Year End Running Report, and a Writing Sample
A long time ago, I used to enjoy running. For a lot of reasons, I stopped. Earlier this year, at the urging of my Princess, I took it up again. If someone had told me at the end of 2009 that I'd be entering timed races in 2010, I'd have laughed at them. I cannot even begin to guess what I'd have thought if that same someone told me I would be seriously contemplating running a half-marathon in 2011. More than one, actually.
But here I am, approaching the end of the year and I'm a runner again. For many years, I've done year-end wrap-up posts on my LJ. Starting this year, my running results are getting added to the list. I'm posting them a bit early for two reasons. First, to get me back in the habit of posting at all. Second, and more importantly, I am not planning to run another timed race this year, so this list is complete.
The format for the list is race name, location, date, place, time and pace.
X-Treme Scramble #1 5k, Hartford CT. Jun 17, 2010 #365/409 37:12 11:59
Big Fourth 5k, Springfield MA. July 4, 2010. #249/26 33:48 10:54
X-Treme Scramble #2 5k, Hartford CT. July 15, 2010 #393/463 34:32 11:07
X-Treme Scramble #3 5k, Hartford CT. Aug 12, 2010 #373/446 32:18 10:24
Bridge of Flowers 10k, Shelbourne Falls MA. Aug 14, 2010 #672/738 1:08:55 11:06
Red Fire Farm Tomato Trot 5k, Granby MA. Aug 28, 2010 #103/185 35:06 11:18
AIDS Walk and 5k Run of Western Mass., Springfield MA. Sept 11, 2010. 31:18 10:06
ING Hartford Marathon 5k, Hartford CT. Oct 9, 2010 #719/1429 51/70 30:54 9:57
5k for Farmland, Hadley MA. Oct 17, 2010. #158/226 30:57 9:59
Rays of Hope 8k, Springfield MA. Oct 24, 2010. No official time. 58:48 11:35
Hot Chocolate Run 5k, Northampton MA. Dec 5, 2010 #2332/2731 35:23 11:26
Not to bad for a guy that hasn't been doing this very long. All of the hiking I do helped a great deal. It suddenly occurred to me, as we were climbing up Mt. Mansfield, that if I could hike up a mountain, which is pretty strenuous, with minimal rests over three hours, then I could learn to run that long, too. So far, I can run a little over an hour non-stop, which is about half as long as I would need to in order to run a half-marathon. The biggest obstacle to me running a half next year is time. I simply may not have the time to devote to nothing but running, especially with comps and a child both on the way in a few months.
This would be a great time to write up some thoughts about becoming a runner again. As it happens, I already did. In my magazine writing class, our first assignment was to write a personal essay (approximately 2000 words) on any topic we wanted, so long as it was personal. I choose to write about running. This is the final draft of the essay, and I am planning to send it out. Some of you mentioned in my last post that you would be interested in reading samples of what I wrote this past semester. Here you go:
You Never Forget Your First
You never forget your first. For me, it was a gorgeous summer evening in late June just this past year. I was at the Founder’s Bridge Plaza in Hartford, Connecticut. There were runners everywhere. Young kids, sinewy marathoners, lithe gazelles, runners in every size and color. They all looked loose and confident. Many of them already had their numbers pinned to their racing shirts or running shorts. I resembled them only in dress.
I’m not a runner. Never have been. When I was a soldier, almost twenty years ago, running was something I did because I had to. If I didn’t run far enough, fast enough, the Army would kick me out. And eventually they did because I never got the hang of it. But even though I wasn’t good at running, I enjoyed it. Not the act itself, but the camaraderie. Being in formation with sixty other guys, matching each other step for step. Learning how to run and sing without collapsing or tripping over the guy in front of you. Hanging together, united in our disdain for the sergeant leading the pace, everyone belonged.
That sense of togetherness and common purpose is the best part about being in the armed forces. Ask a service member what they remember most about their time in, and every one of them will tell you stories about the people they worked with, the characters they met, the officers they loved and hated. They sell new recruits on adventure and excitement, but that isn’t what makes veterans re-enlist. And anything that might take that feeling away is a threat to be taken seriously. So even though I didn’t like physical exercise, I worked hard to be good enough at it to belong.
Because I wasn’t any good at running, which meant that I sometimes passed the running test but more often I didn’t, I was “invited” to attend a special cardiovascular training group. These hour-long torture sessions had the desired effect. We all got faster. But one by one, everyone in the program started dropping with injuries. In my case, I pushed myself so hard that I damaged my knees and my career as a solider was cut short. It was cheaper for the Army to replace me than to fix me, so out the door I went. My knees still hurt when it is cold or damp.
