

BAD ASS

My Quest to Become a Back Woods Trail Runner

(and other obsessive goals)

By Jeff Cann

Copyright © 2018

The stories included in this book are intended to convey my opinion and to entertain the reader. Information here should not be quoted as fact. The opinions are mine alone and in no way reflect the opinions of my family, my employer, my friends, or any other group regardless of my affiliation with that group. Conversations and events are recreated to the best of my recollection. In all circumstances, you should feel free to share this book in its entirety, but please don't lift content and republish without first gaining my permission. This book is copyrighted and protected.

Cover photo: Gettysburg National Military Park

For Susan, who accepts and even encourages my obsessions.

Stories

Baby Water

Symphony of Sounds

Spot On

Spinning, Running, Bikes, Bikes, Bikes

Cred

Junk

Suffering

On Death and Living and Running

Beer Running

Fairyland FKT

The Fluoride Treatment

In Search of: Coach

Beer Running, Again

Endurance, Tattoos and Pain

Cold Laser

Bad Ass?

Starting Over

Buzz

Going for a Run

A Most Unusual Resignation Letter

Jenn, Lance and Me

Crest the Hill

Arc of an Athlete

Twilight

Race Day

The Final Stuff

Baby Water

November 2015:

Kill your TV. This is a bumper sticker on the back of my pickup truck. I'm not trying to be cool. Not trying to set myself above the hoi polloi, the masses, the proletariat with their Walking Dead and Games of Thrones or whatever TV show is popular right now. I just don't like TV.

I'm not a sports voyeur. I don't watch sitcoms, reality shows, cop dramas or even news programs. When Netflix was new, I binge-watched a few shows. Six Feet Under, Lost, Arrested Development—and then I couldn't find anything else to watch. So now I watch nothing at all. Except a little of the Olympics and some World Cup. And on rare occasions, a movie with my kids. So, I probably average about ten hours of TV each year. To me, TV is worse than wasted time.

My wife, Susan, and my kids, Sophie and Eli, they don't watch much TV either. Susan would like to watch a little, but she also wants to spend time with me, so we read. My kids watch their share of shows on Netflix but that's about it. Other than as a passage to deliver the Internet, our cable package doesn't get much of a workout.

The one TV show my family watches is Dancing with the Stars. It's been on for ten years, two seasons each year. But we have only tuned in for the last three seasons—three of twenty. And when I say we, I mean everybody but me. Two hours every Monday night. A chunk of time when I'm on my own. Usually I'm in the next room, reading or writing.

My family wants me to join them, but I won't, I can't. I find it agitating to spend hours in front of the TV. Even though when they watch their show, they interact with each other. They argue over dancers, talk about the music, the costumes—they even discuss the commercials. Commercials are novel to us all because we see so few. When they watch Dancing with the Stars, they have fun together.

Last Monday, as they watched, I was lonely. Edge-of-tears lonely. If that seems extreme, well, it is. I might say I was depressed, which is unusual. I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder; I have anxiety; I have Tourette Syndrome—but I don't have depression. Monday was miserable day. My Tourettes was in overdrive at work. Tourette Syndrome causes "tics," unwanted and uncontrollable movements and vocalizations. My current tic, a sustained grunting noise reminiscent of an engine purring, was omnipresent all day. My OCD was flaring—I was obsessed! Mostly with the Internet. Emails, Facebook, Twitter, my blog. I couldn't concentrate, I couldn't stop checking, I was agitated and jumpy. And by the time I got home, it all settled into a murky stew. That edge-of-tears-lonely stew.

Later, lying in bed, disoriented and sad, I tried to figured out why I was feeling so wrong, because really, everything is going perfectly. I'm a goal-oriented person, meaning I set a goal, and then I orient myself to achieving it. I mentioned my OCD. This is part of it. Planning, calculating, obsessing, executing. My latest goal-list:

1. Run a mountainous 25K trail run

2. Complete my book

3. Get a story accepted for publication in a magazine

These are not fleeting whims. They're long-term goals, years in the making. In the order I listed them: one year, three years and thirty years. And over the course of one week, I nailed all three. My 25K trail race, well-trained and well-run. I couldn't be happier with my performance. My book, Fragments, two full years of writing, months of editing, it's done and out for reviews. That magazine article? They contacted me. The editor read my blog; he thought I'd be a good fit. I sent in a piece, and it was immediately accepted with a print date in December.

I should be floating on a cloud. Celebrating in a bar. Basking in an aura of achievement. Not sitting alone in my house, a room away from my family, lonesome. But my goals comfort and sustain me. They motivate me. These goals occupy my mind. Keep me striving. And by coincidentally completing them all at once, I left myself rudderless, adrift, and sad.

My depression didn't last long, only a few days. Reality intervened. There's still so much to do. New goals to set. My book is complete but not published, not marketed, not released. I need a website to publicize my writing. One published magazine story is a start, but it isn't even printed yet, and it isn't Trail Runner or Runner's World. These are the venues I've targeted. My body is still recovering from my trail race, and I'm already plotting my next big running adventure—a dawn-to-dusk excursion on the Appalachian Trail in the coming spring. I've got plenty to keep me occupied.

It seems that I'm only really happy when my plate is full. People always complain about being too busy. I suppose I do too, becoming overbooked with hobbies and commitments—too much going on to relax. But a break from the non-stop action is only rewarding if there's something interesting waiting in the future. And as I thought about my goals, what I have and haven't achieved, I stumbled onto that something, my thing, my next big goal. I've decided to become a Bad Ass Back Woods Trail Runner.

And of course, a Bad Ass Back Woods Trail Running writer.

The idea came together naturally, without much thought or effort. My new website is done, it's up and running. It's more focused on running than my previous projects. Running is even in my tagline—Writing, Running, Other Stuff. That blog will require frequent content updates to keep it fresh. A lot of time thinking and writing about running. This is intentional. Over the past two years, my writing has been heavily introspective. Deep and analytical, gaining insight into many of the problems that have plagued my adult life: mental illness, substance abuse, physical injuries. With the pending publication of my Fragments essays, I'm ready to move into lighter subjects, my areas of interest. And for me, right now, nothing is more interesting than trail running.

For the next year, I'll write about becoming a Bad Ass Back Woods Trail Runner. A BABWTR. The kind of guy who drives into the mountains, straps on a vest, and heads out alone for a multi-hour jog—unafraid of what nature may throw my way.

Sorry. Twenty-three years of working in the government contracting sector has left me with the propensity to turn every phrase into an acronym. And then I try to pronounce it. BABWTR—Baby Water? Fortunately, this one worked out well; I plan on keeping it. It's fun to say: Baby Water!

A couple of my rejected names:

\- Super Confident Ultra-Marathon Maximum Endurance Runner (SCUMMER)

\- Continuous Running and Perpetual Performance Improvement (CRAPPI)

First, I'll increase my stamina and my mileage. Prepare for that jaunt up the Appalachian Trail. My goal is to begin running and racing in the "ultra" range—distances of thirty miles or more. I want to learn about Pennsylvania's wild areas by foot. A chance to enjoy some solitude, to get lost in the woods.

But not literally lost. My sense of direction sucks. I lack the ability to recognize any trails I've already run. Following directions in reverse strikes me as more complicated than algebra. I rarely know which direction I'm heading, and I'm constantly making wrong turns.

Fortunately, my friend Blair is a back woods specialist. A map and compass expert; a wilderness survival instructor; he's first aid adept and certified. A post-millennium MacGyver, only much, much older. He is one of the best-suited people in my community to teach me how to avoid getting injured or lost... and how to keep myself alive when I do. He's offered to spend some time with me up in the mountains. He thinks I can learn.

And lastly, there's my dream of writing for Trail Runner and Runners' World. This isn't an outrageous goal. Much of my writing is good enough—better than many of the articles I see in those magazines. Mostly, it comes down to networking, bona fides, and cred.

