well. There's too many.

13:17 (2h58:09)- Eyes of the World (1977/09/03 Dick's Picks 15): Wake up to find that I'm in the middle of New York City.

17:09 (3h15:18)- Lovelight (from D's collection): Pigpen Part Deux.

5:33 (3h20:51)- Goin Down the Road Feelin Bad (1981/05/06 Dick's Picks 13): And this is where I should really start feeling bad. Near the twenty mile mark. I haven't run over this distance in training.

8:03 (3h28:54)- Mississippi Half Step (1973/11/30 Dick's Picks 14): Over the final bridge. Across that lazy river. . .

5:13 (3h34:07)- Playing in the Band (1971/8/6 - Audience): an early no-jam version. I really dig this song, but I've never been a fan of Playin jams.

19:14 (3h53:28)- China > Mind Body Jam > Rider (1974/06/26-28 Dick's Picks 12): Hoping to be in Central Park.

11:05 (4h4:33)- Truckin (1974/06/26-28 Dick's Picks 12): Running in a typical city involved in a typical daydream. . .

4:30 (4h9:03)- Ripple (D's collection): If my cup be empty, do some final hydrating.

10:05 (4h19:08)- Not Fade Away (1977/12/29 Dick's Picks 10): A cover of the Buddy Holly song. If I'm doing awesome, I should finish here. . .

4:51 (4h23:59)- Casey Jones (1969/11/08 Dick's Picks 16): Another song I never talked about. Nice running tune. . .

11:44 (4h35:43)- Terrapin Station (1988/3/24 - Soundboard): If I'm doing okay, I should finish in Terrapin.

5:23 (4h41:06)- The Wheel (1984/5/23 - Audience): Another fast one from 1984. They must have changed their drug cocktail this year.

14:11 (4h56:17)- Franklin's Tower (1990/9/19 - Soundboard): If I'm doing crappy, I hope this song brings me in. Otherwise, no more Dead. My player will switch to the Dandy Warhols (and maybe I will hallucinate that I'm in Portland). This version of Franklin's is from a Madison Square Garden show. . . Come on NYC. Keep me under five hours. Show me some love!

That's it. I can make copies for anyone who is interested. Lemme know. Although, you may want to wait to see how I do.

Pumpkin Head

2009-10-27T07:29:00.000-07:00

I picked up L from montessori yesterday and he was a total pook. The kid was dazed and moving in slow-mo and running a temperature. Seems low grade. And not swinish. At least so far. Fingers crossed. The last time we went to NYC, he was sick as a little dog. And I had to carry him on my back for most of the trip. Hoping he gets over this by Thursday.

Of course, now M and I are in complete paranoia mode. Swallowing handfuls of vitamin C. Mixing up antioxidant cocktails. Washing our hands every other minute. M is worried that she will get the bug on the day before the race (like last time). I feel like it is a certainty. Also my sinus infection is creeping back and I'll likely hit the antibiotics again. Tis the season.

Anyway, we carved pumpkins the other night. L and I made a skeleton-pirate-monster thing (see photo). Because of the marathon we will miss Halloween in Flagstaff. M spent some time looking for a kid's party in the NYC. Of course, there are tons. Hope the kid feels better. The marathon itself is on November first, the day after Halloween. Serendipitously, that day is also a holiday, celebrated with great zeal throughout Latin America (and in parts of the US). And what is the name of that holiday? The Day of Dead. Cosmic, eh? I couldn't have planned it better.

Trees through the Forest

2009-10-26T05:58:00.001-07:00

A week until the marathon. I'm feeling better, but how will I do? Shrug. No idea. It's not like I have a fuel gauge on my forehead. My mind-body connection is not that refined.

And what about M? If she does poorly in NYC (or is forced to drop out), the long-term consequences will be dire. M will get angry. She will visit more p.t.'s and doctors. She will train even harder. And look for another marathon. Chicago? L.A.? Cleveland? Who knows. And the worst part. . . I will likely get roped in.

If M kicks butt in NYC, I don't fair much better. Her madness will envelope everything. She will glow. Sparkle. Bounce. Beam. She will ponder the possibility of better times. And imagine beating the local Flag runners. And, alas, look for another marathon.

Basically, for me, it's a lose-lose! That said. . . I want her to do well.

Yesterday we did one final big run. Since we are tapering, we lowered our mileage to a half (thirteen plus miles). We ran in shifts, like usual. M set out first, taking Mundo with her. I left an hour later. The weather was placid.

The woods were full of runners, so I didn't expect to see any wildlife. I ran Soldier's Loop, adding on a few miles from M's path to Woody Mountain. Mostly, I kept my eyes on the trail.

Even though it was warm, the sky held hints of winter. A large ufo-shaped cloud hovered over the peaks. Snow was on its way. Soon it would be near-impossible to run this trail. And while I was running it, I started actually missing it. Especially the trees. A few of the large pines had become familiar to me. They were elders. Great and silent advisers. Highly evolved life-forms, well versed in the art of standing still.

I've said it a zillion times. I'm not a runner. But just maybe, I could be a trail runner. Man, I love these pines. Tiger-striped. Towering. And touchable. Not that I'm planning on it (because I'm not). But if I die. Bury me here.

Anyway, my run went fairly well. I did 10:30's. And zoned out for most of it. Of course, I have no idea how to double it for NYC. This is the great mystery of marathon training. You cannot know how the body will do. Even in the micro-second before the race begins. It's impossible to see four-plus-hours in the future. There are too many unknowns. All I can do is listen to the my tunes, maintain my pace, and see what I see. The world of a marathon runner is very small. It is a short distance. Existing mainly between the body and the road.

As I ran the urban trail, I saw a number of squirrels. They hopped around the trees. They inspected various items in the tall grass. These are Albert's squirrels, native to the Rocky Mountains (and the Colorado Plateau). They are distinctive for their tall fuzzy ears, gray coats, and dancing white tails.

I stopped to watch a pair of them. And managed a quick photo of one. The pair seemed to be circling each other. Maintaining a perimeter. A small, secluded space. They both kept up a serious pursuit of pine cones. Seemingly unaware of each other. Until I got too close. And stepped on a twig. Crick! They scampered up the same tree.

Running with the Dead: Box of Rain

2009-10-25T06:16:00.001-07:00

Running with the Dead: Box of Rain
Result: Negative
Best Line: What do you want me to do, to do for you to see you through?
Link: '72 version with some actual vocal harmony

The more I listen to the Dead, the more I appreciate Phil Lesh. The bass player was trained in both classical and jazz. His rhythms were surprising. And not only does he stick with Jerry, at times he runs circles around him. Also, I'm beginning to think that Phil was more of a menace than the rest of the band. He would often divert into a new jam, merely on a whim.

Box of Rain was Phil's most famous tune. It was one of the few numbers that he sang while touring with the Dead. I like the song (especially Hunter's lyrics), but it doesn't work well for running. Phil's voice was spare, earnest and without tone. That's fine for this song (which happened to be about Phil's dad dying from cancer), but it fails to uplift during a run (duh!). By the way, according to Hunter, a box of rain is a symbol for the earth. He considered using ball of rain, but it didn't sound right.

Hand-me-downs: Bloks

2009-10-24T09:21:00.000-07:00

M, who has been running well lately (maybe too well. . . she has been trying to go fast again), has been obsessing about the weather next week in NYC. She checks her iphone every ten minutes. So far, it looks like the weather will be fine. A little cool perhaps, in the 40's or 50's, but definitely tolerable.

Also, she bought us a bunch of Clif Bloks for the race. It may or may not be smart to ingest some of these sugar-packed carbs in the middle of a marathon. They won't stop the bonk, but they may take the edge off. Many people don't bother. Others use jelly beans, hard candy or pralines. The sports bar companies like to market their own special goos. They spike their recipes with electrolytes or caffeine or some other supposedly useful chemical. I enjoy the names of these carb packets: power gel, gu, relode, pocket rocket, bloks, shots, blasts. . . All of them sounding as if they will turn you into a liquid-fueled missile. I'm not sure how seriously to take these goos. I'm more concerned about the reentry, than the launch.

The Omni: 3/24/88 - Atlanta, GA

2009-10-23T06:28:00.000-07:00

So yeah, in college, during the Touch of Grey craze, I did manage to go to one Dead show. The ticket stub is above. I was attending college in New Orleans when a friend of mine, E, who had been magically transforming into a tie-dye-wearing, incense-burning, born-again-hippie, right before my eyes, invited me on a road trip to Atlanta. Sure. Why not? Of course I would never do this sort of thing on my own. Given my sedentary nature, the idea of hitting the road to see the Dead was unfathomable. Impossible. Loony. It would be like signing up for a marathon.

Now, I could tell you the gonzo version of this story. This would involve DEA agents, a red corvette, a bag full of pharmaceuticals, the Georgia Highway Patrol, a number of coeds from Emory University, and a box full of grapefruit. . . but, um, that's not what this blog is about. And trust me, it's not that interesting. And besides, my friend E, who I haven't spoken to in months, would certainly say, as your attorney, I advise you to keep your mouth shut. So, um, I'll just talk about the show. . . (Okay, maybe I'll mention one silly thing that happened).

Anyway, here was the set list:
Set 1: Touch of Grey, Walkin' Blues, Candyman, Queen Jane Approximately, Loser, It's All Over Now, Far From Me, Cassidy, Don't Ease Me In
Set 2: Mississippi Half-Step, Looks Like Rain, Terrapin Station, drums, Truckin', I Need a Miracle, Wharf Rat, Turn on Your Love Light
Encore: Black Muddy River

It was a typical show for the late '80's. Nothing stellar like a Ripple or a Dark Star. Still, I was happy. They played Wharf Rat, which was one of my all-time favorite Dead songs. And the second set blew me away. I had never heard Mississippi Half-Step, Looks Like Rain, or Terrapin. All three stuck with me, the melodies reverberating in my memory for some time after. But enough about the music. The most interesting thing about that Dead show was the crowd.

Okay, I'm no idiot. I realize that much of the zaniness of the Dead could be attributed to drugs. But I promise, something else was at work here. This crowd was way beyond zany. They were fanatical. Possessed. This show was like a mega church service. And this wasn't your mom-n-dad's religion (or maybe it was?). The two-set format, with its drums and space, its slow numbers and fast numbers, its rising and sitting. The concert was abundant with reverence. Ritual. And rebirth. Somehow these good-old rock-n-rollers had taken the hippie culture, born in San Francisco in the late 60's, and dragged it kicking and screaming, all the way to the 80's. Here met a giant party of the holdouts. And their thousands of new recruits. A feast for the no-strings-attached. A final training ground for the armies of the dead. Sure, the culture was a pathetic shell of what it had been. For decades the hippies were mocked and marginalized. Commercialized and bastardized. And it's leaders were now on life support. But onward they marched. Sang and danced. Smoked and drank. Wagged their fingers at authority. And formed a buffer from the norms. It was a safe-haven for the wasted and a bubble of non-conformity. And every night the band played, the Grateful Dead resurrected it.

Something amusing happened to a few college friends after their first Dead show. They changed their majors. They altered their style of dress. A few stopped going to classes. One guy, I did not see for three months. He dropped out of school and hit the road with the Dead. Using his parents money, he followed the band for the rest of the tour. Smart decision? Er, who's to say? But this was the effect of the Dead. Obviously, I was too practical for this sort of thing.

So anyway, here is my one funny story from that concert. After the show was over, my friend, E, and I needed to meet back with our party and find our car (this, by the way, is how most funny stories about dead shows begin. . . compare to, once upon a time, or it was a dark and stormy night). So there we were, wandering around the bowels of the Omni, a big enclosed stadium with multiple levels of parking garages tucked beneath it. And needless to say, we were not, all there. I won't describe how wasted we were. But I will say that it was a wise decision to not make either one of us the designated driver. The parking garages under the Omni were endless. Or so they seemed. And after the concert let out, it was a circus. Hundreds of dead heads were meandering around in a similar predicament. We kept running into the same lost people. Hey. It was horrible. Find your car? Torture. Nope. After what seemed like an hour (five minutes?), E had a vision. One of the voices in his head told him that our car was one level below. And who was I to argue? So we made our way to the nearest escalator. And we stepped on. And we waited. . . And waited. . . And waited. . . This large snaking steel escalator seemed to be descending over ten thousand feet. Wow, this is taking a long time, I said. E nodded. Maybe we are going all the way to hell? E nodded again. He did not seem too concerned. After an eternity, I looked down at my feet. They did not seem to be moving. I turned around and noticed we were still on the top step. The escalator was not turned on. We had made zero progress. And neither one of us had noticed. . . Gah! I poked E in the side. Hey, this thing isn't moving. We need to walk down. E looked at his feet, shook his head, adjusted his eyes, and laughed. Holy crap. You're right! We both laughed and hurried down the steps.

Okay, that was it. Not too funny eh? One of those, you had to be there's? Sorry. It was funny at the time. And hey, I just thought of something. That was a story about me being stuck. About my less-than-satisfactory mental state. And about my perception of moving much faster to an end state than I really was. Could this be an analogy? Nah. . . Not consciously. I aint that clever.

Marathons and Death and Marathons

2009-10-21T05:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I told a woman at work that I was training for the NYC Marathon. Be careful, she said. You don't want to die. I nodded my head sincerely. I know!

Finally, people are beginning to understand. I started seeing stories pop up everywhere. M heard one on the radio. Somebody else at work warned me about my impending doom. Hey, people. What do think I've been writing about? Or maybe, just possibly, my message has finally gotten out? Am I the source of all this concern? Is my blog doing some good for man and woman-kind? Am I the voice in the wilderness? A prophet? A sage?

Er. . . No. First of all, nobody looks at this stinking blog. And second, some other events caused this wondrous rise in consciousness. Last week three people dropped dead while running a Detroit half-marathon. And according to reports, the cause of death was a sudden realization of their home values. Joke! That was funny, wasn't it? Oh, come on. . . I love Detroit. And Detroit runners. I swear. Don't kill me. Hello? Are you listening, marathon gods?

Anyway, on the plus side, my friend, S just finished the Denver Marathon. He kicked butt. And he is now aiming for the Iron Man. Nice job, S. You are a warrior.

As for me and my pathetic nature, my cold is (knock on wood) slowly going away, and my snot is ebbing. But all this illness has set me back. I've been running less than I should. I hope the downtime didn't zap all my glycogen. I will likely try a half this weekend to see if I have any juice. After that, it's twenty-six-point-two or die. . . Kidding. I'm not going to die. Instead, I'm going to quit. Or cheat. But not die. Please?

Running with the Dead: Terrapin Station

2009-10-20T06:20:00.000-07:00

Running with the Dead: Terrapin Station
Result: Positive
Best Line: Some rise, some fall, some climb, to get to Terrapin
Link: A husky Jerry from '88. Make sure you click on Space... not Terrapin. The song list is screwed up.

Since I typically move at the velocity of a turtle, this is a perfect running song for me. For a long time I refused to put it on my player. I assumed it was a lolly-gagger. Also, Terrapin Station contains a big tempo change in the middle (which divides the song into two parts). But, eh, I like the lyrics and this uncharacteristically precise song has a steady, rolling rhythm. The ending is also a lot of fun. It has a heralding guitar that ever-so-slowly dampens and eventually fades off.

Terrapin didn't change much throughout the years. A '78 sounds a lot like an '88. Even Jerry's guitar solo stays obedient (although I'm sure there are exceptions). It is a many-layered tune with each musician's part carefully mapped out. It almost reminds me of a Yes song. Or even early Rush. And the lyrics are some of Hunter's best. If you are a poetry fan, I think I hear references to the romantics. Coleridge and Shelley.

You may wonder why I picked this version? It is an obscure show from Atlanta, March 24, 1988. One of the Dead's few side-trips into the deep south. Well, if you listen close, especially to the audience version, you may be able to pick out my voice. Yep, I was there. It was my one and only Dead show. And one show does not make a dead head. As Hunter says, the storyteller makes no choice, soon you will not hear his voice. His job is to shed light, and not to master.

Sun Lit Path

2009-10-19T06:37:00.000-07:00

I was sick for the past two days. Not the swine flu, you media freak. . . but something strong enough to keep me dizzy and constantly honking my nose. I didn't change clothes, nor shave nor shower. Just wore a dirty stocking cap and a sweater with holes in the armpits. Looked like a beast that had emerged from a coal mine. At night I hallucinated about man-eating worms and being buried alive in a milk carton. Weird. I know. A song kept playing in my head. The Dead? Nope. Some goth crybaby crap that I must have heard on radio1190.org. Sunset Rubdown. Or Peter Murphy. Who knows. What's the sum up? Three days without running. And two weeks until I need twenty-six. Shoot. I'm so screwed.