Fifteen years worth of cold and damp winters later, there I was, about to run back and forth across the Connecticut River with a bunch of hardcore runners for fun. I wasn’t one of them. In a moment of weakness, my partner Aimee had convinced me to go with her to this race. It sounded good two weeks before when I signed up. Ten minutes till race time, not so much. But as I made my way to the registration table, I began to spot familiar shapes in the crowd; folks with a little extra padding, a head full of grays, or a similar look of befuddlement. I was surrounded by runners, but mixed in between them, I saw a few people like me.
It’s not like I just woke up one morning and decided, “I’m going to run five kilometers today!” After months of watching her get up early to run, outside or on the treadmill in the basement, I decided to give it a try. I’d done this before. About five years ago, before we met, I got a new pair of running shoes, planned a short, flat route for my first time, waited for a nice spring day, and hit the pavement. After half a mile, my knees were on fire, an elephant had somehow sat on my chest, and I barely limped home. That was the end of that.
This time, I tried the treadmill first. Alone in the basement of our house, I felt more like a hamster on his wheel than anything else. But that didn’t end in disaster, so a few weeks later I went out one morning with her. Running with Aimee was different than running alone. My knees still hurt when I was done, and that elephant was back, but I felt pretty good when we finished. The difference was the companionship. Suffering along with someone makes it a lot easier to take. That and Advil.
The first week was hard. It was painful, in that physically humiliating kind of way. But the hardest run isn’t your first, it’s the second. A day or two after you realize that you can barely run a half mile without stopping and you had to practically kill yourself to manage it, you go do it again. Your joints still ache and your muscles are still sore and you have to do it again. Because if you skip that second run there won’t be a third.
The gods smile upon new runners, perhaps to make up for the pain and humiliation of watching little kids lap you at the park, with rapid improvement. In short order, I could run a mile without a walking break. Then two. My pace started to pick up. Best of all, my legs and joints stopped aching constantly, and the bottle of Advil went back into the drawer. I still wasn’t as good at it as Aimee was, but at least I could keep up with her. Mostly.
“We should run a race.” Aimee said to me, only a few weeks after we started running together.
“But I can’t beat you.”
But that wasn’t what she meant. The Hartford Scramble, she told me, is not about beating anyone. It’s about beating the course. And it’s not just a timed race. It’s got free beer at the end.
That’s my favorite four-letter “F” word. So I signed up.
We got through Registration with just enough time to get to the starting line. Aimee and I lined up together near the back of the pack. The race director was standing in front, yelling directions and encouragement into his megaphone, while four hundred racers patiently waited for him to finish. I glanced around nervously. We all were. The real runners, the people that have been doing it forever, were all up in front. The folks in the back, we were joggers, newbies, hobbyists. One guy was in his seventies. Someone joked they were only here for the free beer. I could relate to that. Who knew someone would run three miles for a beer? And then we were off!
It took about a half-mile for the pack to spread out. I never even saw any of the people up front. We started across a bridge, then looped around under it to run through the wooded park that lines the river on both sides. After the first mile, Aimee pulled away, and I was on my own.
But I wasn’t really. For the next two miles, I wound my way back to the start with a small group of racers. One girl in front of me looked like she weighed as much as I did. I never caught her, but I kept her in sight. Another guy kept passing me, then I would pass him when he stopped to walk. The seventy year old kept pace with me, about a hundred feet behind. None of us were runners, not like the people in the front. But we were doing it, and we were doing it together.
It wasn’t much, our sense of togetherness. A nod or a friendly smile was all we could manage. We weren’t the sort that could carry on a conversation and run at the same time. Our breath was too precious for that. In silent unity, we soldiered on, determined to finish.
As I ran, I kept three goals in mind: Finish, post a personal best, and don’t be last. I was pretty sure I could finish; we’d practiced this distance to be safe. Since it was my first timed race, it was going to be a personal best. The not being last part was tricky. At about the midway point, I started playing games with myself. See that person? Catch her. See that one? Don’t walk until he does.
After thirty-seven minutes of mostly non-stop running, I finished 365th out of 409. I even passed a couple of people. And though the winner finished when I wasn’t even halfway, that didn’t matter. I didn’t do this to race anyone, not even the course. It was me against myself, and I won. Best of all, Aimee was there, cheering as I crossed the finish line.