This project might help me make the necessary connections, get attention from the proper crowd. I just haven't figured out how yet. Or even why this is so important to me. But besides running ultras, navigating remote wooded trails with confidence, and learning to set my fractured ankle with chewing gum and pine needles, my hope is that the Bad Ass Back Woods Trail Runner series will put me on the map—will make Jeff Cann a name that every runner knows.

~ ~ ~

Symphony of Sounds

October 2015:

It's unseasonably cold, the edge of freezing. The sky is glazed with dawn. But I'm not expecting a sunrise—they're calling for snow. And if it wasn't so cloudy, the sun would still be hidden. Buried behind the mountain I'm walking up. Despite the cold, my sweat drips steadily. Every fifty yards or so, the trail dips into a man-made ditch carved across the path. These dips prevent erosion. I use each one to start a jog, twelve or fifteen paces, and then I resume my walk. Three miles into the race, I'm already grunting.

The grunting is an audible trilling from the back of my throat, keeping time with my breath. This early in the race, when my breathing is under control, it has the distinct sound of a purr. Later in the race, when I'm completely cooked, it will morph to a bark.

The grunting comes from stress—or distress. In a race situation, it could be either. I never ran this race before, so I don't know what to expect. Well, except for this mountain. I saw it on the elevation profile, but it's much steeper than I thought it would be. My plan was to run the whole course, but now I've been walking for a mile and a half. Not counting my twelve-step jog every fifty yards.

My jogging is a good strategy. I've reeled in several runners over the past twenty minutes. But once this hill is complete, I might regret it. I'm the only person I see running at all, and based on my pre-race conversations, I think I'm the only one new to this race. The Sinnemahone Ultra Marathon Trail Run in Emporium, Pennsylvania. Deep in the Allegheny Mountains, near... absolutely nothing. The closest town, a half hour away, is called Driftwood. The only substantial body of water I see on the map is Lake Erie—four hours west. I think Driftwood was named for its loneliness. By East Coast U.S. standards, the towns around here are beyond remote.

There are about forty runners in all. Twenty-seven of us are on the "short course," the rest are running the 50K, the Ultra. The website called this a 25K but it's not. 25K is just over 15.5 miles. This race is 16.5. That's an extra mile of barking. An extra nine or ten minutes when the number crunchers check out my time on the internet. And they will. I've been talking about this race for months. That's part of my strategy to make it to the starting line. If I talk about it, I can't back out. Now I want credit for that extra mile.

For me, there's discomfort in running a new race. I like control, familiarity. I like to know where I'm going. I want to know what the aid stations will stock. How long until my shoes are soaked in a stream? Where do I need to walk, where do I gut-out a climb? I'd really like to know how long the race will take—I put my projected time at somewhere between three and four hours. I wanted to run a mid-October race, something longer than a half, and this is the only race I could find. It's the first time I've traveled for a race and stayed overnight. My family came, too, along for the adventure. They have their own needs. Not much control, but an abundance of stress. So I grunt.

Cresting the mountain, the running starts again. The small field is spread out from our uphill hike. Only one runner is within earshot of me, and I feel bad for him. Odd and unpleasant noises emanate from me at regular intervals. There's my purring, of course, my grunting, gaining in volume and abruptness. And now that I have some space to consider what the rest of the race might entail, my retching starts. This is dry-heaving—loud, purging sounds—the sounds of illness. On occasion, but thankfully not in this race, I throw up. The guy in front of me turns to see if I'm all right. I give him a wave and keep running.

From time to time, I explain myself to the person trapped within my orbit. The grunting is from Tourette Syndrome. I do it whenever I'm alone. When I run, when I write, when I read. In my office while I work. And when my stress is high, like during a race, I grunt around others, too. It can't be controlled, so I don't even try. The dry-heaves comes from OCD. My reaction to stressful situations, my compulsion to throw up. This is all too involved for a mid-race conversation. When I talk about it, I just blame the whole mess on Tourettes. Nobody knows the difference. But at other times—like right now, on top of this mountain—I keep my secrets to myself. And then I worry what those around me must be thinking.

I'm not a fast runner. My mile-pace is squarely in the nines. My skills are on the climbs, the descents and the single track. This race has just the one big hill and limited trails, it is mostly rolling fire roads. The top of this mountain is relatively flat, so I struggle to keep up as I pace off that one runner for the next three miles. From time to time, I catch him on a hill. When I do, we run together and talk. He's a road runner, a marathoner, tall and strong, hard for me to hang with. Usually, I'm twenty steps behind him, retching.

When we hit the single track, I'm gone. My pace actually increases. Trails are easier on my legs, and motivating for my soul. Three tight miles, not rocky but undulating. Quick downs and ups, with an unyielding sideways slant—we're running on the side of a hill. For me it's the highlight of the race. Alone in the woods, sighting the trail markers, quickly planning my steps. The sun even shows up for a few minutes. At times I wonder where the other runners are. I've seen no one since I passed the marathoner.

Coming out of the woods, I overtake a runner. He's actually a walker at this point. He's trying to loosen his hips. I feel his pain. That slanted trail has done some weird things to me as well. My right hip and my left groin are aching. I experiment with some odd foot-strikes to stretch things out. The walker resumes running as I pass him, and together we knock out a 9:15 mile. I'm not actually capable of running this pace ten miles into a race, so eventually I rein it in. He quickly drops me. But his hip still hurts, and he takes brief walking breaks. When he does this, I pass him, and he starts running again. This is how we spend the next four miles.

By now I'm barking, and on occasion, still retching. With this guy, Adam, I explain what's going on—why I make so much noise. I feel like I owe it to him, we're a team. We're pacing each other—I'm trying to catch him, and he's trying to keep ahead of me. Our conversation is a nice distraction during these late miles. It takes his mind off his pain, and I feel like I'm educating someone. We have a breathless discussion about Tourettes, and then he drops me again.

By the time we're off the mountain. I'm used up. But I still have that extra mile to run. That mile that extends beyond the 25K. I exit the woods with Adam and two other runners. One of them caught us from behind, and the other we overtook halfway down the mountain. The four of us trade positions until we hit the flat. Then I can't stay with any of them. All three turn on their final surge, and I'm slowing down. Our final placement is set thirty yards later, but the gaps get wider as we near the finish. I glance around every minute or so to make sure I don't give up another place, but I'm not sure what I would do if anyone challenged me. I have nothing left.

When my wife and kids meet me at the finish, my legs are shaking uncontrollably. It looks like I'm shivering, but really, I'm just too tired to control my muscles. I nailed this race. I ran it perfectly.

I came in just under three hours, a fast time, a good showing, at least for me. Still, three hours is a long time in my head. Time to contemplate, to analyze, to obsess. My grunting and retching are part of me, but not a part I like. The aloneness of trail running suits me. It's probably why I'm drawn to it. But races can be a problem. I'm often paired with another runner for an hour or more. Does my mental illness affect their enjoyment of the race? At times I want to let the other runners get away from me, give them some space, some quiet. But my competitive nature won't allow it. I have to hang on, make use of their faster pace, push beyond my ability. So those runners need to endure an obnoxious symphony of sounds—the purring, the barking and the retching.

At the finish line, Adam and the other runners are friendly as we congratulated each other on a well-run race. None of them mention the sounds, none of them seem annoyed. No one even looks at me oddly. And that leaves me with some peace.

~ ~ ~

Spot On

December 2015:

"What I really want is a way for Susan to track my location while I run... oh, and I need to be able to send her a message if I get hurt or lost." I made this comment to some coworkers one afternoon when we were talking about running watches. They all looked at me like I was an idiot.

Alex replied: "Hmmm, that sounds a little like my smartphone."

I don't have a cell phone. I haven't had one since I left my previous job nine years ago. This was before the proliferation of smartphones, so I've never owned one. I had a flip. For years, not having a phone was seen as a cool, edgy, a line in the sand—resistance to modern intrusion. When I told people I didn't have a phone, their typical answer was "Huh, really? Good for you!" Many people mentioned how they'd like to be less reliant on their own phone.