So it's dawn. M is rosy-cheeked. Dressed like Wonder Woman. Bright. Red, white and blue. She is tapering, but who can tell? She plans thirteen at marathon pace. I'm supposed to do eleven. Huh? Maybe I'll walk to the end of the driveway and hitch a ride back. What does the calendar say? asks M. Dammit. I had crumpled the calendar over a month ago. But M somehow resurrected it. And she is back on schedule. I shrug and wave as she goes out the door. See you on the trail! Yeah, sure.

After guzzling my coffee, I get dressed in all black. Hey, I may as well play it up? I decide to try four miles. The plan: hit the urban trial, head for the first rock, turn around, come home, die. I haven't done a run this short for two months. When I walk out the door the sun blinds me. Bright light! Ouch! Stop it! You stupid ball of fire! Quit! I cower until my eyes adjust. The sky is a bubbling blue. All the trees have their limbs outstretched. The pine cones seem to be singing. Squirrels are holding hands. Birds are making garlands in the air. A neighbor wanders down his driveway to get the newspaper. He gives a big smile. Morning! I pretend not to hear. All I can think about is wanting to kill the guy. If only I had the strength.

When I hit the urban trail, I pass a half-dozen runners, some with dogs. They all wave and give a cheery hello. A parade of yellow and white spandex. Why is everyone so happy to see me? I do my best to mumble something. My speed is close to thirteen-minute miles. My head is pounding. After a mile or two, I see a blue jay. It starts following me. The stupid thing hops from tree to tree. And then it starts singing. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. What am I Cinderella or something? I start to laugh. The world is being absolutely ridiculous. I pull out my camera to try and capture the jay, but the sun is at the wrong angle. I don't feel like climbing through the woods. So, I only manage to get a silhouette.

I make it to the rock without much difficulty. Actually, I'm feeling okay. This over-exposed, optimistic, everything's-okay world is starting to wear on me, though. In the glow, I consider doing five miles. Maybe I'll just go to the second rock? But once I hit Fort Tuthill, the place is like a zoo of happy-go-lucky runners. They all want to say hi. Ugh. I have two choices. Either turn around. Or go up Soldier's Loop, which means doing at least six miles. The blue jay jumps in front of me and blurts something. And then the sun inches up in the sky and hits a perfect angle so that the entire trial is lit up (see photo above). Oh my god. This is preposterous. Is the sun himself (or herself), telling me to take Soldier's Loop? I stop running and shake my head. Fine, I say out loud. I'll do it.

So, I head up Soldier's and add on a few miles, doing a modified loop, or what I like to call Cub-scout's Loop. It is madly beautiful, with the sun lighting the entire trail. Truckin comes on my player. Yeah, you know the song. Go ahead. Sing along, dead freaks. Sometime the light's all shining on me. Other times, I can barely see. Lately, it occurs to me. What a long strange trip it's been. Yeah, yeah. Wonderful. Today, I'm special. I guess that makes me the anointed one.

But now, here is my question. Why today? On the lowest of my low points. On the day when I feel the crappiest. Why now light my trail? Why stitch everything in the cosmos together? Why have the gears of the universe work in sync? Why make everything merry with the magical mystery machine? It's obviously a joke. And not even a clever one. I'm totally being messed with. . .

Anyway, the six miles went slow and easy. When I got home. M and L were getting ready to go see a movie (Where the Wild Things Are). I gobbled down a bagel and told them to wait up. Let me at least shave and shower!.

Running with the Dead: Mississippi Half-Step Uptown Toodleloo

2009-10-17T06:01:00.000-07:00

Running with the Dead: Mississippi Half-Step Uptown Toodleloo
Result: Positive
Best Line: If all you got to live for is what you left behind, get yourself a powder charge and seal that silver mine
Link: Mellow '77 version

Even though this song is about leaving the south and heading west, Mississippi Half-Step is sort of the Dead's I did it my way. The song is punctuated with humor and peppered with the line, I'm on my way. Also the lyrics refer to a car accident that Jerry Garcia survived in 1960. He had been thrown from the wreck but his shoes stayed in the car. The accident had a profound effect on Garcia. His motto became, either go whole hog or not at all. I think he succeeded. Anyway, this song is excellent for running. I imagine myself running (not walking) across the Queensboro Bridge whenever I hear the line, across that lazy river. We'll see. . .

Hand-me-downs: Computer

2009-10-16T06:26:00.000-07:00

This is the desk where I sit every morning, drinking coffee, waiting for the sun to rise, and occasionally typing something into this blog. My brother bought me this computer. For many years, he has either given me a laptop or handed one down. And I'm thankful. Mainly because I hate computers, gadgets, and all things technological. For those who know me, the irony is obvious.

Also notice on the desk, a bunch of cd's and dvd's. This is the source of most of my Dead tunes. One of those dvd's has three or four Dick's Picks, which makes up the majority of my running mix. If you are keen, you will pick out a few of my hobbies. All of which have been put on hold until I finish this damn marathon (and this blog).

I hear M downstairs, rooting around and pouring a bowl of cereal. I'm pretty sure she is going to run. I'm not sure if I will. My sinus infection has turned into a nasty cold. I have a sore throat and a blazing headache. Doubt I can get even three miles this morning. Blah. . .

Decomposing

2009-10-15T05:52:00.000-07:00

M and I have been discussing this article. My sinus infection went away for two days, but after the twenty miler, it came right back. It's churning in my skull now, making cauldrons of snot. Double, double toil and trouble. Not sure what to do. Maybe I will go back to the doc and ask for another round of antibiotics? Or maybe do a CT Scan, like he suggested last time? Or maybe just keep pouring salt water up my nostrils and hope for the best.

M is feeling dandy. Her runs are going well. She has started forward-thinking, planning our 3-4 days in NYC. She found an Italian restaurant where we can carbo load. Also, we have a nanny-for-hire to watch L while we run. We are both a little worried about leaving him with a stranger for five-to-six hours while we transport to the marathon, run, and hobble back to the hotel. What are you gonna do? Hope he doesn't get sold to the circus?

A friend of mine, S, who is training for the Iron Man, will be running his first marathon on Sunday. The Denver. I spoke to him last night. Good luck, S! Don't die at Wash Park (like I did)! Put vaseline on your nipples! And not just for fun.

My Dead mix is done! No more tweaking. I will post a few more song selections and then the final list. Yay!

Running with the Dead: Quinn the Eskimo

2009-10-13T06:03:00.000-07:00

Running with the Dead: Quinn the Eskimo
Result: Negative
Best Line: Come all without, come all within, you'll not see nothing like the mighty Quinn.
Link: '86 soundboard

Mornings are getting frigid in Flagstaff. The other day the peaks got dusted in snow. Soon it will be too icy to run. But, don't worry. Flag is a mountain oasis, surrounded on all sides by desert. In the winter, you simply drive downhill. Go a half hour south to Sedona. It's sixty degrees. It has dozens of incredible red-rock and riparian trails. I'll be able to run all year! Oh boy.

Anyway, Quinn the Eskimo is a Dylan song. The Dead loved to perform his songs. Some concerts seemed to be fifty-percent Dylan. Here are a few that they regularly performed: Maggie's Farm, Queen Jane Approximately, Baby Blue, When I Paint My Masterpiece (my favorite). Now I'm a huge Dylan fan, but running to his music? Sorry. It aint me, babe. One problem is his songs tend to be slow. Another, is his lyrics. They cause me to ask deep and ponderous questions like, why the hell am I running? Which I don't need right now.

Quinn the Eskimo was the last Dylan survivor on my player. The song is quicker than most and has a rousing chorus. But this messiah-of-the-north does things to my brain. It challenges my purpose in life. And with two weeks to go until the marathon, I'm not turning around, to see the frowns, on the jugglers and the clowns. Quinn, you just got nixed.

Target Practice

2009-10-12T05:37:00.000-07:00

I wandered around the house like a condemned man. My body felt lousy. My head hurt. The antibiotics had messed with my G.I. tract, causing frequent visits to the bathroom. My long runs had becomes disasters. Every run now seemed like a death march.

Whenever the topic of the marathon came up, I could only lower my head and mumble, I don't know how I'm going to do this thing. M started feeling sorry for me. She tried to pep me up. You only need one more long run! We'll both do twenty miles. And then we're done. Get four hours. Who cares how slow you are. And only go on flat trails and forest service roads (no more heading down in the canyons). Have fun! Yeah, yeah. . . Thanks, coach.

So we had a plan. I would do M's run. Go through Fort Tuthill, turn up Soldier's Loop, run past the archery range, and head toward Woody Mountain. She mapped it out for me. She also promised to leave little markers. M left at 6:30, taking Mundo with her. It was still dark and a mist escaped from her mouth as she waved goodbye. I ate breakfast with L and put the final touches on my Dead mix. Two hours later, when her pops showed up, I started my run. The sky was clear and heavy. I expected to pass M somewhere on the trail.

As I ran, I became convinced that my sole purpose was to boost M. To run well, she needed to beat somebody. And that somebody was me. I was her target dummy. Her punching bag. Her straw man. My chest was painted with a big red circle. My head was full of saw dust. And my legs were splintered wood. We had a reverse correlation. The more I suffered, the better she performed.

Once on the trail, I hit strong headwinds. My legs ached at mile six. I didn't see M at the Fort and became worried. I felt helpless and bitter. At one point, I thought I saw the ghost of Mundo, a black dog in the trees, but then it was gone. M must have taken a different trail? And then crud, I missed the road to the archery range. I circled back three times, but could not find the turn off. So yep, like usual, I went off trail. And yep, climbed some rocks. And yep, doomed my run.

Eventually I got to the archery range. There were stuffed targets propped against the trees, some of them in the shape of animals. A deer. An elk. A man. I kept waiting for the sound of an arrow to whiz by. How would it feel? To be struck in the arm. Or the stomach. Or the chest. I couldn't see any archers but I had a crazy urge to jump over the barbed wire.

After the archery range, the road split in three directions. I was pretty sure I would go the wrong way, but then I saw it. A cairn. M had built a little rock pile to show me the way. I loved her for it. Even her cairns were cute.

My attitude improved. As I progressed I saw little rock piles every few miles. I followed her path through the forest and onto a forest service road until I got close to ten miles. Then I turned around. If I could make it back without walking, I would get twenty.

At mile thirteen, as if by design, I bonked. My speed slowed to twelve-minute miles. I began to trudge. Crap. I tried to motivate myself, but my mind was a wasteland. Nothing grew from it. I kept noticing dead trees, fallen all around me. And then I could see in the past. I could see them falling. I saw one tree get struck by lightening. And then another. A few of the dead logs stood up and started walking around. Shaking their limbs. I ignored them. Keep going! M's words echoed in my head. Get four hours. Who cares how slow you are. On my player, the Dead played louder and louder. They jumped into something called Mind Left Body Jam. I passed M's final cairn and headed back to the Fort. I was not quit there. A golem among the golems.

When I hit mile seventeen, I got a second wind. Somehow, I had pushed through the bonk. Also I realized I would get twenty. My time was nearing four hours and I felt an odd sense of accomplishment. My pace was horrible, but so what. I had done what M wanted. And hey, maybe I wasn't just her practice dummy. Maybe we were actual running partners. When she was down, I helped her. When I was down, she helped me. How wonderful, eh?

I made a slow loop around the neighborhood and got my twenty. When I hit our driveway, my body felt like dead wood. I had no clue how I'd add another six, but whatever. I trained as best as I could. The tapering could begin. When I reached the front door, M was waiting for me. She asked how I did and I told her. And I thanked her for the cairns. Then I asked how she did. Pretty well, she said with a smile. I got twenty-two. Huh? I raised my eyebrows. I dropped my water bottle. You bitch!

Hand-me-downs: Yoga

2009-10-11T06:33:00.001-07:00

Yoga is a spiritual, philosophical, physical and meditative practice that originated in India over two thousand years ago. . . Or as I like to refer to it, stretching.

M introduced me to yoga while we were living in Tucson. She of course is an expert and once taught classes. Yoga is similar to Tai Chi and I find it useful for staying loose before long runs. It also forces me to concentrate on my breathing, which is good, since I have so many lung issues.

A couple of bad things about yoga? All the mumbo-jumbo and pseude-science. It's important to find an instructor who is not bamboozled by everything eastern and mystical. Some ideas should remain two-thousand years in the past where they belong. Another thing that bugs me about yoga is the marketing to middle-aged women who are obsessed with weight loss. . . Try to avoid classes that are full of overweight fifty-year-old women wearing spandex who want to spend the whole class listening to 80's music and doing hip openers. Will you be my partner, sweetie?

I try to attend one class a week at the Athletic Club. It's casual and I can drop L off at Kid's Club. The rest of the week, I stretch my hamstrings, quads, and calves on the floor next to our bed.

Running with the Dead: U.S. Blues

2009-10-10T07:02:00.000-07:00

Running with the Dead: U.S. Blues
Result: Positive
Best Line: Gimme five, I'm still alive
Link: heavy beat '75 version

The Grateful Dead were not a political group. In the eighties they got into some save-the-rain-forest thing, but that was it. During the sixties, they were asked about Vietnam and the protest movement. But the band refused to bite. Both Garcia and Hunter were ex-military. They thought both sides were full of hot air. Garcia believed that by adding to the conversation, they perpetuated it. And by not engaging, the band fostered an underground community. They unified a group of peaceful, non-materialistic, on-the-road, hedonistic go-nowhere's. Yeah, you know, them hippies.

U.S. Blues is likely the Dead's most political song. And that's simply because it mentions the U.S. The song is charming and sarcastic. With lines like, Wave that flag, wave it wide and high; We're all confused, what's to lose? and I'll drink your health, share your wealth, they opted out of any serious debate. Which I think is fine. If the rest of society is acting ridiculous, why play along? Anyway, I really like this song; both the lyrics and the heavy beat are excellent for running. It is a smart song that deftly shows what great showmen the Dead were:

I'm Uncle Sam /that's who I am
Been hidin' out/in a rock and roll band
Shake the hand that shook the hand
Of P.T. Barnum/and Charlie Chan

Duck Logic

2009-10-08T05:18:00.000-07:00

I just read a really crappy biography of Jerry Garcia (Captain Trips). It managed to contain two-hundred-plus pages of shallow twaddle. The book was painfully-sympathetic, easily forgiving photos of Jerry rolling and smoking joints in front of his two-year old. His infidelity, oh well, Jerry was just unconventional. His drug abuse, oh well, Jerry was just unconventional. The thesis of the book, Oh well, Jerry was unconventional; isn't that cool! I'm not saying Jerry was a bad guy. . . and the hippy movement was all selfish and evil, but this book desperately needed some analysis. It really pissed me off. Luckily, I only paid a few dollars at a used book store.

Speaking of unconventional, I have a new plan for the NYC Marathon (plan B). See the blurry map above? See the red dotted line? If I can just make it to mile 17, I'm golden. Around 70th street, I'll pretend that I need to puke and meander to the side of the road. Then I will sneak a few blocks over to Central Park and rejoin the race at mile 24. I'll skip a whooping seven miles! Brilliant, eh? I'll probably miss a timing station in the Bronx, but so what. By the time I come in, a ton of runners will be milling about. Nobody will notice me. Nobody will care, right?

Hey, I'm not a cheater! Plan B isn't official. Not yet, anyway. Yesterday I got some antibiotics which I hope knocks out my sinus infection. Also M helped me generate a number of theories why I've been sucking lately. She is trying to get me psyched up for one more long run. We'll see.

Here is a funny photo I took in the rain the other day. A pair of ducks swimming in a little pond. M is the one in front of course. I'm the one in back, looking around without a clue.

Bolder Boulder

2009-10-07T07:59:00.000-07:00

The first time that I tried running was six months after a car whacked me. It was pre-M. I had a pin in my leg and the physical therapist ordered me to run. Crap. So every morning I got dressed in my sweats, ball cap and basketball shoes and hobbled across the street to a quarter-mile track in east Boulder. My goal was to finish three miles, no matter how slow. It took me an eternity. I would listen to books on tape. Ulysses. Moby-Dick. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

Around this time, I first met M. She was living in Texas and had come to Colorado to visit Y, an old friend of hers from college. I knew Y because she had dated my ex-roommate, K (we had two degrees of separation). Anyway, I happened to meet M when she came to Boulder. And I liked her right off. She was slight, energetic and attractive. Her eyes shut when she smiled. And she couldn't sit still. M created a new path every time she stepped. Walking over the sidewalk. Going down an aisle in a grocery store. Getting out of a hot tub. It didn't matter where. I had a hard time keeping my eyes off of her. And then she was gone.

Boulder isn't a mystical place. It's not even close. The city is an elevated yuppie enclave. Overpriced. Phony. And self-obsessed. But damn, it's pretty. It sits in a misty green valley. It's overlooked by the Flat Irons. And it's separated by a sleepy creek. The valley also comes with a curse. When the first settlers came in the 1850's, Chief Niwot declared that, People seeing the beauty of this valley will want to stay, and their staying will be the undoing of the beauty.