Standing in line again, waiting for my free beer, I was surrounded by four hundred new old friends. Everyone was smiling. I was too, with pleased exhaustion. As I stood with them, waiting for the awards ceremony, I remembered a runner joke I’d heard.
You know what the difference between a runner and a jogger is? A number.
Mine was pinned to my chest.
But here I am, approaching the end of the year and I'm a runner again. For many years, I've done year-end wrap-up posts on my LJ. Starting this year, my running results are getting added to the list. I'm posting them a bit early for two reasons. First, to get me back in the habit of posting at all. Second, and more importantly, I am not planning to run another timed race this year, so this list is complete.
The format for the list is race name, location, date, place, time and pace.
X-Treme Scramble #1 5k, Hartford CT. Jun 17, 2010 #365/409 37:12 11:59
Big Fourth 5k, Springfield MA. July 4, 2010. #249/26 33:48 10:54
X-Treme Scramble #2 5k, Hartford CT. July 15, 2010 #393/463 34:32 11:07
X-Treme Scramble #3 5k, Hartford CT. Aug 12, 2010 #373/446 32:18 10:24
Bridge of Flowers 10k, Shelbourne Falls MA. Aug 14, 2010 #672/738 1:08:55 11:06
Red Fire Farm Tomato Trot 5k, Granby MA. Aug 28, 2010 #103/185 35:06 11:18
AIDS Walk and 5k Run of Western Mass., Springfield MA. Sept 11, 2010. 31:18 10:06
ING Hartford Marathon 5k, Hartford CT. Oct 9, 2010 #719/1429 51/70 30:54 9:57
5k for Farmland, Hadley MA. Oct 17, 2010. #158/226 30:57 9:59
Rays of Hope 8k, Springfield MA. Oct 24, 2010. No official time. 58:48 11:35
Hot Chocolate Run 5k, Northampton MA. Dec 5, 2010 #2332/2731 35:23 11:26
Not to bad for a guy that hasn't been doing this very long. All of the hiking I do helped a great deal. It suddenly occurred to me, as we were climbing up Mt. Mansfield, that if I could hike up a mountain, which is pretty strenuous, with minimal rests over three hours, then I could learn to run that long, too. So far, I can run a little over an hour non-stop, which is about half as long as I would need to in order to run a half-marathon. The biggest obstacle to me running a half next year is time. I simply may not have the time to devote to nothing but running, especially with comps and a child both on the way in a few months.
This would be a great time to write up some thoughts about becoming a runner again. As it happens, I already did. In my magazine writing class, our first assignment was to write a personal essay (approximately 2000 words) on any topic we wanted, so long as it was personal. I choose to write about running. This is the final draft of the essay, and I am planning to send it out. Some of you mentioned in my last post that you would be interested in reading samples of what I wrote this past semester. Here you go:
You Never Forget Your First
You never forget your first. For me, it was a gorgeous summer evening in late June just this past year. I was at the Founder’s Bridge Plaza in Hartford, Connecticut. There were runners everywhere. Young kids, sinewy marathoners, lithe gazelles, runners in every size and color. They all looked loose and confident. Many of them already had their numbers pinned to their racing shirts or running shorts. I resembled them only in dress.
I’m not a runner. Never have been. When I was a soldier, almost twenty years ago, running was something I did because I had to. If I didn’t run far enough, fast enough, the Army would kick me out. And eventually they did because I never got the hang of it. But even though I wasn’t good at running, I enjoyed it. Not the act itself, but the camaraderie. Being in formation with sixty other guys, matching each other step for step. Learning how to run and sing without collapsing or tripping over the guy in front of you. Hanging together, united in our disdain for the sergeant leading the pace, everyone belonged.
That sense of togetherness and common purpose is the best part about being in the armed forces. Ask a service member what they remember most about their time in, and every one of them will tell you stories about the people they worked with, the characters they met, the officers they loved and hated. They sell new recruits on adventure and excitement, but that isn’t what makes veterans re-enlist. And anything that might take that feeling away is a threat to be taken seriously. So even though I didn’t like physical exercise, I worked hard to be good enough at it to belong.
Because I wasn’t any good at running, which meant that I sometimes passed the running test but more often I didn’t, I was “invited” to attend a special cardiovascular training group. These hour-long torture sessions had the desired effect. We all got faster. But one by one, everyone in the program started dropping with injuries. In my case, I pushed myself so hard that I damaged my knees and my career as a solider was cut short. It was cheaper for the Army to replace me than to fix me, so out the door I went. My knees still hurt when it is cold or damp.