A couple of years ago, this response began to change. Now I usually hear resigned frustration. My refusal to carry a cell phone is viewed as an oddity, something weird. Something people can't understand. While I don't have a phone, I do have a long list of reasons why I don't want one. But I'm not writing about phones, I'm writing about running. I'll save my cell phone rants for another occasion.

Using a smartphone as my running watch won't work anyway. I spend much of my running time in areas where cell reception is spotty... or nonexistent. Last spring, I treated myself to a running/writing retreat. I rented a cabin in a campground on the Appalachian Trail. It was a quick get-away, just one night. Two nice runs, two long writing sessions, and a grilled steak dinner. I borrowed Susan's phone and promised her that I would check-in before and after each of my runs—to let her know I finished up safely.

Just before my first run, after I parked, stretched and snacked, I tried to call Susan to say I was heading out on my run. Nothing, no cell reception at all. I got back in the car, drove out of the park, and up to the top of the closest mountain to make my check-in call. The next day was worse. I couldn't find reception anywhere near the trailhead. I finally took my run without making my call. Twenty miles of running, zero minutes of cell reception. No, the smartphone idea isn't going to work.

My backcountry skills suck. Maps confuse me, I'm inept with directions. I'm easily lost. Even when I tell Susan where I'm planning to run, I usually wind up someplace completely different. Veered off on the wrong path, running north instead of south. This used to seem less important. I couldn't run much mileage—six or seven miles on a big day. Almost all of my runs were out my back door, out on the equestrian trails surrounding the Gettysburg National Military Park battlefield. Never more than a quarter mile from a road. But even on these short jaunts, I sometimes worried. At times it was cold, single digit cold. The trails were icy and slick. A hard fall on an ice-glazed, rocky trail—fifty yards away from a park road—could be frozen-solid-fatal.

Over the past year, my mileage has exploded. Changes in form, shoes and diet have let me rapidly increase my weekly long run from around seven miles to as long as I want. My distance is now mostly limited by the amount of time I have for a run, and finding a place where I can safely run without getting lost. I get bored running on roads. My ten-mile trail loop around the battlefield has become too familiar. And too flat. And too short. But a quick drive will take me to Michaux State Forest. An endless network of trails and fire roads with hills steeper than I want to think about. Unlimited miles for me to run, if I can just manage to find my way back to my car.

When I read American trail running magazines, I'm usually reading about the Rocky Mountains. Huge trail networks rising directly out of Colorado ski towns. The trails aren't crowded, per se, but the magazines describe scenes where runners frequently cross paths with a nod or a "Hey!" Enough runners to create traffic. Sparse, maybe, but traffic all the same.

Central Pennsylvania trails are different. They're remote and isolated. When I park my car at a trailhead, it's usually the only car there. And then I head into the woods for a run. I'm all alone. Last person on earth alone. This is reckless, dangerous. A ten-mile radius around a parked car yields a two-hundred-thousand-acre search area. An incapacitating fall could lead to death. One of those found-by-a-hiker-in-the-spring deaths.

I've been pushing my off-grid running far too long. This has bothered me for years. Once, on a family vacation in Acadia National Park, I decided to run back to our campsite from the beach. Looking at the map, I estimated six or seven easy miles. Two hours later, I jogged into the campground. I got confused by the map. Not lost, exactly, but so hesitant, I backtracked several times to make sure I was heading the right way. As I ran in on the campground access road, Susan was driving out, certain that I was run over by an RV. Or lost in the massive park. A simple check-in message would have saved a lot of worry.

Enter the SPOT. It's a personal GPS tracker. In a era where watches and phones are turning into mini-computers, the SPOT is quaintly specific. It's an electronic device, the size of large running watch, and it does just two things. It provides a real-time internet display for someone at home showing where I am, and it sends one of four preprogrammed distress messages via email when I hit the proper button.

I've been putting off this purchase for a while now, waiting for this technology to show up in a watch. My Garmin Forerunner 10 is a disaster. The wristband is broken, held together with wire and duct tape. The last time I plugged it into my PC (over a year ago) the firmware started to update, and the watch displayed an out of memory error. Clearly, it's time for a new watch. But they keep on improving, so I keep on waiting. Here's my thinking: Watches are already GPS connected, so of course, they will simply embed GPS tracking and messaging. It's just a matter of time.

I now know this isn't going to happen. The Apple Watch and the Timex One have demonstrated this. These two gadgety watches have jumped past the obvious benefits and simplicity of GPS directly to cellular service. Watches are acting more and more like smartphones every month. It's more important to runners to be able to access Facebook and Spotify than maintain their tracking signal.

If you've never heard about GPS trackers like the SPOT, I'm not surprised. My repeated queries about GPS devices like these on running community websites were never answered. Or if they were, it was other runners incredulously asking what was wrong with my smartphone. In my research, I found that there are only a couple of brands of trackers made for adventurers. For folks like trail runners, backpackers, sailors and 4X4 enthusiasts. As it turns out, the primary market for devices like the SPOT is to LoJack your kid.

There are at least a dozen child-oriented GPS trackers available on the market. As I waded through a collection of these on a CNet product review, I found the SPOT. It ranked low as a tracker for children—something about lacking the ability to receive a "Come home now!" message from mom. But I'm not a child. The SPOT meets my needs perfectly. It shows where I am, where I've been, and it's simple to operate. The distress signals even include longitude and latitude coordinates for those rescuers I hope to never need.

And it's inexpensive: the device itself is free (after a rebate), and the service plan, at about $20 per month, was one of the cheaper plans available. It's a lot like term insurance—a total waste of money... unless I need it. And then it's priceless.

Tomorrow will be my first SPOT tracked run. I'm excited to see how well it works; how accurate the mapping is; whether my test distress messages make it to Susan's PC. For this run, I'll keep close to home—one more time around the battlefield. But after this test, I'll start pushing my boundaries. I'll leave my car in a Michaux parking lot and see where my legs take me. I'll still worry about getting lost or hurt, but I'm far less worried about never coming home.

~ ~ ~

Spinning, Running, Bikes, Bikes, Bikes

January 2016:

I commute to work every day on my bicycle. I ride a mile! A half-mile in the morning, and a half-mile back home in the evening. Sometimes, when I have a doctor's appointment or a meeting downtown, I'll ride a total of two, maybe three miles—a big day! When the weather is nice, I might join one of my kids on a fitness ride. These rides usually top out at about ten miles. If I accumulate seven hundred miles a year, I'd be astonished.

In Gettysburg, my smallish town, I'm known as a cyclist. This is a myth. Seven hundred miles per year doesn't make a cyclist. It barely makes a commuter, except I am one. I was even interviewed in the local paper for bike-to-work-week. One of the locals who rides every day, come hell, snow or high water. But from my perspective, that interview was about the environment, not cycling.

I don't think I do anything to intentionally further this cyclist-myth, it's just an assumption people make. Frequently, people ask me about my routes, my mileage: I admit that I rarely go for rides. People ask me for gear or bike advice: I tell them anything I ever knew is twenty years out of date. But people still ask. Sometimes it's the same people over and over.

I'm seen at my workplace locking up my bike. It's a community center—hundreds of people per day come by to exercise or to drop off their kids in day care. They see me walking into my office with my helmet in hand. I have a decorative chainring tattooed on my calf—and I wear shorts seven months of the year; there's a bike poster on my office wall, and cycling bumper stickers all over my truck. Okay, it might be reasonable to assume I'm a cyclist, but really, I just like bikes.

At one point, I had cycling cred. My commute was longer—sixteen times longer. My weekends were spent on a mountain bike. Either riding trails in distant DC exburbs, or shredding staircases, curbs and swaths of parkland on and around the National Mall. I once spent four months bicycling around the United States. But I'm done with this. Bicycling is too time-consuming. If I have a couple of hours for exercise, I'm going for a run.

By far, the majority of my pedaling is on a spin bike. I instruct two classes per week. Each class is an hour long. There's no warm-up or cool-down, we're "on" the whole time. It's a monstrous workout, at least it is for me: a thousand calories burned; a puddle of sweat on the floor. I come home and soak my clothes in vinegar and fight a headache for the rest of the day. If I was actually on a bike, I'd be knocking out an extra fifty-some miles per week.