After a month of limping around that track in East Boulder, I had this awful notion. Maybe I should train for the Bolder Boulder? This was an annual 10k race and a huge event for the city. It took place on Memorial Day and attracted over 50,000 people, making it the biggest race in the U.S. I'm not sure where this notion came from. I never had desires like this before.

M visited Boulder again, a few months after her first visit. I met her and Y at the ski slopes. And then at night, we went to the bars on Pearl Street. Usually I'm socially inept. And if a beautiful woman is involved, forget it. Yet I felt comfortable with M. We had fun, but her visit was short. She had to get back to Texas. And I was planning a trip to China. Now that we are married, we sometimes try to reconstruct those moments in Boulder. They seem both cosmic and mundane. A handful of uneventful hours, that somehow got recorded, paused and replayed.

Running is an odd sport. It never allows you to stop. Keep your pace! In soccer, you can slow down and hold your position. In basketball, you can stop, pivot and pass the ball. Even in cycling, you can coast here and there. But not in running. Go. Go. Go. Keep on chugging. When I first tried running, I constantly wanted to quit. My mind hated it. It begged me to walk. I could not hold even the simplest thought. And it bugged me. I had always been an over-analyzer. When running, my brain got kicked to the side.

People often refer to Boulder as the People's Republic of Boulder. The city is fiercely liberal and residents scowl at all signs of god and country. I do too, but wow. In Boulder, it gets a little one-sided. Once we drove through town in a borrowed car that was covered in American Flag decals. Big mistake. This was at the height of the 9/11-flag-waving bullcrap. Some yuppie at Whole Foods saw the flags and wanted to spit on our car. He stood over the hood, blabbing and trying to make some point. I rolled up the windows. Gee. Lighten up, Clyde. . . But, hey, this guy was an anomaly. Most people in Boulder are incredibly cool. Maybe that's why Memorial Day is so fun? It's a patriotic holiday, but so what. The city lets its guard down. The Bolder Boulder is a big party. Everybody is welcome. University professors, venture capitalists, ex-marines, weekend warriors, elite athletes, hippy dippies. . . they all come together to run this race. It somehow works.

Either I don't care about my relationships. Or I care too much. Yet when I met M, there was no pressure. We were headed in different directions. Crossing at high speed. We enjoyed a few scattered moments. And then let go. Yeah, there was some chemistry. But so what. What were we going to do? Completely change our paths? It was a lucky surprise when we both ended up in Tucson.

After I finished the physical therapy for my leg, I quit running. It was an easy call. I never got above three miles. I never signed up for the Bolder Boulder. My times sucked. And running on that track had been torture. Also, a bunch of elite athletes were also training on that track. One team was Japanese triathletes. Another was a university club. And another was a bunch of pros from Ethiopia. I would be trudging along with my headphones and they'd encroach from behind, angry and yelling in other languages. And then a coach would cross the field and scream, Outside Lane! Slow poke! Outside Lane! Man, they would get pissed. After pretending not to hear for a minute or two, I would edge to the outside lane, merging like an eighty-year-old in a '73 Cadillac. Idiots.

I didn't see M again for over two years. Shortly after returning to Texas, she had been running on a country road with a friend when she got whacked by a pick-up truck. It was an old guy. He was half-blind. His license had been revoked. M had skull fractures and ended up in a coma. I won't give all the details, but she was lucky to survive. Damn lucky. She had one of those miraculous recoveries that you only see in television dramas. For a while, the doctors doubted she would ever run again.

One of the cool things about the Bolder Boulder is the music. They have bands every quarter mile. The first time I ran this race (when M finally signed me up), I noticed my pace improved every time I passed a band. I loved watching and hearing the jams. It took my mind off the run. Garage bands, old timers playing fifties music, goofy kids with their stereo systems in the front yard. It didn't matter. I dug it all. The fake Jake and Elwood Blues were my favorite. I gave them a high-five every time I passed.

During those two years when I didn't see M, I would get reports from Y. I heard about the accident on the country road. I also got updates on M's stay in the hospital. After a few weeks in the hospital, she left without permission, hitchhiking home. This was typical M. Her stories didn't seem real. At the time, I barely knew her. She was a distant memory. An outline. A blur. I never imagined that we would meet again. Still, I was curious. M's life had been thrown completely off course. She had an incredible comeback. She had jumped right back into school and got her doctorate. Within months, she was running again. Typical M.

The Bolder Boulder takes off in waves every thirty seconds. A couple hundred people in each wave. The elites go early in the morning. The walkers a few hours later. So the race becomes an all-morning parade. The run ends at Folsom Field on the university campus. The stadium opens up the grandstands, so that people can cheer the finishers, even the slowpokes. It's a nice feeling to run into a stadium full of cheering people and then take the final lap. Are they cheering for me? Why yes, they are! I'm great! I accomplished something! Oh boy! I'm an all-star athlete!! Okay, the race is only 10k. But it's nice to pretend.

When M and I were living together in Tucson, we took a road trip to Colorado. It was near Memorial Day and she wanted to sign up for the Bolder Boulder. She had just started prodding me to run. A few miles at a time. Some mornings, I would join her for a junk run to Reid Park in Tucson. We would do the three mile loop around the golf course. So yeah, I was up to three miles. And even more. It was awful and I complained incessantly. But she dealt with me. And I dealt with her. Running simply became something we did together. Often when we ran, M would stop and wait for me to catch up. Even though I was angry and miserable, I would give her the thumbs up. And then she would start again. It became a ritual. So when we took that road trip to Boulder and M wanted to sign up for the race, I said, Okay, fine. What the hell. I gave her the thumbs up.

M only listens to music while she's training. During a race, she leaves her player at home. It's extra weight. In fact, most elite athletes do this. They nix the player. Not me though! I need my tunes. Especially during a race. It helps me think. Or not think. Which begs the question, what do elite athletes think about when they race? I asked this to M. Their form, she said. Oh boy. That sounds fun.

After my leg healed, I decided it was time to leave Boulder. The city felt too small. Too sheltered. And too expensive. I was ready to try something new. I applied to a graduate program at the University of Arizona. And I was accepted. I packed up everything I owned in my truck. And headed for the desert. As I was driving out of the valley though, I knew I'd be back. I was cursed.

We haven't missed a Bolder Boulder since 2005. M signs me up every year and we make the trip back to Colorado. We ran it after she got injured at the Boston. We ran it while she was pregnant. And we ran it while she was breast-feeding L. And yeah so. . . I run it with her. I always suck. And I keep sucking. But I enjoy myself. So, sure. It's possible. Racing can be fun.

What's the best thing about running with M? Easy. It's when we are doing a long training run and she stops to wait for me. There's nothing better than seeing M. It doesn't matter where. I love seeing M. Waiting on the top of a hill. Stretching near a fence. Standing under a tree. Always impatient and checking her watch. But so what. My attitude jumps. I give her the thumbs up.

Running with the Dead: Turn on Your Love Light

2009-10-06T06:05:00.000-07:00

Running with the Dead: Turn on Your Love Light
Result: Positive
Best Line: Without a warning you broke my heart
Link: twenty-four minute '71 version

Whenever I see early photos of Pigpen, I can't help laughing. A funny little fat man, who dressed somewhere between a Hells Angel and a sixties hippie chick. Yet he could sing and play the blues as though he was born in the belly of Alabama. The Grateful Dead were a different band when he was at the helm. Pigpen was perhaps born at the wrong time. He was an alcoholic among acid freaks. And he drank himself to death in 1973.

Currently, I am running with three Pigpen songs on my player: Love Light, Hard to Handle and Alligator (thanks to my cousin, D). I'm not sure which ones will make the final cut. Love Light is the best. Whether you choose a Pigpen or Weir version, it doesn't matter. The song zips along. Be careful with the early versions though. They are similar to Jimi Hendrix's Gloria or The Doors' The End, where they can become long drawn-out monologues. And then Pigpen may start talking about some woman he slept with the night before, which not only puts the brakes on the song but also starts me laughing.

Blind Man's Bluff

2009-10-04T15:18:00.000-07:00

I'm done. My body doesn't want to run anymore. I tried a twenty miler again and my legs stopped dead at fifteen. No pain. No breathing issues. No nothing. Physically, I felt fine. But I had zero energy. I was bonked to the core.

Maybe I haven't been eating right? Or sleeping right? Or my sinus infection is eating the motivation centers in my brain? Also, I ran out of recover drink last week and used M's. Maybe that's the problem? Blah. There are too many variables. More likely, my body just sucks. This whole thing has put me in a foul mood.

As for M. . . take a wild guess. Yeah. Eighteen miles. No problem. Using her quick & dirty training method, she maneuvered around me. And accelerated away. After her run, she was shining. Giddy. And excited about planning her twenty miler for next week. Oh, and she saw a herd of elk. Not one or two elk. A herd!

Okay. . . here's a rehash of my crappy run. Why? I don't know. First, it was raining nearly the entire time. Ghoulish gray clouds moved overhead. The wind clicked them into fast-forward. At mile four, I was soaked to the bone. My shoes squished. I kept having to wipe off my glasses. Finally, I gave up and shoved them in my pocket. Screw it. I'm near-sighted so what little remained of my depth perception, I used to watch the trail for rocks. I gave up on seeing any wildlife.

At mile eight the sun peaked out (see photo). I was feeling okay and even wondered if I could do twenty. But then I climbed out of Sandy Canyon and the drizzle turned into pellets. As I stumbled over the rocks, I thought about my running philosophy, the one I wrote up yesterday. How stupid. How cocky. Commit to running? Me? Yeah, right. Every chance I get, I make fun of the sport. And I absolutely refuse to call myself a runner. I also said it doesn't matter if I finish? Huh? Of course, it matters. It's not the journey, it's the destination. Screw all that character-building crap. As my friend S says, I don't need anymore character. I've spent all this fricken time and energy. If I don't finish, I'm a big freaking failure. Duh. That philosophy was retarded.

When I climbed out of the canyon and onto the bluff, I ran to Lake Mary Road. It was raining so hard, I nearly ran into the middle of the street. The pavement was slick. Each passing car sprayed me with water. When I hit twelve miles, I bonked. My head was water-logged. And my attitude sunk. I was tempted to hitchhike home, but I looked so scary, I knew nobody would pick me up. It was here, that I saw the tarantula. A big orange and silver, hairy-backed creepy thing, trying to cross the blacktop. It had like ten eyes, but it couldn't see it was headed straight into traffic. I directed it over to the side of the road with my shoe and took a blurry photo of it.

Yeah, that's right. M sees a heard of elk. I see a nasty little spider. Makes sense, eh? So, on I went. After running down Lake Mary, I needed six more miles to get to twenty. It looked bleak. I had only been running for three hours. If I was going for time (which M thinks I should do), I needed to be up around four hours. But that wasn't going to happen. As I said before, my body was done. I only managed one more stinking mile and started to walk.

On my walk home, the wind was frigid. Eyes of the World came on my player and I scowled. I started hating the song. And then hating the Dead. I was getting pretty sick of them. Truth be told, I am more of a shoe-gazer than a rock-n-roller. If I had a time machine and could see one show from the sixties, well, I'd have to choose the Velvet Underground. My favorite album for five years straight? Loveless by My Bloody Valentine. And my favorite concert? It's not much of a contest. Jesus and Mary Chain, Curve and Spiritualized at the Gothic in '92. I got destroyed in the mosh pit.

Anyway, I'm trying to stay positive. Hoping for sunnier skies. And sure, I still like the Dead. . . I skipped Eyes and went straight to Lovelight. Sing it Pigpen! You funny little man. And okay, fine. I haven't completely given up on NYC. But I can't see how I'm going to do this damn thing.

Hand-me-downs: Philosophy

2009-10-03T09:21:00.000-07:00

This is just a rambling bambling bumbling attempt at summing up my running-with-the-dead philosophy. Sorry if it is hokey, smokey. First, here is what it isn't. . .

Running with the Dead isn't about time. Or mileage. Or your killer training schedule. Or some stupid medal. Or even finishing the race. It's never about something you can brag about. It's a humbling, ego-bashing, embarrassing slog.

Running with the Dead isn't about pain. Or masochism. Or some group-concocted survival game. Even though I seem to revel in this aspect of running. Nope. That's not it either.

Running with the Dead isn't about proving something. Hell, I already ran a stupid marathon. This isn't about being a man. Or manning up. Or a test of manhood. Or some manly man-like man crud. That was all tossed out the window after M showed me up for the ten-thousandth time.

Okay. Here is what it is. . .

Running with the Dead is about committing yourself. Even if you think it is completely ridiculous. Even if somebody else dragged you into it (and it's not your fault!) Even if the prospect of doing so raises a constant and irrational fear of death.

Running with the Dead is about finding depth in your miserable life. Even if what you are doing is even more miserable. Whether it's running, crappy work, slave labor, mundane day-to-day bullshit. Whatever. Find something. Anything. Listen to the Dead. Find lost treasure. Dive in. Suck it in your lungs. Don't let go until you find something.

Running with the Dead is about doing something by yourself. Alone and by your own design. Even if you end up off trail. For this one, I'll let the Dead speak (from Ripple):

There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone

You who choose to lead must follow
But if you fall you fall alone
If you should stand then who's to guide you?
If I knew the way I would take you home

Running with the Dead is about M. Yeah, I can't really generalize this one. It is blatantly personal. But it's true. There is something about our dynamic. And I haven't figured out exactly what. Maybe I will by the end of this marathon.

So there you go... Nothing too pithy. Okay... now back to the fun!

Running with the Dead: Dark Star

2009-10-02T04:53:00.000-07:00

Running with the Dead: Dark Star
Result: Negative
Best Line: Shall we go, you and I, while we can?
Link: Cool sixties version

The Dead never played the same show twice. They liked to roulette-wheel through their catalog. Every show was a gamble. Thus, anticipating the next song was a big joy for dead heads. And no song was anticipated more than Dark Star. The song's length, exuberance, and lack of structure had become legendary (check out what this old Dead Head said). The band shelved the song in the early 70's but its disappearance caused great mourning. Dark Star would make a handful of reappearances, bursting out every five years or so, and then it returned for good in '89, a much better behaved song.

Run to Dark Star? Are you kidding? First off, the song behaves more like improvisational jazz than good old Grateful Dead (which may explain why it prompts Charlie-Parker-like fervor). It starts off with a warning riff that seems to say, watch out, or abandon all hope, or buckle in. And then it wanders straight off a cliff. For Jerry worshipers, following his guitar here can be like visiting a holy shrine. When the lyrics finally arrive, if they ever do, they sound like bad college poetry: a mix of haiku, Prufrock and sixties scifi.

So what's the deal? Why all the hub-bub over Dark Star? Hell, I don't know. In the early days, Jerry used this song as a portal. Like a City on the Edge of Forever. Or a Clifford D. Simack novel. The song would warp fans through the entire Dead landscape. Where it stopped, who knew? Eventually it grew into a monster, some versions going on for close to an hour. Which is probably why they had to cut it off. Considering the direction of the band's music. . . more steady rock-n-roll, tinged with country and blue grass, where did Dark Star fit in? Between Me and My Uncle and El Paso?

End Game

2009-10-01T06:01:00.000-07:00

One month away and boy are we excited!

Yeah, right. . . M and I are hobbling around the cold house like a pair of tragic Shakespeare characters. Or maybe the king and queen from the Lion in Winter. Or worse, a pair of nobs from a Beckett play.

M's hamstring felt well after her sixteen, but then did she a small run and carried L up the stairs. Now both of her legs hurt. Yesterday she went to the p.t. and got some more bruising treatment.

My hamstring is tight. I did four slow miles yesterday. My big concern is that I am now two weeks behind. I wanted to do at least twenty-two before the marathon. I fear that if I don't get my mileage up to 22-24, then I won't be able to complete the marathon. M disagrees. She thinks I should do one more long run and then cut it off. Start to taper. Otherwise my body will not have time to recover. I'm not sure what to do.

Here is my conversation with M this morning (thanks Mr. Beckett):

Me: How are your legs?
M: Bad.
Me: But you can walk.
M: I come... and go.
Me: In my house. (Pause. With prophetic relish.) One day you'll be blind like me. You'll be sitting here, a speck in the void, in the dark, forever, like me. (Pause.) One day you'll say to yourself, I'm tired, I'll sit down, and you'll go and sit down. Then you'll say, I'm hungry, I'll get up and get something to eat. But you won't get up. You'll say, I shouldn't have sat down, but since I have I'll sit on a little longer, then I'll get up and get something to eat. But you won't get up and you won't get anything to eat. (Pause.) You'll look at the wall a while, then you'll say, I'll close my eyes, perhaps have a little sleep, after that I'll feel better, and you'll close them. And when you open them again there'll be no wall any more. (Pause.) Infinite emptiness will be all around you, all the resurrected dead of all the ages wouldn't fill it, and there you'll be like a little bit of grit in the middle of the steppe. (Pause.) Yes, one day you'll know what it is, you'll be like me, except that you won't have anyone with you, because you won't have had pity on anyone and because there won't be anyone left to have pity on you.