Fifteen years worth of cold and damp winters later, there I was, about to run back and forth across the Connecticut River with a bunch of hardcore runners for fun. I wasn’t one of them. In a moment of weakness, my partner Aimee had convinced me to go with her to this race. It sounded good two weeks before when I signed up. Ten minutes till race time, not so much. But as I made my way to the registration table, I began to spot familiar shapes in the crowd; folks with a little extra padding, a head full of grays, or a similar look of befuddlement. I was surrounded by runners, but mixed in between them, I saw a few people like me.
It’s not like I just woke up one morning and decided, “I’m going to run five kilometers today!” After months of watching her get up early to run, outside or on the treadmill in the basement, I decided to give it a try. I’d done this before. About five years ago, before we met, I got a new pair of running shoes, planned a short, flat route for my first time, waited for a nice spring day, and hit the pavement. After half a mile, my knees were on fire, an elephant had somehow sat on my chest, and I barely limped home. That was the end of that.
This time, I tried the treadmill first. Alone in the basement of our house, I felt more like a hamster on his wheel than anything else. But that didn’t end in disaster, so a few weeks later I went out one morning with her. Running with Aimee was different than running alone. My knees still hurt when I was done, and that elephant was back, but I felt pretty good when we finished. The difference was the companionship. Suffering along with someone makes it a lot easier to take. That and Advil.
The first week was hard. It was painful, in that physically humiliating kind of way. But the hardest run isn’t your first, it’s the second. A day or two after you realize that you can barely run a half mile without stopping and you had to practically kill yourself to manage it, you go do it again. Your joints still ache and your muscles are still sore and you have to do it again. Because if you skip that second run there won’t be a third.
The gods smile upon new runners, perhaps to make up for the pain and humiliation of watching little kids lap you at the park, with rapid improvement. In short order, I could run a mile without a walking break. Then two. My pace started to pick up. Best of all, my legs and joints stopped aching constantly, and the bottle of Advil went back into the drawer. I still wasn’t as good at it as Aimee was, but at least I could keep up with her. Mostly.
“We should run a race.” Aimee said to me, only a few weeks after we started running together.
“But I can’t beat you.”
But that wasn’t what she meant. The Hartford Scramble, she told me, is not about beating anyone. It’s about beating the course. And it’s not just a timed race. It’s got free beer at the end.
That’s my favorite four-letter “F” word. So I signed up.
We got through Registration with just enough time to get to the starting line. Aimee and I lined up together near the back of the pack. The race director was standing in front, yelling directions and encouragement into his megaphone, while four hundred racers patiently waited for him to finish. I glanced around nervously. We all were. The real runners, the people that have been doing it forever, were all up in front. The folks in the back, we were joggers, newbies, hobbyists. One guy was in his seventies. Someone joked they were only here for the free beer. I could relate to that. Who knew someone would run three miles for a beer? And then we were off!
It took about a half-mile for the pack to spread out. I never even saw any of the people up front. We started across a bridge, then looped around under it to run through the wooded park that lines the river on both sides. After the first mile, Aimee pulled away, and I was on my own.
But I wasn’t really. For the next two miles, I wound my way back to the start with a small group of racers. One girl in front of me looked like she weighed as much as I did. I never caught her, but I kept her in sight. Another guy kept passing me, then I would pass him when he stopped to walk. The seventy year old kept pace with me, about a hundred feet behind. None of us were runners, not like the people in the front. But we were doing it, and we were doing it together.
It wasn’t much, our sense of togetherness. A nod or a friendly smile was all we could manage. We weren’t the sort that could carry on a conversation and run at the same time. Our breath was too precious for that. In silent unity, we soldiered on, determined to finish.
As I ran, I kept three goals in mind: Finish, post a personal best, and don’t be last. I was pretty sure I could finish; we’d practiced this distance to be safe. Since it was my first timed race, it was going to be a personal best. The not being last part was tricky. At about the midway point, I started playing games with myself. See that person? Catch her. See that one? Don’t walk until he does.
After thirty-seven minutes of mostly non-stop running, I finished 365th out of 409. I even passed a couple of people. And though the winner finished when I wasn’t even halfway, that didn’t matter. I didn’t do this to race anyone, not even the course. It was me against myself, and I won. Best of all, Aimee was there, cheering as I crossed the finish line.
Standing in line again, waiting for my free beer, I was surrounded by four hundred new old friends. Everyone was smiling. I was too, with pleased exhaustion. As I stood with them, waiting for the awards ceremony, I remembered a runner joke I’d heard.
You know what the difference between a runner and a jogger is? A number.
Mine was pinned to my chest.