But I'm not on a bike, I'm on a spin bike. And spinning isn't cycling. To me, spinning is just an extension of my running program.

* * *

When I graduated from college, bored and broke and not overly fond of TV, I ran to kill time. I laced up my high-top Converse All Stars, and I pounded my nighttime neighborhood streets—four to six miles a night. I ran cross country during my senior year of high school, but it didn't stick. I was slow, a back of the pack runner. College was about beer and pot and staying out all night. The four or five times I went running while at college, I was stoned. It wasn't until after graduation in 1984 that I became a runner.

My form sucked. I was a long-strider and a heel-striker. Shoes became more cushioned through the eighties and nineties, reinforcing my terrible form. Those popular air-filled soles were designed for my running style: launching from the toe; a moment fully in the air; crashing onto my heel. Running partners always complained about the noisy slap each foot made as I rocked back to my toe for the next take off. By the time I was thirty, I was a marathoner, a sub-seven ten-miler, and I was chronically injured.

Knee bursitis—an ailment I couldn't shake, an ailment I needed to baby. I could run, but not much. My weekly mileage was limited. When I overran, my inflamed bursa would leave me limping for weeks. At its worst point, a big running week topped out at four or five miles.

For ten years, cycling filled the void. Where a five-mile run hobbled me, a two-hundred-mile week on a bike never gave me any trouble. Biking kept me fit—fit so I could run when I wanted to run. Despite the reality that I almost never ran, I was always a runner first, and then a cyclist.

Having children shook things up. Commuting to work now included stopping by day care. I suppose this was possible on a bike, but it was too much trouble to be worth the effort. And those long, rambling weekend rides were too much time away from my family responsibilities. Short intense workouts—hard tempo runs—fit my lifestyle, but that bursitis was constantly in the way. By the time I moved to Gettysburg, I was all but done with exercise. A runner who didn't run, a cyclist who didn't ride. I was still reasonably fit, but only from urban walking.

Five years ago, with my running "career" in tatters, I became an indoor cycle instructor. Spinning is the only activity that approximates the adrenaline surge I get from a hard run. My class was the graveyard shift, which at my fitness center isn't late at night, but early in the morning. Twice per week, at 5:30 a.m., I instructed a class for just a few people. I didn't mind the empty room, because what I was really doing was making sure I pushed out a pair of hard cardio workouts each week. These sessions were a viable running replacement. When I actually went out for a run, usually a 5K or an 8K race, I was still capable of running a respectable time.

I'm persistent bastard. I just don't give up. I felt like running was my lost identity—I wanted it back. I tried a variety of shoes, I purchased orthotics. I iced my knee beyond the point of frostbite. I did yoga. I even went through a phase where I rubbed Preparation H on my knee twice daily. None of these remedies worked. Finally, I rebooted my form. I got off of my heels and started running like a runner. A clean mid/front sole strike. High cadence. Textbook posture. And I finally got results. My speed took a huge hit, but my mileage slowly crept back up.

Foam rolling and diet changes (cutting out most of my alcohol intake) did the rest. Now I run as long as I want... well, as long as I've wanted. For a while that was up to a half marathon. Then it was a 25K. Now I'm gunning for a 50K. I'm back into a base-building phase. A longer and longer long-run each weekend. This winter, running mileage consists of just that long run, but as the weather improves, as the snow melts, I'll add a second weekly run. A quick six-miler to remind my legs that something more is expected of them.

So that's my goal, become an ultra-marathoner on one and a half runs per week. Spinning is still my base. Those two hard early morning hours create the majority of my stamina. They teach me to close my mind to suffering; to slow my heart and regain my breath after intense anaerobic intervals; to get the most out of my limited exercise hours; to use every single workout as a device to toughen me up.

I'll still bike to work. I'll continue to ride with my wife and kids. I might even head out for a twenty-five-mile jaunt across the countryside now and again. But I won't do this for exercise, not primarily. These are an excuse to be outdoors, wind in my hair, sun on my face, all that crap. I'm not a cyclist, not any more. I'd rather run.

~ ~ ~

Cred

November 2013:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I pointed out that one in ten didn't seem like a big deal, but 100 of 1,000 started to sound like a real opposition group, and that got Sophie thinking. But by the time I researched some numbers on the internet and found that 10% of all American Indians equals 600,000 people, Sophie had already lost interest in the topic.

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

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

~ ~ ~

Junk

December 2015:

It's been years since I've gone for a jog. In fact, it's been so long that the last time I jogged, we still called it jogging. Now it's called Zone Two running. That sounds cooler, but it's the same thing. I've always called jogging Junk Miles. Not easy enough for recovery, not hard enough to build speed and strength.

I've been formally in training for the past year. First, I was training to increase my mileage. I wanted to get beyond the six-mile tempo run that was my go-to workout for way too many years. When I realized I could handle more than six, I trained for a half. And then I trained for a wicked hard trail half. And then that 25K. Now I'm training to become a Bad Ass Back Woods Trail Runner. I'm training for something longer than 25K. Something in the ultra-range.

Training. So, what does that mean? For me, it means a long-run every weekend. Six miles, then eight, now it's double-digits—typically, between eleven and fifteen miles. If I have some spare time, I try to add a four or five-mile run on Tuesday night or Wednesday morning. But usually it's just the one weekend run. Every run I take, regardless of distance, is tempo pace.

Tempo Runs: I've seen these defined two different ways. "Comfortably hard" or "sustainably uncomfortable." These aren't the same thing. I would call comfortably hard a Zone Two run. A jog. I mean it's comfortable, right? Sustainably uncomfortable is something more. Something useful. It builds strength and stamina. But mostly, it builds character.

I took this afternoon off work. The year is winding down, and I have some excess leave time to kill. We're deep in the holiday season. When I planned my time off work, I assumed I would be shopping or wrapping gifts. But the weather was so freaking, absurdly nice, I went for a run instead.

Winter started last night. The solstice has passed. And today was almost sixty degrees. A year ago, we were fully in a deep freeze at this point. The snow already on the ground in December didn't fully melt until April. And we pushed single digit temps for much of the winter. This year, it feels like late September, so I went for a run.

Last weekend was busy. A group hike with some friends, a trip to a planetarium with my family, lots of gift shopping. I planned too many activities for Saturday and Sunday, I wound up shorting my weekend run. I only had time for my old six-mile loop. It was still hard, they're all hard, but I've vowed to stick with double-digit long-runs all winter. Double digits, come hell or high snow. And by the last weekend of autumn, I had already failed. So today, I went for a run.

Sunday: painfully hard six-mile tempo run. One of those character-building runs. Monday: sixty-minute-puddle-of-sweat-on-the -floor spin class. And coming on Thursday, I spin again. In celebration of Christmas eve, I'm offering a ninety-minute class. Tuesday, today: my legs were cooked. I opted for my Zone Two run. My afternoon of jogging.

A couple of weeks ago, I was testing my new SPOT GPS tracker, and I ran directly across the battlefield to see what my SPOT picked up. I wasn't on a trail, just in the middle of a huge field. Long after I had gotten tired of repeatedly stepping in freezing, water-filled ruts and holes, I stumbled upon a horse trail I had never seen before. I run hundreds of miles on the battlefield trails every year, but this trail appeared out of nowhere. It seems impossible that I've run past this trail without seeing it for so many years, but I know it wasn't recently built—it has a very worn-in look to it. So today I jogged my new trail.

On my already dead legs, I went out without any clear idea where I was going. I jogged a warm winter afternoon without a watch, without my SPOT. No way to track distance, time or pace. Just a relaxing Junk run. About forty-five minutes into the run, I realized I was having a blast. I was relaxed. I was comfortable. I was working hard, but not that hard. I wasn't in pain.

Whenever I return from a run, a bike ride or a spin class, Susan always asks me how it was. My response is always the same: best-workout-ever. This isn't just something I say. I truly mean it. Every time I exercise, it's a Zone Three or Four effort. And after every workout, I walk away feeling like I've achieved something great. But this was different. I don't think I'd call it an amazing workout. But it sure was fun.