Wow.... The similarities between running and absurdism.... it boggles the mind.

Why I am Not a Runner: the Stride

2009-09-30T05:22:00.000-07:00

M has great legs. She also has a great stride. Her feet spring from the dirt. Her knees leap like white-water rapids. Her steps are as cool as the mountain air. M can do six minute miles and just float down the trail. She's a natural. I've run behind her enough to know.

There are three ingredients that make a great runner: 1) the Madness. 2) the Stride. 3) And a whole lot of luck. M has two out of three. Unfortunately, she easily gets injured. And she has never had a quality coach. Still, the woman has talent. It oozes from her. She's what some people call an athlete. Her abilities can take on a mythic quality that make me go, Huh? No way! I hear snippets of these stories from her dad. Here are a few:

M came from a poor family in west Texas, which gave her a mad determination to kick butt. In her teens, she never lost a race. She ran middle distances: 400K's and 800K's. M would show up to races in homemade clothes and thrift-store shoes. And she would leave everybody in the dust. When M was in junior high, she went to a track meet and beat all the older girls from the high school. After that, she was famous.

It didn't matter what sport M was competing in, she won. One day M decided to try swimming. She never had a lesson. She couldn't dive. She didn't even know the name of the strokes. No problem. M's dad took her to a swim meet. She was not wearing a slick bathing suit and a head cap. Nope. She wore her favorite Coke-a-Cola bikini. When the race started, M jumped in the pool. The other girls dove. Already in last place, M took off like a torpedo. She splashed half the water out of the pool. She left everybody in her wake. And she won first place. The other girls cried.

In high school, M started to hate running. She was tired of always needing to win (weird... huh?). She wanted to try drama instead. So M stopped showing up to track practice. The coaches were angry. They sent the cheerleaders and pep squad members to change her mind. But no luck. M was done. Then one day, M got busted for not wearing the proper attire. Her skirt was too short. The principal called her into his office. He made her a deal. Either she went back to track practice, or she got a month of detention.

There are more stories like this. All of them a little funny and a little sad. M took a long break from running after high school. She had stress fractures in her shins and the coaches had made her keep running on them. M sometimes wonders what would have happened if she had better coaches. Maybe she would have avoided injuries? Or gotten a scholarship to UT? But the coaches at her podunk high school were clueless. After college, M took a long break from running. And then one day, she decided to try marathons. Needless to say, she got pretty good at it.

To give you another perspective, let's focus on my stride. Have you ever read the book Frankenstein? Remember the scene where the monster is being chased by angry villagers with pitch forks and torches. Yeah. That's me. That limping, mush-brained monster. Me. Only worse. Here are a few things that give me a crappy stride:

Genetics. As I may have mentioned before, I tend to under-pronate, which gives me a duck walk. I come from a long line of duck-walkers. If you ever see my family walking down the street, you may have an urge to make quacking noises.

Bum Knees. When I was a kid, I had a growth spurt and my knees filled with cartilage. They are a constant source of pain. Also I had a bike wreck that made them even worse. Today they are not too bad, but any little bump will cause swelling.

Poor circulation. In junior high, I went on a camping trip and my feet got frost bit. Ever since, the circulation in my toes has been awful. My feet easily get crimped. On cold days, I have to worry about getting frost bite again. This has happened a few times while running on the peaks. My toes will turn red and the pain is horrific.

Tib Fib. When cycling in Boulder, I got whacked by a car. The impact snapped my tibia and fibula. The doctors had to shove a pin in my leg. Now they did an excellent job. My legs are pretty much the same length. And except for some IT-band pain, a little arthritis in my knee/ankle where the screws were, and the occasional aches when the barometer goes up, the leg does extremely well. But I did suffer nerve damage. My left foot often goes numb. Sometimes I completely forget the damn thing. And if I'm not careful, I tumble over rocks.

Enough excuses? Well gee. I can likely come up with more. I have spent many years honing my skill of sounding bitter and pathetic. Anyway . . . Me no runner.

Running with the Dead: Touch of Grey

2009-09-29T05:18:00.000-07:00

Running with the Dead: Touch of Grey
Result: Positive
Best Line: I will get by
Link: holy-crap-jerry-is-still-alive audience recording

I recall during college, wandering into a dorm room where a bunch of dead heads were sitting on the floor listening to this awful recording of a twangy guitar that bounced through the air like a fat, drowsy and overconfident bumble bee. It never landed. Nor hid from view. Nor slowed down enough to be caught. The listeners bobbed their heads in amazement. Wow. Damn. Insane. Obviously, they were hearing something that I wasn't.

If you are going to listen to the Dead, the cult of Jerry is something that has to be dealt with. Jerry Garcia was a fat man with a voice like Mickey Mouse and more drug habits than he could count on both hands (that would be nine... one of Jerry's fingers was chopped off at the age of four). Not the typical rock-n-roll star. And maybe that's why people worshiped him? When you listen to enough Dead (and enough Garcia guitar solos), one thing becomes obvious. The big guy loved the music. He played with a studious glow that would occasionally break into an infectious smile. His guitar never stopped buzzing. A hard-working drone, it sought only the sweetest riffs. And once you were familiar with it, man. His playing became as recognizable as the smell of pancakes.

As for, Touch of Grey, it's a quick and runner-friendly tune. It starts out like Bertha and keeps rolling. Unfortunately, the song also associates with the eighties and hippies-turning-into-yuppies and that MTV video with the skeletons. But so what. It is a great song. Touch of Grey became an anthem while the band toured in the late eighties, after an overweight and addicted Jerry suffered a diabetic coma (and had to relearn how to play guitar!). Listen to the version above to hear how ecstatic the fans were to have him back. I prefer an older version to run to. Back in 1984, Jerry once or twice found the song in between Scarlet > Fire. Which is pretty amazing.

During my delusional run yesterday, I saw a circle of trees and immediately associated them with the Dead. Here is the photo. Cripes. I must be losing my mind.

Familiar Ground

2009-09-28T05:29:00.000-07:00

Question: how many miles does M run given the following scenario. 1. The NYC Marathon is looming. 2. M has an injured hamstring. 3. M has not run for an entire month.

Answer: Sixteen. Duh.

Obviously, the game is rigged. I fight and scrap and nearly die for my mileage. M steps out the door, yawns, shrugs and scampers for sixteen. She likely could have done the full twenty-six. It's unfair. Which reminds me of another reason why I am not a runner. Natural Talent. M has it. I don't.

I went slow, she said. Although she went faster than I typically go. And I stayed on the flats, she said. And how was the hamstring? Not bad, she said. But I still feel it. Hmmm. I guess that's good news. I should have been happy. Oh, and I saw a red-tailed hawk. Really? Cool. M has a certain talent for seeing raptors. It's like they are drawn to her.

By the time I started running (10 AM), it was hot and dusty. I felt miserable and my nose was leaking snot. The schedule had me doing twenty-two, but I already knew that wasn't going to happen. Also, I made one major mistake. I didn't break in the new shoes. Rookie mistake. By mile four, I had a nasty blister on the inside of my right foot. I started running off-kilter. After mile five, my knee ached. And then at eight, I stubbed my toe on a rock, overstepped, and strained my hamstring. I almost laughed. Now it's my hammy! Had we switched roles again? Or had I somehow co-opted her injury? Maybe I'm like some kind of mystical healer who can subconsciously lift M's pain and transfer it to myself? Yeah, right. Not by choice. And if I did, I'm sure it wasn't an altruistic move. My hamstring screamed. Oh well, fine. Whatever. The universe was back to normal.

At mile ten (ten!), I was ready to lie down in the dirt and not budge. I had gone way off trail and was trudging at the top of an exposed mesa, moving at twelve minute miles. I hadn't seen any signs of life. No bird. No squirrel. No rat. When I pushed through a thicket of pines, I jiggled my MP3 player and it stopped playing the Dead. Some old Krishna Das started playing. Huh? This was the stuff I listened to while training for the Denver Marathon. I thought I had deleted it. Sita Ram, sita ram, sita ram. It sounded like a funeral march.

I followed highway 89 back to Fort Tuthill and luckily got back on trail. Still, I was two miles from home. I strongly considered walking. As I passed the fairgrounds, I started my post-mortem, trying to figure out what went wrong. Where did all my stamina go? Was it the heat? The pain? Something was amiss. I moved past a long racetrack and watched a pale horse being led around the track. It moved at a trot. It seemed to be grinning at me. Screw you, horse.

I ran through the Fort and entered a colonnade of elder trees. In front of me was the San Francisco Peaks. They looked unusually distant. I exited the Fort and got on the urban trail. And then, dammit, I started to walk. I was angry. Fuming. I blamed M for my poor run. She had tricked me with the shoes. I knew it was irrational, but what happened? I had done so well last week. Frack! I could barely complete a half. And maybe I was injured. At the rate I was hobbling, it would take me thirty minutes to get home. Blah. I tried to muster something, anything to start running again. But no. It didn't matter. I didn't care. I hated running again.

While walking the next quarter mile, a hawk appeared. It was yellow with brown spots. I switched off my player. The hawk circled close, almost directly overhead. And then it drifted off. I immediately thought it was M's hawk. In the depths of my muddled mind, watching the bird circle, my negative thoughts were somehow reversed. I believed that M had sent it here to fetch me. She was returning some sort of favor. M knew how much I loved to see wildlife. As the hawk circled away, I took a photo (see below). When it left, I thought, oh well. I was back on familiar ground. I sighed, switched on the Dead, and ran the final mile.

Gravity

2009-09-27T06:37:00.000-07:00

If you thought my shoes were obnoxious, here is a shot of M's shoes. She wears the Newtons, made by a small company in Boulder. Principia Running Nutta. Speaking of M and her Newtons, her shoes have been popping up in different places around the house, as if they are teleporting. She is obviously running again. How much? The other night she revealed to me that she downloadeded a bunch of marathon training schedules, trying to find the quickest/dirtiest way to get enough training to complete 26.2. Although she was not too optimistic, I could sense an uptick in potential energy. Her shoes were gone early this morning. When she gets back, I'll check-in and ask how her hammy is doing.

With a little over a month until the marathon, I'm ready to start generating some sort of homegrown training philosophy. M challenged me to do this way back when. Not sure it will be useful to anybody, but I feel a need to document my grander epiphanies. Some of the things I was thinking of writing about. 1) Running with the fear of dying. 2) Running with a dread of every breath and stride. 3) Running with a perpetual monologue of doom-laden hellbent heart-wrenching thoughts. 4) Running when you have a faster running partner who over the years has mortar-and-pestled your ego into little bits of bile and barf. 5) Running when you honestly believe that the sport is the most banal, mind-numbing, tedious, wasteful, unfulfilling, destructive, idiotic, unproductive, and uncivilized way a human being can live his/her life. . . Excellent. That should do it. This, um, philosophy, may be a little redundant, but hey, so is running, right? And if nothing else, these pithy entries will add some gravity to this blog.

I have a big run later today (when M gets back). I still have a sinus headache, so once again, I expect it to go like crap. All in all, I am not doing too bad. I'm only a week behind M's original training schedule. As long as I get in a few more twenties, I should (knock on wood) be good.

Running with the Dead: St. Stephen

2009-09-26T06:23:00.000-07:00

Running with the Dead: St. Stephen
Result: Negative
Best Line: Writing `what for?' across the morning sky
Link: cool audience recording from 1970-06-24

M thinks that enjoying the Dead requires drugs. Hallucinogenic drugs. Lots and lots of hallucinogenic drugs. Why else would you listen to so many songs that sound the same? But, M. I'm not on drugs when I listen to the Dead (although running may be considered a drug). You were when you first heard them, she said. You did drugs in college, right? Um. . . Crap.

I'm sure thousands (millions?) of people have enjoyed the Dead and yet have never listened while on drugs. M's thesis (drugs = likes-the-dead) is both popular and unfortunate. It causes many people to dismiss an entire catalog of high quality music (no pun intended). Or. . . maybe not. Maybe I'm on drugs? Or maybe some bands simply require a transitive experience? A mental leap. Or a bridge. Whether it's a live show, a fistful of drugs, or a serendipitous moment (. . . or extreme exercise?), something needs to trigger your brain to allow the band's sound to sink into the low levels of you brain. To rewire your cortex. I can buy that. It's happened to me with other bands. I never liked Sonic Youth until I saw them live at Red Rocks. Nor the Talking Heads until some girl I knew could not stop singing their songs. Nor the Dead, until. . . well. . . that's another story.

Speaking of drugs, St. Stephen was written at the height of the Dead's psychedelic phase. And boy, you can tell it. I really like this song, with its haunting guitar and its crashing percussion, but something happens in the middle of the tune. Right after the lyrics, lower down and lower down again, the song slows to a drip. Time stretches out. I get an urge to sit under the trees and ponder the universe. I start seeing hippies wandering through the forest. I hear a drum circle. Sparkles fill the air. Purple dragons fly overhead. . . All of which is no good for running.

Web Slingers

2009-09-25T06:51:00.000-07:00

M ordered me a new pair of Asics Nimbus, and boy, are they obnoxious. L asked me if they light up. I think they look like something spiderman should wear.

Here's a link to a lot of good live dead shows. The soundboard recordings are the best, but you can only stream those. It takes some work to find quality audience-recorded shows, but there are a few. Many of the recordings suffer from screaming fans, muffled songs, and a constant twiddling of sound levels. But, if you need one specific song, some treasures can be found. Nuff said.

And here is a link to a crazy story about an extreme cyclist. I think it is hilarious and really illustrates the madness of some athletes. Dr. B reminded me of what we called these people back in days when we cycled together. We called them crusaders. Although, in our context, the word was highly derogatory. The crusaders were the ones who took the sport far too seriously (talking about nothing else, buying all the plastic clothes, and bugging you to sign up for every race), yet they did not necessarily possess any talent.

More news about M tomorrow. She sequestered herself with her Iphone and the calendar last night and seemed to be scheming. Not sure what she is up to. She may not have given up yet.

Hand-me-downs: Coffee

2009-09-24T06:07:00.001-07:00

Before I met M, I never drank coffee. I managed to avoid it all through college. And work. And fun. But M had other ideas. She had once been a barista. She was a coffee nut (bean?). Whenever we went on a road trip, she lugged around this one-hundred-pound espresso maker that inevitably woke me up at the butt crack of dawn. On one such trip to Big Sur (for a marathon, of course), we forgot it, and I remember fearing for my life as I chauffeured an irrational pre-race M, shaking and scratching her arms, and I fretted about going off a cliff as we drove at unreasonable speeds, curving up and down the placid California coast, seeking an open coffee shop for her morning fix.

Needless to say, M eventually broke me down. She taunted me with her habit. She ground beans at 4 AM. She raved about this or that roast. And she showed me numerous articles in Runner's World or some other goofy magazine that claimed coffee would boost your performance. So I gave in. At first I drank an occasional cup of drip coffee. Then came the French Press. And now I'm up to triple espressos. Yep, my morning cannot begin without it. Otherwise I'm a zombie (the walking dead?). So here's another addiction I can blame on M. Is this a pattern?

Running with the Dead: Franklin's Tower

2009-09-23T05:53:00.000-07:00

Running with the Dead: Franklin's Tower
Result: Positive
Best Line: May the four winds blow you safely home
Link: sweet version (lots of audience though), from 1979-10-27

My cousin, D, thinks that studio Dead is better than live. He loves the 70's albums, claiming they were signature examples of psychedelic rock. I can't argue with that. The first album. Aoxomoxoa. Anthem of the Sun. Even Mars Hotel. They are all text book. Pure San Francisco sound. But that's not what I love about the Dead. I love them live. The riffs, the hooks, the transitions, the teasers and the jams. I also love the emotion that Jerry infused in Hunter's lyrics. And the retelling of train hopping and gambling tales. To me, the Dead were the ultimate rock-n-roll band. They were a pure American brew, steeped in bluegrass, rock-n-roll, jazz, beatnik poetry, drug culture, and the lore of the old west. They were not a simulacrum of rock-n-roll like the Beatles and Stones.

That said, getting a quality live recording is key. Over two thousand Dead shows were recorded, and some of them just didn't fly. D recently delivered me a version of Franklin's Tower that was utter garbage. Jerry kept forgetting the lyrics and nobody seemed to be playing behind him. He even got confused when singing, if you get confused just listen to the music play. It was pathetic. Luckily, I found a good one from '91 which seemed to be the best time for this song. It is one of the few Dead tunes that ripened in the eighties. Which is another reason to go live. You can find the best era for a specific song. Alas, if you are in the mood for a painful rendition, the studio version of Franklin's Tower from '74 is particularly bad. It was recorded on Blues for Allah and arranged with a dippy pre-disco sound. Jerry's voice is squeaky and atonal. The song sounds like some off-key new-age polka. But not so with the '91. Franklin's Tower evolved into an upbeat, energetic tune that is perfect to run to. Roll away the dew!