And suddenly, I got it. This is the reason to be fit. It's the reason I want to increase my distance. It's the reason I want to become a Bad Ass Back Woods Trail Runner. I love to run.

Often in magazines I read about how happy runners are when they complete their long run—satisfied, proud, relieved. I don't feel this. I feel regret. For me, the actual running is my favorite part of the run. And if I can slow it down, I can do it longer. I can enjoy three or four or five hours of Junk, because now I know it isn't Junk. It's fun. And despite my quest for speed, strength, stamina and character, the point of it all is really to have fun.

October 2018:

Now all my running is Zone Two running. I'm completely uninterested in speed. My goal is to stay healthy and to stay out on the trails.

~ ~ ~

Suffering

March 2016:

A popular Buddha quote: "Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional." Clearly, the Buddha wasn't a trail runner.

There's a more recent quote about suffering, this one from Greg LeMond, but I can't find it anywhere except in my memory, so I've probably got it all wrong. My recollection: LeMond said "getting shot in a hunting accident actually improved my cycling. It gave me a new perspective on pain and suffering." He suggested that being laid up in a hospital bed with a gaping wound, chest tubes and shot pellets lodged in various internal organs became his benchmark for pain. A bike race? Merely suffering—temporary, self-inflicted, something to endure, to embrace.

In our modern society, a hard day at work typically includes getting chewed out by a client or your boss, missing a deadline, getting a computer virus. For workers in developed nations, pushing ourselves to a physical limit, day after day, to make ends meet are stories from previous generations. Suffering, physical suffering, is rarely something we're forced to face.

I too have been laid up in a hospital bed, twice. Chest tubes, gaping wounds—splayed open and stapled shut. Tubes running from my stomach and then out my nose to facilitate vomiting. Pain! Christ, talk about suffering. Nothing I ever do on a Saturday long run will ever approach the discomfort of those hospital visits. Like Greg LeMond, I've been given the gift of perspective.

Endure (definition): to suffer patiently. Trail runners: we're endurance athletes. We train ourselves to suffer.

I like to generalize, so I will. Trail runners are an odd bunch. Introverts, solitude seekers, folks who don't fit in with polite society. Possibly I'm only describing myself, but plenty of books and articles about trail runners paint the same picture—the sport is littered with broken souls seeking redemption... or penance. Substance abusers trading one addiction for another. The mentally ill, running away from their problems, maybe towards a better life. Unhappy people simply beating themselves up because no one else will.

Few of us live in wilderness areas anymore. Before I even hit the trail I've often exerted extra effort—my drive to the trailhead. Depending on where I'm running, it can be a pain in the ass. For me, for most of us, it's much easier to run a suburban loop—neighborhoods, secondary roads, and with some luck, a decent size park to incorporate. I have one local trail I can get to on a run. It's mostly untechnical and the hills aren't very steep; it's not much of a challenge, and I know every inch of it. For the most part, I run this trail for mileage. When I want to suffer, I get out of town. That's where I find four-mile climbs, quad-killing descents, and ankle-turning rock gardens.

When exercising, I seek out discomfort. Those winter days in the low-teens and single-digits, they improve my running. If I can concentrate on form while my water bottle freezes shut, imagine my focus on a sunny, forty-eight-degree day. If I can push through a Sunday morning half while my cheeks and lips burn on the edge of frostbite, I know I can run through bursting heel-blisters and razor-sharp brambles.

I once read about a mud run racer who, when approaching a good-sized mud puddle, always got on his belly and army crawled. He explained that by making this a normal part of his training, it wouldn't be demoralizing in a race. I don't crawl through mud (yet), but I will frequently go out of my way to run a brutal hill... several times.

Recently, I've been involved in the planning of a potential new marathon that encircles Gettysburg. The planned course covers long rolling hills as well as a couple of nice climbs. This isn't surprising since all runs around my town are hilly. The Appalachian Mountains are just a few miles away, always visible when facing west. My town is where the foothills start. One of my friends stated that this was going to be "a tough marathon, lots of hard hills."

I pffted—I couldn't help myself. Road runners, ugh! I've only run one marathon, and that was twenty-five years ago. The Marine Corps—the easy one. This is where I should just shut up, I don't have the cred for this rant. I don't know what I'm talking about. But...

I've run every inch of this proposed marathon route. I know these roads; I go out of my way to run the hardest of the hills. None of the ascents on this course is as challenging as my untechnical trail run—the one I do when I want easy mileage. Road racing is rife with complaints about the hills.

The legendary 'Heartbreak Hill' in Boston, is a 3% grade. That doesn't even rate a "trucks use low gear" sign. A total elevation gain of 91 feet. A bump on the elevation profiles I'm used to seeing. I'm signed up for a June marathon. The Xterra Big Elk Marathon in Maryland. I've reviewed the elevation profile from the Big Elk. This race has eight or ten Heartbreak Hills.

Boston:

Big Elk: (13.1 miles, you need to run it twice)

I'm a numbers guy. I would feel disingenuous if I didn't point out that the scale of the Boston profile has a greater span. You need to read the Y-axis to get the complete picture. But the Boston profile shows a wider range only because it loses 450 feet from start to finish. So, people are really just bitching about regaining a third of the elevation they've already given up. And as soon as you crest the hill, you're downhill and flat until you cross the finish. Can't you gut out a short climb knowing that a free ride is a half a mile away?

I'm sorry to say that I'll never run Boston. I'm not fast enough to qualify, and I wouldn't sign up anyway. Running on the road is boring for me. It's like driving (which I hate) but it takes longer. Un-diverse foot strikes lead to repetition injuries. The hard surface beats up my back and knees and feet. This isn't the sort of suffering I'm looking for. I might as well be running on a treadmill.

That hackneyed Friedrich Nietzsche quote, "that which doesn't kill us makes us stronger" contains an element of truth. The Heartbreak Hills of the world give us purpose. They make life worth living. If everything is easy and predictable, why bother at all. I know many runners are in it for the time, looking for their personal record. I used to be like this as well. But my best times are twenty years behind me. I'll never run a 3:50 marathon again, and I don't want to. That would mean I'm running flat roads in perfect temperatures. Where's the fun in that?

I'm looking for a different sort of challenge—something internal, something you won't find in a race report. I'll continue to seek out races like Big Elk. Long trail races with daunting profiles. But my measure of success won't have anything to do with a clock. Did I trudge up the steepest hills as fast as the person next to me. Did I properly let go on the descents? Were there times I could have pushed harder, suffered more? Did I learn anything about myself? Did I enjoy the race?

~ ~ ~

On Death and Living and Running

November 2016:

Saturday, November 8: Susan's Grandmother died today. This was a long time coming, so I wasn't floored by the news. Her health took a nose dive around four months ago—pneumonia, a blood infection—and since then I've caught myself a few times feeling surprised to realize she was still living. I don't think I'm being cold. I thought she was great. A loving, funny, friendly, caring, interesting person—a long time ago. She's had dementia for a decade, so to me she's been gone for years.

Susan was more upset. She had a lifetime of memories with her grandmother to reminisce. When we heard that Grandma died, Susan took a few minutes to do what non-Christian meditators do at a time when Christians typically pray—she "sat with it." I'm not entirely certain what this means, but it's helpful to Susan, so while she sat with it, I sat with her. And I found myself trying to envision what Grandma was doing at that minute.

There are many pop culture references about entry into the afterlife, and they're all about the same. A couple of my favorites are depicted in Albert Brooks' movie Defending your Life, and Tom Robbins' book Jitterbug Perfume. Even a picture book I had as a child depicts a similar scene when a person dies. Check-in! I find it hard to believe the first moments of my death will resemble one of the worst parts of being alive. Standing in line. Waiting to have my name called. Registering with the authority figures. I'm required to do this every four years at the Department of Motor Vehicles, and I procrastinate my visit for weeks. I want to believe that the afterlife has a better system than that.