Aspen in the Canyon

2009-09-22T04:19:00.000-07:00

After a few runs, M suffered more leg pain. Her p.t. wants her to limit her runs to five miles, which will make training for a marathon pretty much impossible. On Sunday, M had to go into work. It was raining. I watched the kid and didn't do my twenty miler. I feared if I missed any more long runs, I wouldn't be able to finish NYC (which may be fine). When M got back, we once again discussed canceling the race.

I feel like I need M's permission to keep running. It's her thing. She dragged me into this sport (although I didn't put up a fight). Yet, now I have a problem. My body wants to keep going. I'm over fifty percent trained. I have surplus energy. It feels weird, but now I get edgy if I don't run. M created a monster.

So, after another talk with M, I decided to set out early, at five am on Monday, and attempt the twenty miler. M told me that she would try another small run and see how it goes. Cool. We were in agreement. It was dark when I left and M was drinking her coffee. She insisted I wear bright clothing. I put on a glowing white shirt, dark shorts with a lightening stripe, and scruffy gloves. I also carried a squeeze bottle full of electric-green liquid. My feet felt heavy. My mind was corroded. Bye, M. Good luck.

When I hit the trail, I kept hearing footsteps. I'd look behind me, but there would be nobody there. The darkness played tricks on my mind. Above me, the stars were spinning and Venus was bright and oblong. As I left the urban trail, I circled a small pond and scared the crap out of these ducks, about twenty of them. They honked and flapped and made the biggest commotion. I nearly jumped out of my shoes.

I rambled towards Sandy Canyon. My body was plodding and noisy, which meant I would likely not see any elk. Yet, my legs felt fine. The sun rose and blotted out the stars. Me and Bobby McGee came on my player and I passed Fisher Point. I kept an easy eleven minute mile pace. When I entered the side canyon, I saw footprints on the trail. Bare footprints! They were clean and recent. Each toe was outlined in the dirt. Who would wander at the bottom of a canyon with bare feet? I laughed. What a nut! The trail was extremely rocky and there were thickets of weeds. At one point I saw smoke rising through the trees. Perhaps a little campfire? Would I overtake this mysterious stranger? I thought I saw somebody through the trees, a nylon jacket? But no, maybe not. It was an illusion. When I neared the smoke, it disappeared. It could have been the mist. I kept running. Shortly thereafter, the footprints disappeared too.

Somewhere in Sandy Canyon, I started climbing. I passed a small Aspen grove. There were no leaves and their limbs appeared broken. Black scars lined their trunks. They were beautiful trees, but somehow damaged. Perhaps their root system still thrived? Colonies of Aspen can survive for thousands of years. I recalled an article I recently read about the decline of Aspen on the plateau. It saddened me. This unusual grove, nestled at the bottom of a canyon, could be dying away. It was getting pushed aside by heavier pines.

When I exited the canyon, I ran up Lake Mary Road and my speed increased. But then I hit some construction and had to dodge big trucks. Their exhaust rolled over me. It made the air sour and metallic. I pushed on. I had gotten fifteen miles and still felt good. So I went for twenty. I detoured to Fort Tuthill. This was where M and I did our daily runs. We could vary the length from four to nine miles, depending on the trails. As I ran, I kept looking for M. She should have been running by now, but somehow I missed her. I did five more miles without seeing her. M was nowhere to be found.

Running with the Dead: Greatest Story Ever Told

2009-09-19T04:59:00.000-07:00

Running with the Dead: Greatest Story Ever Told
Result: Negative/Positive
Best Line: the one thing we need is a left-hand monkey wrench
Link: audience recording from 1982... um, Brent sounds good

Since I took a shot at Jerry last time, today it's Bobby's turn. And sorry, but more often than not, his songs are duds. And when I'm running with these songs, ouch. To be fair, there are a few gems: Playing in the Band, Cassidy, and, um. . . what was that other one? Now I'm not a total Jerry nut either. And the Dead wouldn't be the Dead without Bob Weir. He was, after all, the one guy who kept Jerry's noodling from leaving the stratosphere. Jerry said it himself (from Wikipedia): there are some [...] kinds of ideas that would really throw me if I had to create a harmonic bridge between all the things going on rhythmically with two drums and Phil [Lesh's] innovative bass playing. Weir's ability to solve that sort of problem is extraordinary. [...] Harmonically, I take a lot of my solo cues from Bob.

Perhaps Bob simply got stuck with the lousy songs? It didn't help that Barlow was his chief lyricist. John Barlow, the cowboy poet turned Internet goofball, had a gift for making me cringe. In every damn song, the rain is raining, the lord is lording, the stars are spinning, the people are dancing, and some moron is pondering his navel. Maybe this is what it feels like when Barlow surfs the web?

Here are some of my favorite Barlow lyrics:

Here's to lightning, well you always electrify me

Lord made a lady out of Adam's rib, next thing you know you got women's lib

You know stars were spinning dizzy, Lord the band kept us so busy

You got to like me now, You're causing me such excitation (I think hearing this lyric is what really caused Brian Wilson to go nuts)

You shoot me a look that said let's go, yes and it feels just like running a red light

As for the one Phil Lesh song inherited by Bob. . . well, only one person deserves a song called, Passenger, and that would be Iggy (can you believe these songs were written in the same year?).

The only exception that I have to Bob's duds, is Greatest Story Ever Told. Bobby wrote the music and Robert Hunter (Jerry's co-conspirator) wrote the lyrics, and honestly, it may be the worst song that either wrote. It is so bad that it has drifted beyond the zero. The song is horrible. And the lyrics are even worse. It is stupid. Shallow. Goofy. Just hearing the song shaves a few points off your I.Q. Even by mistake, I would never put it on a Dead mix. But well, because the stars are spinning, and the rain is raining . . . shoot. . . I enjoy running to it.

ps. Iggy!

Junk Run Junkie

2009-09-18T04:39:00.000-07:00

Big news for M. She went to the doctor yesterday and he gave her the okay to run. It's been three weeks and she is very excited. M also visited the physical therapist yesterday and she got some bizarre frictional massage that left bruises up and down her leg. The technique is supposed to break up scar tissue and prompt muscle healing. Luckily, M is addicted to pain. The woman will do anything to run.

Mornings in Flagstaff are getting cold. In the forties. And soon it will be in the thirties. The frosty air really hurts my lungs. But pain is good, right? Besides, the marathon is November 1st in NYC. I need to be ready for the chill.

The last few mornings, I've been looking forward to my runs. This also happened when I trained for the Denver. It's an odd feeling. I'm not hooked or anything (right?), but I feel the burn. It's low-level. It emanates from my blood and bones. Yep, I'm addicted. More exertion! More pain! Less brain! I'm sure I can quit tomorrow if I wanted (right?). But I made a deal. I need to try and finish this damn thing. Maybe all this exertion will make me live longer? Sure. Right. I seriously doubt it. People who run marathons often permanently damage themselves (or just outright die). Exercise is good. But extreme exercise? Something bugs me about it. I did not choose to be a run junkie.

When I started this training, a friend asked me why I didn't just say no. This is the question. The big question. I don't know! I'm not running simply because M begged me. Jeez. I can say no to her, right? Okay, maybe not. But still, it must be more than that. I can't blame it all on M, right? . . . Damn. . . It must be something in me.

Saguaro Labor Day Run

2009-09-17T05:35:00.000-07:00

Here is my relationship with M as told through one run, the Saguaro Labor Day Eight Miler in Tucson:

2002: We had recently started dating and M had begun her secret campaign to turn me into a runner. And, oh, what a long and fruitless slog it would be. A few days before the race, she coyly asked if I wanted the try the two miler. You can walk it, if you want. Fine, I said. Whatever. So, she signed me up for the race (to this date, I have never signed up for a race). Now, for my first big run, I had selected a pair of basketball shorts, black sweatpants, a torn Gap shirt, a nylon jacket, a crumpled U of A ball cap, and blue Converse All-Stars, laced all the way up. Oh, and I carried a fifteen-pound silver cassette player filled with Jane's Addiction. On the race day, we woke up at 5 AM, which I thought was obscene, and drove over to the bumbling outskirts of the Sonoran desert. If you are unaware, this is the landscape that inspired the Road Runner cartoons. Obviously, this makes me the Coyote. There were two runs: an eight-miler and a two-miler. M's race started first and I watched through blurry eyes as she bolted into the hills with the elites. When my race started, I was facing the wrong way. I spun around and took off like a mad dog. My incredible speed lasted only a few steps. After a quarter mile, I was well behind the pack. At one mile, I started shedding clothes. At a mile and a quarter I was screaming with the music. Coming down the mountain! After twenty minutes, I was a wheezing and sputtering lunatic. Dozens of children and old people passed me by. I frightened them terribly. Finally, at the finish, an eight-year-old boy zipped passed me and everybody cheered. I lowered my mass down on a curb. My legs throbbed. I could not breath. I pondered my existence. Why did I do that? She must have hypnotized me. Why else would I subject myself to such abuse? So began the wondrous and eternal mystery of me and my running. M finished the eight miler and pranced toward me. She looked as though she hadn't broken a sweat. How'd you do? she asked. Fine, I said. I finished. M beamed. That's awesome! It is? All I wanted was to crawl back in bed and die. But M had won a prize. We had to wait around in the heat for her to collect it.

2005: Three years later, I was a different man. M had broken me down. We were living together. We had moved to Denver. And I owned a pair of running shoes (Brooks). M had even succeeded in getting me to run a 10k. Also, unbeknownst to me, she was hatching a mad plot to get me to run a marathon. As fall approached, M suggested we head down to Tucson for old-times sake. If the city happened to hold a race that weekend, we should run it. Sneaky sneaky. So, I said, sure. Why not. When we arrived in the desert, I learned that I had been signed up for the eight miler. Crap. Like it or not, I would get my first introduction to the hill. We slept in a cheap hotel room and just managed to make it to the race in time. When the race started, M leapt to the front of the pack and was quickly out of sight. I stayed with the middling runners in the middle. After three miles, the blacktop sloped upwards and curved around an outcrop. I was climbing and didn't even know it. That was the way it worked. You didn't know you were on the hill, until it was too late. And soon, the damn thing was steep. So steep that I was falling backwards. At points, I was tempted to use my hands. After a mile into it, I started seeing stars. My skull was a laser show. And then I wanted to end it all. I had a bizarre urge to jump into a patch of prickly pear. Or hug a ten-foot-tall saguaro. Or lay down in some cholla. When I finally crested the hill, I cried. It was my first time since I was a kid. I was not sad or upset. My body had entered another world. I looked down from blue skies and waved myself goodbye. When my body somehow reached the end, M was waiting to collect her prize. Am I still alive? I asked. She laughed and nodded. Of course, you're alive. You did a real race. You're a runner now!

2008: Well, at this point, we had moved back to Arizona (Flagstaff). We had gotten married and had a kid. I also ran the Denver Marathon and was suffering from its after affects. So, I took a stance and refused to run. I insisted on staying on the sidelines with L. No two-miler. No nothing. I resumed my role as cheerleader. But M was having her own problems. She had suffered through a half-dozen leg injuries since she ran the Boston. Her body had not allowed her to finish another marathon. She had been forced to cut down on races. And this was a big source of frustration for M. The NYC Marathon was on the horizon, just over a year away, and she desperately wanted another shot. When we drove down to Tucson, we stayed in a Bed & Breakfast near Armory Park. Like usual, the night before a race, M was a basket case. She worried incessantly about sleep. She paced the floor, seeking out sources of noise. She played with the curtains, trying to fend off any external light. Right before she inserted her earplugs, she leaned towards me and whispered, If I win something, you will train for New York City? Please? I did not say yes. But I did not say no either. The next morning, M felt miserable. Her hamstring hurt. She was convinced she would not finish. She silently drank cold coffee and cereal. Maybe I will never run again, she moaned. I let her fight her demons and put a sleeping L in the car. We didn't talk as we drove out to the desert. At the race-start, I kissed her for good luck and she took off. As she ran, L and I meandered down a small trail. We enumerated the cacti and succulents. Everything was interwoven and green. Bold and spiky. Somehow these plants had learned to live here. They had made a side deal with the landscape. Give us enough to thrive, and we will make you beautiful. And the deal paid off. It was an improbable Eden. Arresting. . . After thirty minutes, we made our way to the finish line. The hardcore elites in red and yellow popped over the hill. A handful of males crossed the finish line. And then a few females. Most of them looked anorexic or overly buff. Maybe I'm biased, but I always think M is the best looking person in the field. And here she came. Wearing a glowing tank-top and blue shorts. Hobbled, but running fast. Damn fast. M had kicked ass. When she strode by, she gave me the middle finger and yelled, You're doing New York City!! Huh? I never agreed to that! M zipped around the corner and across the finish. Once again, she had won a prize.

Running with the Dead: Friend of the Devil

2009-09-16T05:13:00.000-07:00

Running with the Dead: Friend of the Devil
Result: Positive/Negative
Best Line: Set out running but I take my time

I love to hear Jerry croon, but man, when he slows down, watch out. He makes me want to kick off my boots, sit by a fire, sip from a thermos of milk and whiskey, and contemplate the end of things. Sing it big bear! It is beautiful stuff. But don't ask me to listen to Jerry warble while I'm hopping down a steep trail in my Asics Nimbi.

I'm not gonna list all of Jerry's slow numbers in this blog. Some songs are losers, or so broken down, muddy and petering, that I won't even put them on my player. Others, I let hang around. And come around again. And I wait for inspiration. If my times are too high or the song makes me slow-jimmy-slow; then it's gone. For a few numbers, it depends on the version.

Friend of the Devil is a classic song that a lot of people know (That's the Dead? Wow, I had no idea), but you absolutely need a fast version. More often than not, the band would turn this into a dirge. I found a quick one (9/27/72) that works pretty well, although it is short. I like this song because I can sing to all the lyrics. A good site for Dead lyrics, by the way, is the annotated dead. It's an old site. . . I hope they keep it up.

Hand-me-downs: the Garmin

2009-09-15T06:08:00.001-07:00

M recently bought a new Garmin (with heartbeat monitoring), so she gave me her old one. Her old watch occasionally doesn't turn on and sometimes refuses to find satellites (yep, it has GPS), but for the most part, it works. Now, if you want to suck all the joy out of running, definitely buy one of these babies. The little monster constantly reports your speed, mileage, and average pace. You can't hide from it. No more faking a long run. And no more knocking a few minutes off your final time. The Garmin does not lie.

Some of the benefits of this bugger? It's easier to stay on pace, even an incredibly slow pace. And having this information quickly becomes addictive. Another plus: if you map out your distance before a run, you don't get fooled by false peaks. Also, if you are somewhere in the middle of the forest and come upon a random, unmarked trail, you don't have to fret so much. Check your mileage. If you did your homework, the chances of getting lost are greatly reduced. Lewis and Clark are turning in their graves.

One thing that puzzles me about the Garmin, is how it effects my carbon footprint. Now I'm not the greenest monkey in the tree, but one of the nice things about running is its low impact. You don't need to buy thousands of dollars worth of equipment. You aren't burning fossil fuels (well, depending on your diet). And you're not rumbling through the forest in a spewing ATV. It's just you and your shoes. But then you strap on the Garmin. Bink! Instantly you've tapped into an array of multi-million dollar satellites. Dozens of them, buzzing and beeping around the globe. All for a silly run. Yeah, I'm using shared technology (as long as I can afford the gizmo). But still. It's over-the-top. Oh, and thanks for contributing to the corporate-military complex. And speaking of the green dilemma, what about that plane ride to NYC? Where's the logic there? I'm flying 2500 miles, just to run 26. And (as my friend B reminded me), what about all that waste generated by the marathon? Tons and tons of it. Okay, crap, the next time I find some litter while running through the forest, I'm picking it up. That should offset my costs, eh?

Controlled Burn

2009-09-13T20:37:00.001-07:00

M had ridden her bike up the San Francisco Peaks early in the morning. Her hamstring still hurt and we both avoided the topic. I was procrastinating on my run, and before I left, she decided to drive down to Phoenix to visit a friend. So, as it was getting close to ten, I gave in. I left the kid with Pops and warned him I may take four hours to do my twenty. It was hot. Not Tucson hot, but still, the sun was aiming for me.

After mile two, I nearly stepped on a three foot garter snake. Not a rattler (at this altitude), but still, an ominous sign. I adjusted my expectations. Maybe I should shoot for eighteen. Or fifteen. My muscles felt like dried out husks. My joints snapped on each stride. My knees rubbed bone against bone. I was nothing but an empty-headed skeleton, jerking through the forest by electrical impulse.

Endurance is an odd thing. Your goal is to steadily push your body over the line. Incrementally. Step by step. To transform yourself into a perpetual motion machine. Some days, though, it just aint going to work. There's too many variables. And then you go off-trail. At mile eight, I was halfway through Fay Canyon and accidentally took the high road. This path was not well-worn. The grasses cut my shins. I tripped and caught myself. I stopped to pull a thorn out of my shoe and noticed a finger coated in blood. I could not find the source. They sun was nothing but a great ball of apathy. Finally, I spotted the trail.

At mile fourteen, I slowed to a trudge. The body was done. Ripple came on the player and I cried. Yeah, it was weird, but sometimes this happens when I over-exert my body. According to M, it is normal. It is an auto-response. At sixteen, my legs shut down. They refused to keep running. Sure, I had failed to get twenty, but I had a tough run.

As I walked back to the urban trail, I entered an area where the Forest Service was preparing for a controlled burn. Stacks of dead wood were piled a hundred yards apart. Small cloisters waited to be torched. I wandered through the heaps of sawed-off limbs. It was a ponderosa pine graveyard. These piles are a common sight in the woods around Flagstaff. By burning the fallen wood, the forest becomes healthier and the danger of a catastrophic fire is reduced.

Running with the Dead: Goin' Down the Road Feeling Bad

2009-09-13T04:55:00.000-07:00

Running with the Dead: Goin' Down the Road Feeling Bad
Result: Positive
Best Line: Goin' down the road feeling bad

Sorry for the rant yesterday. At the risk of sounding repetitive, I was goin' down the road feeling bad. And speaking of sounding repetitive, this somewhat repetitive song, Goin' Down the Road Feeling Bad, is a great song to run to. If for no other reason than whenever I'm going down the road, I'm feeling bad. The song is quick, steady, and if you haven't guessed it, repetitive. Find a version in the eighties with Brent on back-up vocals. Brent was one of the many doomed keyboardists of the Dead and nobody sounded like he was goin' down the road feeling bad, like Brent. He had a soulful and scratchy voice.

I think I'm over four hours now. My cousin D got me a few cd's of live dead. I just put them on my player and will try running with them during my twenty miler (which I expect will go like crap). I'm still fighting a nasty cold and my head is full of snot.

Why I am Not a Runner: the Madness

2009-09-12T06:17:00.000-07:00

M and I have lived in some of the more rabid running communities: Boulder, Tucson and (now) Flagstaff. Nothing brings out the nut-balls like high altitudes and sunny skies. The running freaks are everywhere in these towns. They jump from under rocks, sprint from behind trees, pass you on the trails, jog in place at stop-lights, and stretch in line at the grocery store. I have many names for these people. The elites. The crazies. The ego runners. The aliens. Or when I'm feeling particularly ill-tempered, the idiots.

Because M regularly meets with running groups, I occasionally find myself talking to one of these people. I pretend to listen while they boast about their killer track workouts, their three-a-day practice schedule, or their hundred-mile weeks. All I can think is, What is wrong with you? Why are you wasting your life this way? Running, running, and running. Obviously you have a mental problem. You are no better than a hamster on a wheel! It is also during these talks that I realize who I truly am. Or, actually, who I am truly not. I am not a runner.

Now, I don't dislike runners. I did marry one, after all. But I truly believe that the sport shakes loose a screw or two. To have a life purpose that involves, running faster and running longer and running more often, is ridiculous. It is a type of madness. One part addiction. One part masochism. And one part, well (sorry) shallowness. I realize this sounds harsh (and defensive?), but seriously, YOU ARE SPENDING YOUR LIFE RUNNING! You are way beyond staying in shape. You are a self-obsessed knob. You are not entertaining anybody. You are not adding anything to society. You are simply a calorie-burning automaton with the intellectual capacity of an insect! You may as well spend your life hitting your head against a wall.

Okay, I'm done with my rant. And, er, before I get in a trouble, a few disclaimers: I'm certainly not saying that I do anything better with my life (because I don't); and, um, none of the above pertains to M, of course. Anyway, here are a few key moments in my life when it became obvious that I was not a runner:

Moment 1: While living in Tucson, M and I would occasionally run into the ultra-marathoner Pam Reed. M was training for the Boston Marathon and during one of these run-ins at the fitness club, M asked Pam for some advice on the Boston. Now I realize that Pam Reed is an extreme example, but she also perfectly illustrates the madness of a real runner. I knew just by looking at this woman that she was of a different species. Pam Reed was about four-foot tall, had porcupine hair, an orange skin color that didn't exist in nature, and the attention span of a gnat. The woman had so much bottled-up energy, that she seemed on the verge of exploding. It was no wonder, she had to run ultra's. And what was Pam Reed's advice for running the Boston? Well, she told us about the time she had run it. The morning before the race, Pam Reed had become curious about the course layout. Her curiosity got the best of her, and on a whim, she decided to run the entire thing just to check it out. Effectively, she ran the Boston Marathon twice on the same day. Oh, and her times were faster than what I could run. Way faster! All I could do was stare at her and shake my head. Huh? You did what?

Moment 2: While training for the Phoenix Rock-n-Roll Marathon, M happened to drag me to a running party (imagine how fun that is?) and I had the opportunity to meet one of the world's more famous running coaches. Now, if you ever hear the name Jack Daniels and you immediately think of Tennessee, horrid hangovers, and a lost weekend in New Orleans, well, then you are like me and probably not a runner. But if you think of this guy, then you likely have the madness. Anyway, because I am a skinny man with a poor posture, when among runners, I occasionally get mistaken for an athlete. This happened when M and I walked in the door of this party. A woman looked at me and said, you must be fast. Of course, in any other context, this would NOT be a compliment. But within this company, I found it very amusing. M could only shake her head. But then we walked into the next room and Jack Daniels was sitting there, surrounded by admirers. He was thin and had a homespun face and appeared to be about one-hundred-and-five years old. Still, he had a head like a bullet and could have likely broken me in two with his pinkie. I remember saying something stupid like, Jack Daniels, straight up. But here is the thing. Here sat a man who had spent his entire life appraising runners. He could spot the madness a quarter mile away. And he didn't even give me a second look. I was a ghost. The coach could see right away that I was not one of them. But now, M, well, that's a different story. She walked right up to Jack Daniels as if he was her long lost grandpa and the old bullet head turned to her and patted her on the back and they started chatting about all sorts of silly things, like turn-over ratios, the heat in Phoenix, hamstring injuries, trail running and chocolate-chip cookie recipes.

So there you go. Not only do I know I don't have the madness. But when the pro's see me, they know it too.

Congestion

2009-09-11T10:16:00.000-07:00

I didn't run today. Fighting a head cold. According to M, it is better to run when you have a cold. It boosts your immune system. Blah. I'm not so sure. I have a big run on Sunday (20 miler), that I am trying to gear up for. In other news, I received an email from the NYC Marathon people. They found me transportation. I guess this is good news, although M is still signed up to go on the ferry:

Thank you for your email regarding transportation to the start of the 2009 ING NYC Marathon. Please be aware that options are limited at this time – we do apologize. You are now assigned to the 5:00am bus from midtown Manhattan 42nd st.

This option – cannot be changed.

Hand-me-downs: Mundo

2009-09-10T05:55:00.001-07:00

On shorter runs I take Mundo. I let him off leash when we reach the urban trail (less than a half mile) and he takes off like a shot, chasing birds, squirrels and rabbits. Mundo is a rez dog. If it's hot, he will lag behind, running from tree to tree. Now that I think of it, when it's cold, he also lags behind. Mundo is always on his own schedule. Often I need to turn around and yell for him. M says that when she takes Mundo running, he stays close the entire time. Not sure why Mundo feels like it is okay to lag or take off when running with me. Maybe because I'm so damn slow, he is not worried about catching up.

Sun Rise Rising

2009-09-09T05:33:00.000-07:00

(this was Monday's Labor Day Run)

It was still dark when M dropped me off at Saguaro East. Cars were lined up and down the road and dozens of runners milled about. Some of them were doing warm-up sprints in the middle of the road. Idiots. I had drank some cold coffee and ate a Clif Bar for breakfast. My breathing was okay, but I was not in a very good mood. My first goal was to find a port-o-potty.

Five minutes before the race started, I made my way to the middle of the pack. Everybody was already complaining about the hill. The sun peaked above the Rincons and the entire desert flashed into existence. The morning light made the earth monochrome and two dimensional and insanely beautiful. I scowled at a saguaro and its neighbors, a long-armed ocotillo and a clan of cholla. What the hell. How can the desert be so inviting and deadly at the same time?

When the race started, I flipped on my player. My plan was to stay well below the line. The race was crowded (five hundred people?) and at first it was impossible to go faster than ten minute miles. After mile two, I studied my peers and made up stories about them. There was the ex-football coach, who felt guilty if he didn't run every year. There was the fifty-year-old mom with the purple fanny-pack and legs like tree trunks. There was the skinny ultra-marathoner with a camel pack, who used this race as his warm-up and would trudge down to the Mexican Border after the finish. There was the bronze jazzercise chick with perfect make-up. There was the injured, nylon-clad ego runner with six-hundred-dollar shoes, who bowed out at mile two, grabbing his knee and swearing loudly to let everybody know he wasn't faking it. And then, there was a guy like me? A fairly-fit doppleganger. He was bald and a little stouter than me, but still, moving at my pace. He wore headphones. I stuck with him.

And the weirdest thing about this race? I felt good. Too good. I ran 9:30's with no problem. I was well-trained and maybe I could have gone a minute faster per mile. When I hit the infamous hill (two miles straight up, with more than a few false peaks), I kept steady. The weekend warriors fell to the side. Many walked. A few stopped and bent over to catch their breath. There was human wreckage all over the road. I passed them all. At one point, I was alone. The crowd had strung out in either direction. Hey, where did everybody go? My doppleganger had disappeared. The coach. The mom. All gone. Cassidy was on my player and in the desert hills above me, rows of saguaro stood thin and proud. These were the old men of the desert. Their arms were raised to the sky. Maybe it was the heat (it was already in the nineties), but the cactus seemed to sing to me. And they sang with the Dead. Faring thee well now. Let your life proceed by its own design. Over and over. Like a mantra. I transcended the hill with a grin.

M was standing with L at the end, cheering me on. This was a first (usually I am the one cheering her on). She took a photo of me with our traditional end-of-race salute (the middle finger). I sprinted to the finish because some moron tried to pass me right at the end (my doppleganger?). And I still had more left. A lot more. I guess I really am trained for eighteen. It shouldn't have surprised me.

The rest of the day, M and I did a little shopping and took L to visit the T-Rex at the children's museum. M was still upset that she couldn't do her favorite run, but she felt good about her Mt. Lemmon ride. That afternoon, we headed out of the desert, through the endless concrete of Phoenix and back up the hill, into the elevated forest surrounding Flagstaff. There's nothing like returning to the peaks.

Running with the Dead: Bertha

2009-09-08T04:42:00.000-07:00

Running with the Dead: Bertha
Result: Positive
Best Line: I had to move, really had to move

Bertha was the first live Dead song I ever heard. Back in college I had bought an old Skull & Roses album (Dead Freaks Unite!) which I probably still have somewhere. Anyway, as of yet, this is my favorite Dead song to run to. It should work even for fast runners. When Bertha comes on my player, my head starts bobbing. My legs get a jolt. And my arms pump. It's a fun song and somewhere in the middle of it, I find myself leaning into curves like a total running dork. If I wasn't afraid of running too fast, I would fill my player with it. Just be careful when it comes on, that you don't run smack into a tree.

My Dead mix is really coming along. I have about 3.5 hours which should get me through most of a marathon. I would like at least an hour more. I posted a request for suggestions on dead.net, but it got buried in their somewhat broken and heavily-moderated forums, so I'm guessing nobody will see it. My cousin D has a lot of live Dead, so I'm also making a list for him. Here is what I have so far:

Hard To Handle - Pigpen

Lovelight - Pigpen

Playing in the Band - a shortish one, without a jam, if one exists?

Althea - early eighties

The Wheel - a fast version without a jam, if one exists?

Me and Bobby McGee

Scarlet Fire - I have one, but may include two on the mix

Franklin's Tower - I have one, but it aint too great

Shakedown Street - not sure if it will be good to run to...

Ripple - not sure if it will be good to run to...

That should get me close...

When Life Gives Mt. Lemmon

2009-09-06T06:07:00.000-07:00

This morning, I left M and her bike at the bottom of Mt. Lemmon. Three hours later, I started up the Catalina Highway to meet her. Dark clouds gathered on the mountain, and I guessed she was getting poured on. But not me. Not where I was. I hadn't felt a drop of it and questioned whether it was real. Maybe the clouds were fake, painted on a huge stucco wall that reached nine-thousand feet into the sky.

Yep, I was back in the desert and all morning, I had been feeling its effects. My throat was scratchy. I could not breath. I felt weak. Maybe I had been living in Flag too long, but I was certain that the one-hundred-degree temps in Tucson were not safe for me. How was I going to run tomorrow? The Saguaro run was only eight miles, but it had a notorious two-mile hill in the middle of it. Not only that, the run was in the middle of the desert. All my energy was zapped. Everything outside appeared shriveled, burned out, and crumbling. Even the people.

Things got better as I drove up the mountain. It was twenty-five miles to Summerhaven, and after curving up the Catalina highway, I started seeing pines. Thank god. I got a call from M. She was still above me, biking somewhere in the clouds, but getting rained on. I picked her up and we drove into Summerhaven. She was feeling pretty good and her hammy was okay. Bad news though, the pie shop closed down. Can you believe it? What is Mt. Lemmon without pie? Luckily, I thought ahead and purchased a Xoom Juice before I drove up. This made M happy. A small musical festival was going on in Summerhaven and like true Flaggers, we waited out the heat and hid in the mountains all afternoon before heading back down.

At dinner I had a minor freak out. I had been breathing poorly all day. I told M that I was convinced my lungs would collapse if I ran the eight miler. You'll be fine, she said. The run started at 6:30 AM. To register, I would need to wake up at 5 AM. I also had to eat, get some coffee, and use the can before the thing started. I haphazardly set my alarm. What was I doing? This was M's thing. It was her sport, her trip, and her favorite run... And now I was doing it by myself!

My New Running Cap

2009-09-05T05:34:00.000-07:00

I'm not the kind of guy who likes to wear concert memorabilia, but I did need a new cap. So, I decided to honor my new-found respect for the Grateful Dead. I seriously believe the music is helping me survive. I'm a little worried that if I start wearing this cap, people will think I'm a total Dead Head, which I guess is fine. I only plan to wear it while I'm running. A baseball cap is essential for me when I run. I like to keep the sun out of my eyes. I also like to hide the painful expressions on my face. So, if you are in NYC during the marathon and you see a slow guy with this cap on, it is likely me. Let's hope the guy isn't lying half-dead on the side of the road.

I've done a few small runs since the gloomy eighteen. I guess that distance was a big deal (I'm two-thirds of the way there). Maybe a full marathon is possible? Still, I'm running extremely slow and I felt lousy during the entire eighteen. I need to get in five or six more long runs, a few of them over twenty. It would be nice to feel good for one of them. So far, my recovery has been okay, but now my lungs are burning. It's always something.

M has been working daily to strengthen her hamstring. She has been good about not running and instead has frequented the gym and done morning bike rides. This afternoon we head down to Tucson. Maybe I will run the Saguaro eight miler, maybe not. M has hinted that she wants to bike up Mt. Lemon. It's like twenty-five miles, straight up. I think she is nuts.

The Boston Marathon

2009-09-04T05:02:00.001-07:00

Here is a funny story about M when she ran the Boston Marathon. It is a good example of her madness.

M had qualified for the Boston in 2003. She had gotten a speedy time in the Tucson Marathon (around 3:20) and was extremely happy. I was not even pretending to be a runner at that time. I planned to hang-out in Boston and cheer her on. We reserved a friend's apartment near BU and bought plane tickets and everything was a go. But we had one problem. The race was on a Monday and I needed to be back Tuesday morning to give a presentation for grad school. M had bought the tickets, thinking she had it all figured out, but our flight left Boston at 4:10 PM on the day of the race. M had assumed that like most marathons, the race would start early in the morning. Wrong. . . The Boston Marathon started at noon.

So, we had a mission impossible. To catch our plane, M would have to run the marathon in at least a 3:30 (not impossible for her, but the Boston is not an easy marathon). Then, in a mere thirty-some minutes, we would need to make it from the race-end to the subway, to Logan Airport, get our luggage and boarding passes, and wait through the security lines before the plane took off at 4:10 PM. Never mind the Boston Marathon crowds, tens of thousands of them, who would be standing in our way. The night before the race, while M tried to sleep, I pored over maps of downtown Boston, trying to figure out how the hell we would do this.