Immediately after our sitting, I went for a run. I suppose this is my version of meditation. It's when I process my life. A few years ago, I banished music and headphones from my runs, and now a typical Saturday morning run is a two-hour thought-fest that often turns into an essay.

Predictably, on this run, I thought about life and death and what happens after life.

I don't believe in heaven and hell, eternal punishment or reward. I believe in reincarnation. Recycling the soul, fully intact. Memories scrubbed clean for the next life. Another chance to get it right, to do better. I believe in the Bardo. A way-station for souls as they are assessed for the next lifetime. I believe the point of existence is actualization. To become perfect. To gain the ability to respond to all stimuli in a way that makes us proud, that sets an example for others. The function of the Bardo is to determine which lessons remain to be learned. And then to craft a life that reinforces these lessons. Enough lifetimes, enough lessons, and we'll finally get it right.

I'm an "older" guy, in my fifties. A long way from death, I hope. But I know I'm past the halfway point. On the down slope, over the "hills" as my kids would say. It's hard to not take mortality seriously, to spend some time thinking about the remainder of my life. Thinking about what is facing me after this life is finished.

Saturday, November 14: This morning was the Twisted Turkey Trail Tussle. A ten-mile trail race in mountainous southern Pennsylvania. I participated in four trail races this year—a 10K, a half marathon, a 25K and today's race, the T4. They were all challenging, but the T4 is by far the hardest. The hills are nightmare steep. The two longest hills have to be walked. They are runnable, I ran them last year, but hiking up those hills is faster—less gravitational impact. And the technical sections are just plain dangerous. Rocks! Jutting from the ground at odd angles. At times there is no ground to run on. Just hopping from one pointy rock to the next as fast as safety allows. It's a race to test your mettle. To learn how tough you are.

Today was a pretty day. Cool and windy, sure, but we're in the Appalachian Mountains in mid-November—it's expected. In addition to the ten-mile race, there is a 10K and a one-mile fun run. The T4 is a family event. Young kids come out to run the mile. And the racers pick their poison. The 10K is brutal, the ten-mile is worse; but only because it's longer. The finish line is a party, literally. A folk singer, a keg, a grill and prizes. The race ends in a small, sunny dell protected from the wind. Many of the runners know each other. We work together, hang out together, race together. The runners who have finished socialize and cheer on the remaining finishers.

After the awards ceremony, the door prizes, the beer and camaraderie, I gathered my gear to head home. The announcer alerted us that the final runner was coming out of the woods. "Dave has never raced this distance before, let's give him a hand as he crosses the finish line." I've been reading about the "DFL" celebration trend in races. This is making a big deal about the runner who finishes Dead-Freaking-Last. The fifty or sixty of us who were still present lined up on the side of the colorful finish chute to cheer Dave's DFL finish.

He looked awful. Uncomfortably bent and limping on muscles that were long spent. But he was running hard, finishing strong. As he made his way down the grassy chute that approaches the finish line, we spectators whooped and cheered. Dave veered off course into the street next to the chute and fell face down.

It took a moment to process what I saw. There is no way someone could fall like that without a serious head injury. Everyone sprang into action. 911 was called. Dave was assessed. Handled with care in case he damaged his spine. Knowing my role, I moved away and sat on a hill. After a few minutes a friend and his kids joined me. And we talked quietly while a crowd flurried around Dave. Now they were on to CPR. No movement at all. An AED, hooked up, jolted, still no visible response. Back to CPR. Deep in the country, it took twenty-five or thirty minutes for an ambulance to show up.

We spectators received a lesson in life. The medical intervention, the distraught family and friends, the interminable wait for the ambulance. An instantaneous flash from joy and satisfaction to fear and sadness. It was a ghastly scene, and the children in the crowd took in as much as the adults. As the ambulance drove off with Dave, he had a pulse. They were taking him to a fire station where he could be airlifted to a hospital.

Before we left, the spectators gathered into a prayer circle. I stepped back. I didn't want my lack of faith to disrupt the spiritual energy that was being sent on behalf of Dave. At the end of the prayer, a teenage girl walked up to me: "I don't believe in God, but I prayed any way."

I couldn't think how to respond. After about five seconds, I choked out: "Yeah, me too." I climbed into my car to drive home, certain that Susan was worried over my whereabouts. The race was long over, I was late. I felt sick. I contemplated pulling over a few times to throw up. I had nothing to eat since before the race, and my only rehydration drink was a beer.

Three days before my race, we traveled to New York to bury Susan's grandmother. A long, long day, lots of driving, lots of sitting, lots of waiting. A sad day, but expected for months, even years. Closure, completion. A life lived beyond expectations.

It's now Sunday. Dave survived the night and was being prepped for bypass surgery. I read this on Facebook this morning. The T4 is the ultimate stress test. Not only measuring our mental toughness, but our physical makeup as well. At times I wonder if I, too, am overdoing it. Pushing too hard. Recklessly risking my health, my life.

For the past week, I've spent my free time thinking about life and death and running. This thread will undoubtedly stay with me for a while. My current one-year plan is to increase my mileage into the ultra-range—runs of thirty miles or more. A nod to my slowing speed but increasing stamina. Acknowledging my enjoyment of solitude. I'm gearing up—literally buying myself the necessary gear—for long, lonely back woods runs. Half-day monsters designed to test my endurance, and my ability to navigate by map and compass. All alone, me within nature. Yesterday leaves me wondering if this is such a great idea.

~ ~ ~

Beer Running

June 2015:

I'm a solitary dude. My hobbies are reading, writing and trail running (alone). I work at a large community center. Pool, fitness center, child care. A hangout for kids, teens, adults and seniors. It is arguably the most public workplace in the county. And I have the only job in the building that doesn't routinely interact with the public—I'm the accountant.

On a quiet day, I can sit in my office for two, three, four hours without talking to single person. But I like people. At least occasionally. Once or twice a day I'll leave my office to walk around to enjoy a quick dose of humanity. And then I'm good. Had enough people-time. Happy to be alone again.

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

I used to be a very social person. Twenty-five years ago, I was the guy who everyone called to see what was going on that night. Out with friends most nights a week. Lots of friends, a big group. We'd take over a bar. Mingle, joke, drink (lots), sometimes hook-up. Back then, beer running would have been my favorite activity. A social run, and then a chance to drink. This is actually the sort of thing I commonly did. Lots of adult-league soccer. We'd play and then we'd party. Sometimes three nights a week.

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

Until last week. For a variety of reasons that have nothing to do with wanting to run in a group, I finally gave in and went for a Beer Run.

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

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

But the primary reason I've started beer running is the beer. Well, the social part after the run. I recently read an article in Runners' World about running tribes. How group runs are a growing phenomenon. In all the pictures, everyone looks like they are having a blast. They look cool, connected. This is a movement I want to join. I miss my social days. The easy conversation over a beer. Meeting new people. Taking over a bar with a like-minded crowd. Part of something big.

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

The social part is painful. Group situations shut me down. This is a mingling situation, and I don't remember how to do that. I'm sure that many of the runners endure the run for the social time afterwards. I endure the social time for the run. I'm socially awkward, shy and weird. I need practice, and I've decided the beer runners will be my training ground. We all have something in common—running, and beer. It's an entry point.

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

~ ~ ~

Fairyland FKT

August 2015:

The Fairyland Loop. A sickly-sweet name for a trail; evoking images of a four-year-old girl skipping down a grassy path in her ballerina outfit.

Mid-way into my family vacation, my legs were itching for punishment—my heart and lungs had taken plenty of abuse over the past week, but only due to the elevation. Susan, my two kids, and I spent an outdoorsy vacation in the American southwest: Arizona's Grand Canyon North Rim and Utah's Bryce Canyon; with flights in and out of Las Vegas. The Fairyland Loop would serve well as that punishment. But first I had to get there.

The first two days of vacation were a non-stop headache. Elevated altitude? Pathetic! Vegas is only two thousand feet above sea level. Could it be the crappy food and heat? Both are abundant there. Maybe the crowds and traffic? Or sharing a hotel room with my kids. That could easily be the culprit.

As the daily pounding—reminiscent of a hangover—began to abate, we moved on to the Grand Canyon: an elevation of 8,000 feet. My headache was refreshed, and now just walking the uphill quarter-mile from our cabin to the lodge left us each gasping for air.

This was a hiking vacation, or so we planned. My kids, ages ten and thirteen, would easily be up for two or three hikes each day. With the whole vacation planned and booked by early February, we had months to prepare. Taking just one family hike per week throughout the winter and spring would yield over twenty training hikes. We would hit those canyon trails already fit.

Susan and I took a similar trip to Arches National Park (sans kids) a few years ago. We enjoyed one or two mid-length hikes each day over our five-day trip—totaling around forty miles. I was looking for a repeat, but this time as a family.

But first we had to gut through Vegas: those headaches... and the cars... and the people. Susan and I spent our early careers in DC. Standing-room-only commutes on the Metro, jockeying car rides up DC's wide but hectic avenues, aggressive positioning at a bar or a live music show. We were city savvy. Able to navigate a mob with little stress or trouble.

Eleven years ago, we moved to Gettysburg. Its motto is "The best known small-town in the world." Let's focus on the small-town part. About 7,000 people in the town itself; a small band of neighborhoods encircle the borough; and then the rest of the county is primarily farms and small clusters of community. "Rush hour" is worrying whether the traffic light might change before you can make your left turn.

We've grown accustomed to empty space, undeveloped land, and pristine views. And Vegas doesn't have these. It has glitter and noise, and especially sprawl. It's hot and ugly with a sea of cars. Everything off the bright and shiny strip is the same shade of orange-beige. The ground, the homes, the high cinder block wall surrounding any neighborhood where the residents are wealthy enough to afford it. Everything's the shade of a Marlboro cigarette butt faded by weeks in the relentless Vegas sun. Oh, right, we saw lots of cigarette butts, too.

Driving out of Vegas, we found the southwest we traveled for. Mountains, unspoiled desert landscapes and a rapidly dropping temperatures. Arriving at North Rim, the few people hanging around the Lodge were in stark contrast to those we just left behind. Unlike the Grand Canyon's South Rim—a touristy day trip from Las Vegas—the North Rim is extremely remote. The closest town is almost eighty miles away. There's no Wi-Fi, no cell service and no TV. Tourists here have made the decision to get away from their modern life.

* * *

Hiking went poorly at the Grand Canyon. My family knocked out some of those training hikes since February, but nowhere near our goal of twenty. Six or seven might be a generous estimate. The two longer hikes we took at the Grand Canyon were a struggle. The heat, the elevation and the steep grades kicked our collective butts.

But my legs were craving mileage. While my kids were doing a mediocre job preparing for our hiking vacation, I was training for a June trail marathon. That race has come and gone, and I'm now in that post-run gray-area where my body deserves rest and recovery, but I'm used to exercising in four-hour chunks. This is the period when marathoners bounce around looking for something to do with all their new-found spare time—and also pack on weight because their eating habits haven't caught up with reality.

The Grand Canyon was relaxing and beautiful, but the hiking isn't phenomenal. From the North Rim, there's not much to do for family-hikers except walk down into the hole and then turn around and trudge back out. The myriad rim trails are fine but don't offer much variety from the trails around the lodge. From our hiking-vacation perspective, the role of the Grand Canyon was acclimation to elevation for the non-stop hiking at Bryce. And, of course, my Fairyland Loop FKT.

Over the past few years, Fastest Known Times, or FKTs, have been showing up in mainstream news sources. I guess I credit Scott Jurek with his high profile "dash" of the Appalachian Trail—which is possibly the one FKT I refuse to accept. The A.T. is more than a distance to run. More than a race against the clock. It's a lifestyle choice, a personal defining event, a self-supported "humanity against natural adversity" endeavor. Having someone waiting to hand off trekking poles as the terrain starts to climb steals something away from the trail's intent. The real A.T. FKT is held by Anish Andersen. She carried her own crap.

Bryce Canyon is magical. An obscure geological and meteorological history has left a terrain of mottled spires that closely resemble those creamsicle ice cream bars from our childhood. As a desert junkie with limited travel experience, I'd call this the most beautiful place on earth. And the hiking, I'd place second, right behind Arches National Park, but only because I prefer to hike on rock. My family and I enjoyed a couple of hikes per day while we were there. Exciting, jaw-dropping sights on two-to-three-mile loops. But since I was still craving bigger mileage, I squeezed in a dawn run.

The Fairlyland Loop is one of the longer hikes within the park. A continuous eight-mile loop descending to a river bed; gobbling up some rolling and rollicking terrain; and ultimately climbing back up to the canyon rim. It was the trail that the visitors' center ranger recommended running. Because of the length of the hike, almost no one does it. The visitors at Bryce were mostly families and seniors. Everyone was looking for shorter, shadier hikes.

On my morning run, I saw seven or eight people in total. Besides the long climbs and the relentless sun, there's nothing difficult about this trail. The surface is relatively rock free, and it's impossible to get lost. But many of those climbs left my tongue hanging down like a worn out puppy.

I'm not a fast runner. My days of seven-minute miles are long past. In a tough trail environment, I'm happy with a ten-minute pace. The Fairyland Loop? It took around 1:50. I didn't get a clean read on the time because I started from my cabin door. An extra half mile or so on either end.

After I finished, I tried to look up the Fairyland FKT, and I couldn't find one. But my time is known! It's 1:50 (ish). Until someone else weighs in, the FKT is mine. And if you're able to beat that time, I don't want to know about it. I'm happy with my run.

~ ~ ~

The Fluoride Treatment

September 2016:

I went to bed hungry last night. No, this isn't about poverty; it's about running... and childhood... and football.

Last night, Friday night, was the first home football game of the season. Not professional, not college—but high school—the Gettysburg Warriors. I went to the game, but under duress. I consider football to be the least elegant sport ever created. It lacks finesse. Sure, on occasion the quarterback drops a pass right where it needs to be, but this is more luck than skill in high school play. Football relies on brute force. What we saw last night was short energy bursts; one player running headlong into the opposing line. Lots of grunting and pushing. The crowd erupts, elated over a two-yard gain. And then an interminable wait for the next down. I'd much rather watch soccer. Or distance running. Or croquet.

We don't watch football in my house. None of us like it. In fact, the four of us each watch a maximum of a half a game each year. We're invited to my mother-in-law's house for her annual Super Bowl party. More food than we can eat—ribs, wings, pizza, chips—and at one point as much beer and wine as I needed to enjoy the game. But I stopped drinking right before last year's Super Bowl. Susan all but quit, too. Now it's simply salty food and club soda.

Our tradition with Susan's parents is to watch the game through the halftime show, which is the only thing we'd watch at all if we stayed home. Then we blast back home to go to bed. I teach a Monday morning spin class. I need to be setting up by 5:00 AM. I always worry that no one will show up, Super Bowl Monday and all, but four or five people always come.

Before last night's game, we ate a quick and early dinner. Sophie was due at the stadium ninety minutes before the kickoff for marching band. It was just under ninety degrees when she hopped out of the car in her multi-layered band outfit. Baggy bib overalls, a cummerbund-vest, a zoot suit jacket and a cowboy hat. Why the "Warriors" wear this outfit is a mystery to me. The fight song is punctuated by one of those Indian tomahawk chopping motions, but the band looks like jazz cowboys from the forties.

Eli wanted to arrive early too so he could walk stadium circles with the other preteen boys. They form small predatory packs—on the hunt. It's not clear to me what they're hunting, and I don't think Eli really knows either. It's probably practice for when he's interested in girls. All the boys looked the same—sporting a cool, bored stare—but tense and electrified just below the surface. The girls hang out in packs, too. They talk and giggle. The boys just circle and stare.

By the end of the first quarter, Susan, Eli and I had enough. A quick wave to Sophie, and we left to get Italian ice. Even though we'd been out for hours, we were home and settled in by 8:30. If I didn't need to pick up Sophie after the game, I probably would have gone straight to bed. By the time Sophie was home with the rest of us, it was 10:30, and I was starving. A few corn chips and then off to sleep.