I dropped M off at the race-end at 8 AM (a bus would take her to the start). It was cold and overcast and M was freezing because she refused to wear anything but her running shorts and a t-shirt. We walked a little ways off and found a Dunkin Donuts a half-mile from the finish. Here was where we planned to meet (I love Dunkin Donuts). I said goodbye to M and wished her luck. After we parted, I found the shortest path to a subway station. I then mapped out how we would transfer to the blue line and get to the airport. While M was getting to the race start, I had a lot to do. I needed to drive to the airport, drop off the rental car, store our luggage in the terminal, and take a subway back to the finish. Because I was not familiar with Boston, this took me a while. By the time I got back to the Dunkin Donuts, she had already been running for two hours.

One of the cool things about the Boston Marathon was they had text alerts. Whenever M passed a certain point, her chip time would get recorded and I would get sent a text message with her time. There was a slight delay, but I got an alert when she passed the quarter, half, and three-quarter points. She was running pretty well, but according to the alerts, her expected time was 3:40. I already knew we would miss our flight. While standing at the Dunkin Donuts, I started seeing runners in the crowd. They stuck out because they were under-dressed and each one had a large foil cape, meant to keep them warm in the cold air. I remember waiting and waiting for the alert telling me that M passed the finish line. When I finally got it, her time was 3:43. I thought, Okay, she has a half mile to get to me. When she gets here, we will go look for a hotel and relax. We can change our flights over the phone. But then I looked up and there she was in her foil cape. And she didn't even stop to say hi. Let's go! she yelled. Our flight! M had run right through the finish line and then kept on going. I remember distinctly some guy yelling at her in a Boston accent. Hey, you. The mayothon is ovah. You can stop running now!

At first M didn't know where she was going and it took me a while to catch up with her in the crowds. When I caught up, I tried to convince her it was impossible, but she refused to give in. So I pointed her to the subway station and she sprinted ahead. We jumped in the subway car just as the doors closed. On the packed subway, she was the only runner on board and the center of attention. Everybody kept asking her questions about the race and how she did. She loved it. She stood there in her nylon running clothes and foil cape, looking like some bizarre super hero. Once we transferred to the blue line, we had less than ten minutes to make the flight.

Well, I don't know if it was the cape or what, but we breezed through the airport. I grabbed our luggage while M waited in line for our boarding passes. People in the airport seemed baffled by her presence. Not only was she wearing a foil cape, but also her running gear and a Boston Marathon bib. I started thinking we had a chance, but then we hit security. There must have been fifty people in front of us. According to my watch, we had less than two minutes to catch our flight. I turned to M to say, we are doomed, but then she was gone.

Now this is where M did something that I thought was completely bonkers. She ran up to the TSA person at the front of the security line and asked if we could cut. This was not long after 9/11 and Logan Airport was a fairly paranoid place. The airport was under constant patrol by guys with helmets, bullet-proof vests, dogs and machine guns. I was afraid we were going to be shot. Everybody watched M intently. A few shook their heads. Who's this nutcase, somebody said. Is she delusional from all that running? The TSA person told M that we could cut, but only if it was okay with everyone in line. So M immediately turns to the crowd. Excuse me? Is it okay if we cut in line. . . our flight is leaving. . . my boyfriend needs to get back. . . Blah blah blah. She explained our entire situation. She also pointed at me and everybody turned around to look. I wanted to hide. I heard a few grumbles from the crowd, but also a few, Fine. . . whatevahs. M waved me forward and I ran to the front of the line. We zipped through security. When we reached the gate, the flight attendants had to open the doors to let us on the plane, but we made it. M curled up in her seat and slept the entire way back to Tucson.

Running with the Dead: The Wheel

2009-09-02T06:02:00.000-07:00

Song: The Wheel
Result: Negative
Best Line: The wheel is turning and you can't slow down

M read the last few blog entries and thought they were sort of downers. You saw a fox and some elk, she said. That's cool. Yeah. Yeah. That was cool. But I'm still terrified that I'm going to die. . . Okay, I'm a paranoid freak. But in my defense, the last few weeks have been miserable.

Anyway, I wish The Wheel was just a little bit faster. It has great lyrics for running. If I wanted to average twelve minute miles, the song would be perfect. As of now, it slows me down. But who knows, maybe I can run even slower? Yikes. Or maybe there is a speedy version out there? I haven't found one yet, but I will ask my cousin, D, who has a lot of live Dead on his computer.

A gloomy eighteen

2009-09-01T06:15:00.000-07:00

I was staring at the ceiling at three AM, feeling low and angry. M was also tossing, fighting her own sleep demons. At four I gave up and climbed out of bed, made some coffee, ate some cereal, and put on the damn running shorts. I had no ideas about mileage. As lousy as I was feeling, I knew I would be slow.

At five AM I got out the door. It was dark and drizzly and I headed for the urban trail and then the forest, making sure not to cross the line, checking my watch and staying well over eleven minute miles. When Birdsong came on, I saw a fox in the half-light and it stared at me and circled back. It was gray with a big tail and just off the path, less than ten feet away. It followed me for a bit. I guess it couldn't believe I was real. Two hours later I was still running.

I ended up with eighteen miles. Somewhere off the Arizona Trail, I also saw a cluster of elk, a few males, one with a massive body and rack. They stared at me, unconcerned. Did I exist? Why didn't they run away? I felt like a ghost, mindlessly moving through the woods. Although my legs were heavy, I moved at a steady pace. I continually checked in with my lungs to make sure I was still breathing.

On the way back, I got lost on a mesa in East Flag. By the time I figured out where I was, I was still three miles from home. Instead of pushing it, I called my cousin, D, and he picked me up in his VW Bus. It was brutal.

A Rock and a Hard Place

2009-08-31T05:15:00.000-07:00

The last few days I have not felt like running. After my Friday run, I had a poor recovery. I guess I crossed the line. It was low grade, but still, I feel like a zombie. I skipped my long run on Sunday (that's two in a row I skipped!), and instead went for a small bike ride with M and L (the little guy was on the trail-a-bike). Even that knocked me out.

If I get my mojo back, maybe I will wake up early this week (earlier than usual) and get in a long run. For Labor Day, we are driving down the Tucson like we do every year. One of M's favorite runs is there (the Saguaro Eight Miler). As it stands now, she won't be able to run it. If I run it, and she doesn't, that would be a first: me running a race by myself. Why the hell would I want to do that? Typically, I am the one standing on the sidelines, watching the kid and cheering her on. Both M and I have discussed dropping out of the NYC marathon. But it's not so simple. We already bought our plane tickets and reserved a nice hotel near Central Park (no more staying on the floor of a friend's apartment). I haven't given up yet, but I'm really starting to dread the long runs.

Running with the Dead: Sugar Magnolia

2009-08-29T05:15:00.000-07:00

Song: Sugar Magnolia
Result: Positive
Best Line: I take me out and I wander round

Back in college, when I first listened to a Grateful Dead album (American Beauty), this song was instantly my favorite. But that was before I heard it played a zillion times. I still like Sugar Magnolia, but mainly for nostalgia reasons. One thing that is cool about this song, is it's a Bob song. And it's a rocking Bob song. I enjoy a handful of his other songs, but my favorites are often too slow to run to (Black Throated Wind, Looks Like Rain, Let It Grow).

As for running, Sugar Magnolia has a nice hop in the beat, which always takes me a few strides to adjust to. That said, once I'm in sync, (like a Willy's in four-wheel drive), my speed increases. At the end of the song, it doesn't hurt to include a version of Sunshine Daydream. For me, this ending also provides a good laugh as I hear Bob and Donna (the Dead's regular back-up singer in the 70's) screech at each other.

Newtonian Physics

2009-08-28T05:36:00.000-07:00

M went to the physical therapist and she came back with a list of exercises to strengthen her hamstring. Apparently the injury is pretty common. Last night she got out the giant rubber band and the yoga ball and the roller and various other implements. She seems very determined to fix her leg.

I ran nine miles, finishing Soldier's Loop at a steady 9.30 minute mile pace. Not bad, but my knee still felt like a balloon. When I passed the evil rock that tripped me up last time, I leaped over it and laughed. But then a quarter mile later, I nearly fell on my face. Trying not to get cocky.

My inbox had an ominous email in it yesterday with the subject, Final Call For Marathon Transportation. Apparently, I never signed up for transportation. It is not easy to get to the start of the NYC Marathon and most people have to board a special Staten Island Ferry at 5:30 AM. Somehow, while registering, M got signed up for the ferry, but I did not. I sent an email but got no response. I then called the marathon people yesterday, and they said they were sending me an email to login to their site, but I never received it. I will call them again Monday. Now I have a whole new reason to freak out. Here is the message they sent me:

You’ve selected “I do not need transportation” in your Runner Profile for the ING New York City Marathon 2009. If you need official transportation to the race start, you must email us immediately at reghelp@nyrr.org to tell us whether you’re coming from New York or New Jersey on race day. We will then assign your method of transportation.

This is your final opportunity to change your transportation request before official assignments are made. If you don’t make this change by Monday, September 14, we will consider your choice of “no transportation from NYRR” final.

I have two weeks to sort this out... Blah. Sunday, I will try for a big run, seventeen miles, by myself (since M is taking a few weeks off). It feels weird trying to do big runs without her.

Hamstrung

2009-08-27T05:07:00.000-07:00

Terrible news. M went to a specialist to check out her nagging hamstring and he ordered her to stop running for three weeks! Three weeks is an eternity for M, especially when training for a marathon (we are only two months away). The doctor said she tore her hamstring and he does not want her to even stretch it. Maybe she can do the eliptical machine at the gym (which she hates). M came home with about fifty pages on the injury and told me how she has to learn how to fire her glut muscle and her hamstring in the proper order. How the hell is she going to do that?

Last night M pulled out her biggest and nastiest running book, The Lore of Running to look up various strategies to fight the injury. This book is about as big as a phone book and has about ten thousand pages. When she pulls out this book, I know there is trouble. Both of us are worried that she will not be able to run the marathon. If she is not running, I have no clue how I'm going keep training. Tomorrow, M will visit a physical therapist and come up with a plan.

Hand-me-downs: M and her books

2009-08-26T06:01:00.000-07:00

At night, when many people are watching TV, getting ready for bed or reading a novel, M likes nothing more than to curl up with a nice running book. She can spend hours pondering over a set of stretches or a nutritional guide. M's not completely crazy. Occasionally, she takes a break from this obsession and reads a magazine (Runner's World, of course).

The book above, Brain Training for Runners, is her recent favorite. She is relying on it for our NYC training schedule. Like most of her books, I find some parts relevant, but most of it mundane and tedious. All the charts and descriptions of body processes and the numerous feel-good stories about some self-obsessed fitness freak who finally gets his sub-three; it makes me ill. In the end, all these books have the same giddy, pat-on-the-back, no-pain-no-gain tone. Last month, when we started our first 15-miler, I was making fun of M's book and she challenged me. She said if I didn't like it, I should come up with my own running philosophy. So, here we go. Before I run NYC, I'm going to come up with some truly pithy running advice. I'm not saying there needs to be a running book for slow people (I'm sure there are already enough of those), but I think the sport drastically needs a different tone and perspective, especially for non-competitive runners.

One of the silly things about the book above is the author's perspective on pain. The guy worships it. He has sections titled, Embrace Your Pain and Practice Suffering. I prefer to do the opposite. Avoid my pain (and death) and practice pleasure. Another thing that is sort of funny about this book is what the author calls, proprioceptive cues. These are things you should imagine when you are running. They are supposed to help you improve your speed and form. Some examples are, imagine you are running on water and pretend you are falling forward. M loves these. She calls them out to me before I go on a run. Don't forget to squeeze your butt! Sure, okay. Thanks, M.

Running with the Dead: Uncle John's Band

2009-08-25T07:01:00.000-07:00

Song: Uncle John's Band
Result: Negative
Worst Line: When life looks like Easy Street there is danger at your door

Some people say that it is hard to like the Dead unless you've seen them live. I'm not sure, but I do prefer the live recordings over their studio work. This even includes those awful shows in the early to mid-nineties when Jerry is drug-addled and forgetting lines and Bob is wheezing through the lyrics. That said, if you want to get hooked by a studio album, your best bet is Workingman's Dead. This album is a sweet mix of bluegrass and rock-n-roll. It also has surprising vocal skill by a band that was infamous for their scratchy voices. The album reminds me of the Stone's Exile on Main Street, a hidden gem among a few hit-filled albums and a score of so-so's.

Uncle John's Band is one of my favorite Dead songs. It has a cool narrative and amazing guitar. But, (god damn, I declare), it is nearly impossible to run to. I think the major problem is the full stops throughout the song. Everybody in the band nearly ceases playing three or four times. These pauses are fine entertainment for my brain, but they completely confuse my feet. It just got nixed from my player.

Sleep Running

2009-08-23T13:14:00.000-07:00

Good news for me, I managed to get nine miles on my bum knee. It did not hurt too much and I iced it after the run. I quit early because I started over-compensating for the weak link and causing other things to break (my IT band, my left knee, various muscles in my nether regions). The body is an intricate system, and if you favor one bit, the whole thing gets thrown out of whack. Still, nine miles was not too shabby. My big concern now is that I missed a big run. There is not much room for error in our training schedule. I'm freaking out that if I undertrain I will die in NYC.

M was feeling pretty crappy. She was battling a hamstring pull and only got fifteen miles in. We attempted our 18-miler near Campbell Mesa, a collection of fairly flat loops on the east side of Flag. Neither one of us slept very well and M claimed to have hit the wall at about three in the morning. Afterwards we got some chocolate milk and bagels and watched Slumdog Millionaire.

Lonely Nimbus

2009-08-22T06:51:00.000-07:00

Day two and my shoes have not moved from the porch. M just left with her shiny pink Newtons. Which reminds me, I likely need a new pair soon. For the sport of running, shoes are an obsession. They are also a cause for deep philosophical debate. How much cushion you choose could effect your beliefs in evolution... (a current trend is to run free, like humans were meant to run). What brand you buy may reflect your political views (to Nike or not to Nike)... And then there is the ever-present difficulty in finding shoes not made in China.

I wear Asics Gel Nimbus, which the shoe gurus refer to as a neutral shoe (made in China, unfortunately). Neutral means the shoes have a lot of cushion and zero support. I wear these because I am one of the oddballs who tend to under-pronate. My feet roll outwards which will give me a duck walk if I'm not careful. Most runners over pronate, or roll inwards and run pigeon-toed. M does this. Her shoes tend to have lots of arch, angle and plastic, all meant to keep her feet straight. For under-pronaters like me, the shoe companies have pretty much given up. They suggest wearing a neutral shoe with lots of cushion and hoping for the best. Actually the Nimbus has been pretty good to me until my recent knee bashing, which can't be blamed on the shoes.

Running with the Dead: China Cat Sunflower

2009-08-21T07:22:00.000-07:00

Song: China Cat Sunflower
Result: Positive
Best Line: A leaf of all colors plays a golden string fiddle

If you know this song, you would think it would be an awful one to run to. It has lots of jumpy guitar by both Jerry and Bob. Still, for some reason, even when they are jamming, it keeps a steady beat. Find a version that goes right into I Know you Rider and you've got an awesome zone-out for a long run. Even during the jam, I am able to keep my pace. Here's an old 1972 version on YouTube.

It's funny, during the seventies, the Dead didn't appear like egotistic showmen or wasted hippies. They appeared more like serious musicians (maybe too serious), very into their guitars and the jams they were playing. It reminds me a little of watching a Yo La Tengo concert.

Pain without gain

2009-08-20T05:30:00.000-07:00

Getting injured is a big part of running. M is always fighting some pain in her hamstrings or ankles or knees. She also suffers from sciatic pain and has a list of doctors, p.t.'s and massage therapists with whom she regularly visits. It's funny, every time I hurt myself, M seems to double her complaints about her own injuries. Maybe it is my imagination? My pain is never as bad (or good) as her pain! She is very competitive about this. Actually, she was very nice this morning and put goop on my knee.

I ran a couple utterly slow miles and my knee throbbed the entire time. I guess I need to take a few days off. This weekend, M has us scheduled for 18 miles, our longest run yet. I'm worried. I can barely walk down the driveway with this bum knee. I took some ibuprofen, which typically I refuse. I had taken it during the Denver Marathon and now I have a fear that it is destroying my internal organs.

Rock Paper Knee

2009-08-19T06:45:00.000-07:00

I ran Soldiers Loop and maybe because I was half asleep, I tripped on the way back and landed on a rock. My knee had a nice abrasion and I limped the three miles back home. The knee was stiff and swollen all day and I'm worried I did some damage too it. M put some tingly homeopathic goop on it last night and it feels a bit better. I will try running on it tomorrow. Hoping for the best.

Running with the Dead: The Eleven

2009-08-18T06:51:00.000-07:00

Song: The Eleven
Result: Positive
Best Line: Four men tracking down the great white sperm whale

Another reason I like to run to the Dead? Because I am so damn slow, their long jams don't seem so long. After a long run I can say to myself. "Hey, I only listened to four songs during that run, I must have been fast."

As for the song, The Eleven, it is my favorite long jam of the Dead. I'll take it over Playing in the Band and Dark Star. I always go faster when this song comes on. The base and guitars help me keep a nice pace. You need to find a 1969 version with Pigpen on the organ and that crazed sixties sound with frenzied guitars. It makes me wish I had a time machine to go back and see the early SF shows.

Up to sixteen miles

2009-08-17T06:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I ran sixteen miles. M ran ahead of me the entire time. I didn't see her after the first mile. We did a loop in north Flagstaff that went down Shultz Pass Road, cut down Lower Oldham Trail and around Buffalo Park. Today, except for my calves, I feel okay. This is good news. I am not about to die. The bad news though, is that I averaged eleven minute miles.

According to M, I was supposed to maintain my base pace, which is something like 9.38 minute miles? No idea. Anyway, whatever my base pace is, eleven minute miles is nowhere close. If I am going to run a sub-four marathon in New York, I need to be running a minute and a half faster per mile. That seems highly unrealistic. That also would push me past the line.

Why I am Not a Runner: Breathing

2009-08-14T06:01:00.000-07:00

I've had asthma since I was five years old. Once I even had to go the emergency room. Allergies, stress, exercise, they all cause it. It has gotten better over the years, but it has never gone away. Living in Northern Arizona has actually helped.

When I was in high school, my asthma was particularly bad. I was always on inhalers and steroids. I spent many camping trips in a drugged-induced haze. During gym class, whenever we had to run a mile, I was always last. About a quarter mile in, I would start wheezing and gasping and then walking. I know. . . pathetic. It's not all sad, though. Eventually my attitude changed. First, I read Lord of the Flies and started regularly saying, sucks to my assmar. Second, I started cycling. I met some friends who tolerated my lagging. During our rides, I found ways to manage my breathing. I was never an all-star cyclist, but I completed some big rides. After college, I went through a no-drug phase and today, I try to stick to that. Occasionally, when I'm really wheezy, I'll take a puff on an inhaler (most of them are so outdated they don't do much) or I will down a bunch of allergy pills, but for the most part, I remain drug free.

Running, unfortunately, really messes with my breathing. My asthma automatically kicks in after a mile. It softens after the third mile, but mile two is always a killer. On long runs, I hardly notice my breathing. But here's the rub: the asthma is still there. My lung capacity is horrible. Somehow, though, my body has learned to adjust to shallow breathing. I'm often clueless about how bad my lungs are doing. Once when I visited a doctor to refill some allergy medicine, he measured my air intake and told me I was in the middle of a severe asthma attack. I hadn't noticed. This isn't particularly good.

Now, I'm not going to start blabbing about VO2 max and the ways athletes measure their oxygen use. But I do know that my lungs can burn for days after a hard run. I also think my poor oxygen intake contributes to my poor recoveries. M has suggested that I use an inhaler whenever I run (as have a few doctors), but I have mixed feelings about it. As I of now, I'm trying to go without.

Running with the Dead: Jack Straw

2009-08-13T07:07:00.000-07:00

Song: Jack Straw
Result: Negative
Worst Line: You're moving much too slow

I enjoy all the Cosmic Cowboy tunes.... Me and My Uncle, Cassidy, The Deal, etc. But, Jack Straw causes havoc with my pace. The problem with this song is tempo. It starts out slow and then jumps speed and then slows back down and Jerry does some weird noodling. The damn thing must have nine or ten tempo changes. It completely throws me off. Somewhere in the middle of the song when they're "leaving Texas on the fourth day of July," I get the feeling I am running backwards. I'm deleting it from my MP3 player.

Buffalo Runner

2009-08-09T06:31:00.000-07:00

According to M and the calendar, we were supposed to do a 5k race today. This is to prepare us for running at race pace. Unfortunately there were no 5k races scheduled today in Flagstaff. (Darn!) So instead, M and I drove to Buffalo Park and we pretended to run a 5k race. I made an honest effort and managed to run just under nine-minute miles. It was tough. Unbelievably tough. It amazes me how bad of a runner I am.

M kept under seven minute miles, but her leg is still nagging her.

It's for real. . . dammit

2009-08-04T05:42:00.000-07:00

Both M and I received our handbooks in the mail today. I guess this means we are going. We spent the evening looking through details on transportation and start times.

M has been trying to run the NYC marathon for four years now. Because of injury, pregnancy and bad timing, she has had to cancel NYC three times. The one time we did make it to New York (two years ago), she was suffering from a hamstring injury and had the flu. She had to drop out just over halfway. I, who was not running of course, met her at a medical tent at mile fifteen in Queens. She was pale and shivering, a complete mess. We took a cab back to a friend's apartment in Harlem and even though M was dying and ready to puke, she kept talking about how fast she ran the first half. I wasn't going out too fast. I was doing awesome, like averaging under seven minute miles. Even though M is injury prone and has had bad luck, she is always like this. Always finding the silver lining in her runs. It must be some strange adaptation had by real runners. I felt like the entire trip was a disaster. We lost our luggage, got zero sleep, she nearly died, and before we left, I almost burned down my friend's apartment.

Hand-me-downs: the Calendar

2009-08-03T06:28:00.000-07:00

During the Denver Marathon, I was very casual about when and how much I ran. If I missed a big run, no big deal. M planned out the runs using one of her myriad of running books. I fought her every step of the way. I did manage to get in a few fifteen-milers, an eighteen miler, and a twenty-two miler. And I also nearly died. For the NYC marathon, even though I'm running far slower, I am determined to be better trained.

My first real contribution to our training effort was the dreaded calendar. On the calender, M wrote out when we had to do our runs, both small or long. She thumbed through about twenty of her treasured running books and started scribbling with red marker, adding comments all over the damn thing. As she was making our schedule, she also convinced me I needed to try for a respectable time, which meant running under four hours. Watching her, I had another revelation. I needed to start running four days a week. During the Denver Marathon, I only ran three days a week. My reasoning was that I required at least one recovery day between each run. Not so, said M. Your body needs to get used to being overstressed. This is something I hear often from M.

So, anyway. I agreed to the following weekly schedule:

M - Recovery

T - Stretching and Recovery

W - INTERVAL RUN (whatever the hell that is.. I call it a medium run)

T - JUNK RUN (low mileage, as fast as I feel like going)

F - TEMPO RUN (again, whatever that is... I guess I'll try to run faster on the second half)

S - Stretching or Yoga

S - LONG RUN

Why I am Not a Runner: Poor Recovery

2009-07-22T06:33:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons I suck as a runner, is that I do not recover well. Whenever I really push it during a big run, a day or two afterward, I feel like death. I get terrible flu symptoms. Headaches. Allergies. I can't breath. My blood pressure increases (or seems to.... although it never really does). I feel dizzy and can't eat. The illness can last for up to a week. I've gone to a few doctors and discussed my poor recoveries, but they were clueless. They suggested I had some sort of exercise intolerance, but none of them could locate the cause. I've had an entire cardio work-up, stress tests, chest x-rays, blood tests, psych evals. Everything looked good. Everything always looks good! M thinks it is all in my head.

After the Denver Marathon, I took three months off from running. When I started running again, my recoveries were particularly bad. I started calling my post-running weakness, the syndrome. During even small runs, I felt unbelievably bonked. If I tried to get near my old times (averaging eight minute miles), I would feel like hell for an entire week. So, I backed off. My body had simply refused to run. M tried to get me to sign up for various runs (including the Phoenix Rock and Roll Marathon), but I declined. Finally, this spring, I started running again, doing very very very very slow runs right outside our house. I refused to push it. I pictured an imaginary line that I would not allow my body to pass. If I felt like I was pushing too hard, I slowed down. No matter what, I let M run ahead. Go M. Go! After each run, I took a recovery drink and waited for the syndrome to kick in. If I started feeling ill, I took a week off. I managed to run the Bolder Boulder (a run that M and I used to do every year), but I completed it at nearly two minutes a mile slower than my best time.

Given the facts above, why consider the NYC Marathon? Obviously, I'm an idiot. So far, the syndrome has knocked me down only a few times since I started running again, but it is still there. Drinking recovery drinks has become a ritual, and now I spend a ton of money on these plastic barrels of powdered crystals. But whatever. I'm working hard to better define the line. If I manage to run 26.2 miles without dying, no matter how slow, then I guess it will be a victory. It all depends on what happens to my body when I start adding miles.

Running with the Dead: Fire on the Mountain

2009-07-21T06:26:00.000-07:00

Song: Fire on the Mountain
Result: Positive
Best Line: Long distance runner what you standing there for?

The lyrics for this song are obviously perfect for a runner's mix (whether you like the Dead or not), but is it actually good to run to? For me, the beat actually isn't bad. The song doesn't make me go speedy, but it does help maintain a steady pace. As every Dead fan knows, this song should immediately follow Scarlet Begonias and have a long breezy transition in between.

Go to nugs.net and listen to some of their free stash to get an idea of how this song should sound. The '77 and '78 shows are my favorite. From all my listening, I think the band sounded the best during this period. Some of the '71 and '72 shows are also pretty amazing, although a few of my favorite songs are missing and the long jams get a little ridiculous. I also like the '74 shows and the Wall of Sound. No, M, not that kind of wall.

Having a Hydrated Time

2009-07-20T06:21:00.000-07:00

When I run more than six miles, I am always thirsty. Hence, when I run more than six miles, I take liquids. Lots of liquids. My methods of toting water are a constant source of amusement for M (she only grabs a small water bottle if it is extremely hot and she is doing over fifteen miles). I have tried everything. Camel packs, fuel belts, fanny packs. . . While training for the Denver Marathon I bought this thing called the terminator, which was a beefed-up fuel belt with six cartridges on it. M would start laughing every time I pulled it out. The terminator was great except for one thing, it was a struggle to get the cartridges out. Invariably I would stop running to get a drink, and this was bad. Also, the nylon straps got stretched out and I started dropping bottles all over the place.

Currently, on long runs, I use a red fanny pack with two holsters for squeeze bottles. M's dad found it at a thrift store and it works just as well as anything else. Sometimes I put G2 (a type of Gatorade) in the squeeze bottles. The NYC Marathon is using G2 as its official sports drink, meaning they will supply cups of it at their drinking stations. M thinks that if I am going to drink the Gatorade during the run (and not just water), I should get used to it.

How does one drink and run at the same time? This is skill that is typically reserved for charging marines or escaped convicts, but, alas, it also benefits a runner. Here is what I do: First, squeeze the liquid in my mouth. Second, after two or three strides, grit my teeth and swallow. The gritting the teeth is the key. It helps avoid choking.

Thirsty Thirteen

2009-07-19T04:58:00.000-07:00

This morning, M and I ran in shifts. She ran early since she hates the heat. By the time I got going, it was well past nine and extremely hot. About halfway through, I felt the sun cooking my brain. We may be over 7000 feet, but we still have Arizona sun. The forest was a sauna. Still, I toted a lot of water and felt fine for most of the run.

Finishing a half marathon feels great but I'm clueless how to double it. Even though I've run a marathon before, my brain cannot figure out how it gets done. The multitude of adaptions that my body undertakes are a mystery to me. The tinker-toy processes are hidden from view. Even after I read through one of M's running books that describe the basic science of endurance, lowering one's heart rate and upping one's glycogen storage, it does not help. These are just words and numbers. The science doesn't push my body out the door, down the trail and up the hills. A month ago there was no way I could walk out the door and run thirteen miles. Yet today, that is just what I did.

Denver Marathon

2009-07-17T06:44:00.000-07:00

Three years ago, my wife, M, signed me up for the Denver Marathon. I trained as best as I could, but afterward I felt like I was going to die. When I finished, I worried that my internal organs were about to explode. My kidneys, heart, lungs and liver. All of them were on the verge of rupturing all over the pavement. I even called the emergency room at about four in the morning the next day. Am I going to die? The doctor said he wasn't sure, but I should come in. I took a sleeping pill to relax and fell asleep while I was trying to decide. The next three weeks I felt like hell.

I think my biggest mistake in the Denver Marathon was running the first half at M's pace. She was aiming for a conservative 3:20. I was praying for 4:00. Why did I stick with her? No idea. It was stupid. I had a bunch of extra energy at the start and for the first seventeen miles I managed to stay in front of the 3:20 pace group, which consisted of a cluster of nylon-clad clowns running with balloons. I hated these people. When I started to die, I felt like clubbing them on their heads. After mile seventeen, my legs started to slow. My thighs throbbed. I dropped to ten and then twelve minute miles. And the clowns skipped by. The balloon crew had megaphones and they seemed to be laughing at me. Less than a mile later another balloon crew approached and I wanted to cry. The 3:30 clowns easily passed me. Then came the 3:40. And then the 3:50. I tried to keep up with the 4:00 clowns, but gave up after a quarter mile. I was doomed. I started worrying I would not finish. When the 4:10 clowns came, I was still three miles from the finish. And then came the 4:20's. And finally, right at the finish line, the 4:30. It was torture. My final time was 4:32.

Running with the Dead: Scarlet Begonias

2009-07-16T05:52:00.000-07:00

Song: Scarlet Begonias
Result: Positive
Best Line: I had to learn the hard way to let her pass by

Since I've started doing longer runs (1-2 hours), I've began taking one of M's old battered MP3 Players with me (the battery is scotch-taped in) to make the time go faster (she now runs with a shiny silver Ipod or an Ishuffle or an Iwhatever). The old MP3 player had a bunch of random songs on it that I had copied over some years ago: a few Dandy Warhol albums, Liz Phair, some Manu Chao, some Krishna Das, and a bunch of DJ Shadow. Also in the mix was Scarlet Begonias by the Grateful Dead. While running to this song, the weirdest thing happened. My pace improved. My breathing slowed. I felt. . . comfortable. Initially, it bothered me. It was bizarre. I didn't run faster (that would've been a miracle), but for some inexplicable reason, I ran smoother. It was such on odd sensation that when I got home I nixed all the other songs, and filled the player with the Grateful Dead.

Scarlet Begonias has this ever-rising guitar pattern that circles and circles and seems to make me smile every time I hear it. I also like the lyrics and how it makes me contemplate my relationship with M. I imagine the song is about some female groupie chasing Jerry? during their Europe Tour, but then the song manages to sneak in some deep ideas about faithfulness and free will. I am the last person in the world who should be running the NYC Marathon, but for some reason, because of M and the relationship we have, it is what I intend to do. Everything is backwards. The sky is yellow and the sun is blue.

Alone Together

2009-07-11T06:45:00.000-07:00

I started running in the mornings three days a week. M says our official training starts on July 19th when we have to do a half (thirteen miles). I'm feeling okay, but going very slow.

I am completely out of shape, and M is now running two-minutes-per-mile faster than me. She is speedy. She has always been speedy. In high school when she ran track, apparently she never lost. When M races, if she doesn't win or place, she gets very upset. She is convinced that if she had had the right coaches and avoided injuries, she would have been an Olympic-class runner. Maybe this is true.

Lately, M and I have not been running together. My speeds have drastically slowed in the past few years and now I'm way too slow for her. Occasionally she runs with a training group or a faster running partner. When we do longer runs, we do them in shifts. Or she goes ahead and stays ahead. According to M, it hurts to run slow. It takes longer and screws with her gait. Also, she hates to stop and wait for me. This messes with her endurance.

Running alone is okay with me. I'm cool. Whatever. I have already been beaten down. My ego is destroyed. My body (and mind) has never shown even the slightest talent for running. Which brings up the question, why do it? Well, initially I agreed to run the NYC Marathon to do something with M. But now, well, we aren't even running together. So, seriously, what the hell am I doing? I guess it helps her to see me struggle. Maybe it keeps her motivated? It's like we are running together. . . without running together.

Just like NYC

2009-06-27T05:29:00.000-07:00

Well, I am officially entered in the NYC Marathon... M registered us both online and now I'm freaking out. The ING people who run the marathon are now sending me regular emails. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Since we ran the Bolder Boulder last month, I've been doing some early morning scampers, but only a few days a week. My mileage is increasing and I even did an eleven miler but I still don't feel great. So far, my recoveries have been okay.

Here is part of an email I sent to a friend, S (a normal every day guy, who is training for an Iron Man), telling him about my plans to train:

We will likely do a half in a few weeks. Still running above nine minute miles... which is piss-poor, but eh.... nobody cares. I just want to survive. Run Forest Run! Which reminds me, I think they shot some of the running scenes for that movie in Flagstaff.

Hmmm... I also think that Flagstaff is where Forest Gump came up with the slogan, Sh*t Happens.