Saturday morning is about running. In the summer, this starts before dawn, but ends long after sunrise. My Saturday mileage is always in double digits and usually in the mid-teens. Today I planned on fourteen. Because I'm slow, and my runs are on rocky, rugged trails, fourteen miles is an event—it takes planning. I bring a half a gallon of water and about six-hundred food calories on runs like this. My menu: Gatorade chews, sport beans, dill pickles, balled melon and a Payday bar. My food choices aren't always exactly the same, but the pickles and the Payday are always in the mix.

Before I left, I decided to throw a Power Gel in my pack. An unusual step for me, I don't really eat gels. They are a concentrated sugar syrup in a small metallic pouch. To open them, you need to tear the top of the pouch wrapper completely off. These scraps become one of the most common litter items I see in the woods. Plus, gels make me gag. When I squeeze them into my mouth, the syrup oozes down my throat in a consistency similar to winter phlegm. It feels like having a finger jammed in the back of my throat after eating a second piece of chocolate cheese cake.

While I don't really eat gels, I always have some around the house. They come in the swag bag at most of the races I run. Because they have value, I don't throw them away—not until I realize that last year's gels expired months ago.

My previous evening's lack of calories was messing with me. After my large breakfast of cereal and banana, I was still hungry. That's when I made that rash decision to bring along the gel. This one was a "Berry Blast" with 1x caffeine—whatever that means. I sucked it down at mile three. And I spent the rest of my run thinking about the Fluoride Treatment.

When you say Fluoride Treatment, the words need to spit out of your mouth with a certain disgusted emphasis. The same emphasis you would reserve for the phrases electroshock therapy, or date rape, or the Holocaust.

The Fluoride Treatment was an injustice my brothers and I were forced to endure back in the early days of dentistry—the seventies. My kids have it easy today. Just like me, they are growing up without fluoridated water. I can't say why this is. The Gettysburg area has to be one of the last places in the United States that refuses to add fluoride to its water supply. Possibly it's due to the heavy libertarian mindset in this rural area... "Don't tell me what's good for my teeth!"

Regardless, my kids get vitamins that contain the daily fluoride necessary for healthy, protected teeth. When I was a kid, I got my fluoride in a twice-yearly concentrated dose. A dose that was eerily similar to my Berry Blast with 1x caffeine oozing down my throat.

The Fluoride Treatment was a berry flavored gel squeezed into something that looked like a pair of football mouth guards. These contraptions were carefully inserted between my teeth, and an egg timer was set. The hygienist would exit the room to avoid seeing the gagging that would ensue. I don't know how long the Fluoride Treatment stayed in my mouth: Three-minutes? Five-minutes? It seemed like twenty. The gel would slowly seep out of the mouth guard and run down my throat. My choice was to either block my throat and mentally resist my gag reflex (which I couldn't do) or swallow the poison mixture and risk death.

Certainly, readers who grew up in a more enlightened time think this is hyperbolic, but no, dentistry was far more barbaric back then. Without fluoridated water, I typically got a cavity or two per year. I'm not sure how insurance worked back then, or if we even had dental insurance, but Novocain was seen as a luxury. Something to be purchased as an add-on for mandatory dental work. Something that was seen as superfluous by my father.

The dentist would prepare to drill and remind us that our parents said "no Novocain." His instruction was "raise your hand if it starts to hurt." In my early days of these procedures, I would endure as long as I could. Wait until tears were welling up in my eyes, and then I would raise my hand to indicate it was time for the shot. Every time, the dentist would respond the same way: "Well, were just about finished now." And then he would drill for another thirty or forty seconds.

As an adult with children of my own, I find this horrible. I can't believe they would drill into my healthy nerve without any numbing whatsoever. My insurance today doesn't consider this unnecessary. I'm not sure why my father and dentist did.

I brought this up recently to my father, and he gave the same excuse he always does when questioned about my childhood: "Oh, that was your mother's decision." This started shortly after she died when I was twenty-one. As a young professional, while clearing out my childhood belongings from my father's basement, I frantically searched for my baseball cards. Baseball cards were unbelievably hot at this point in history. Cards from the sixties were selling for ten to twenty dollars apiece. With a grocery bag filled with hundreds of cards, I was looking at a down payment on a house. After rifling his basement six separate times, certain that I overlooked this innocuous appearing treasure, I finally asked my father where my cards were kept. "Oh, your mother must have thrown those out."

In time, I learned the trick to enduring the Fluoride Treatment. If I kept my head bent forward, the goo would run out of my mouth and onto that paper bib they always clipped around my neck—not down my throat. But I only got to use this technique once. The treatments abruptly stopped after that. Possibly, the water supply had recently become fluoridated. Maybe, because I learned this trick, it was pointless for the hygienist to waste her time torturing me. Most likely, I left the staff so grossed out, they simply refused to give me the treatment anymore. I'm not sure, and it doesn't matter now. I am truly scarred from the experience. I'm unable to take advantage of a quick and easy energy hit that all of my running friends take for granted.

It looks like I'm going to be attending football games on a regular basis over the next four years. While I could care less about the game, I do want to see my daughter perform with the band. I just need to make sure I ingest the proper calories each Friday night so I don't have to repeat this morning's battle with the Power Gel. Last night, just before we left the game, a woman sat down in front of me with an order of fried chicken and fries from the snack bar. It looked heavenly. I think this might be the perfect way to stave off hunger on the night before my Saturday long run.

~ ~ ~

In Search of: Coach

August 2016:

Eight months ago, I embarked on a journey, a quest if you will, to become a Baby Water. Right, I know that sounds stupid. It's the phonic rendition of an acronym I made up—BABWTR. At the time, I thought it sounded tough and edgy. Reminiscent of Jason Bourne's Treadstone. No, I don't see the resemblance anymore, either.

I planned to transform myself into a Bad Ass Back Woods Trail Runner. The sort of dude who can run off into the wilderness at a fast pace without concerns. The guy who always knows where he's going as long as he has a map and compass. The first person they call when a seven-year-old gets kicked out of the family car as a punishment for littering, and then disappears without a trace. The dude who needs only a roll of duct tape and some fishing line to save a life. The guy who runs all day without getting winded... like Minho in the Maze Runner... except thirty-five years older... and not cool... and not good looking.

This was my latest attempt at reinventing myself. Me, trying to become someone more interesting than I really am. Before this, it was Parkour. At least until I saw enough You Tube clips of teenagers falling on their head off of roofs and walls and fences. I did go out a few times to practice slipping over picnic tables, but I stopped doing that when I missed my footing and scraped half the skin off of my shinbone. The final straw was when I sent an email to a nearby Parkour gym describing myself as a physically fit fifty-one-year-old wanting to learn some of the basics. I even promised to write some articles about my experience, maybe in exchange for a membership. They never wrote back. I'm guessing they must have gone out of business.

So how am I doing as a Baby Water? Well, I haven't bought a compass yet; I've learned nothing about wilderness first aid; no one would ever call me to find their lost child (they'd wind up searching for me as well); but I've put in gobs of mountainous miles this year, and I ran a trail marathon a couple of weeks ago—so I'd say I pretty much nailed it.

My problem is I'm now the slowest runner I've ever been in my life. I was almost the slowest guy on my high school cross country team. My twenty-two-minute 5Ks brought me in minutes after most of the runners finished. A few times, I even got lost with the other back-of-the-packers: we didn't see where the real runners turned off. Today? I'd cherish that seven-minute pace like a little girl with her Christmas puppy.

The fitter I get, the slower I go. My relaxing Saturday morning trail run is now anywhere from ten to eighteen miles. And it's all done at a jog, a slow jog—ten, eleven, sometimes twelve minutes per mile. Barely faster than a hike. My glacial pacing crept up on me without me noticing. As I slowly increased my distance, it never occurred to me that I was losing speed. Not until I ran that marathon. So now I'm trying to step it up.

Pretty much every decision I make in my life starts with a book. Each time I read a book (which is constantly) by the time I'm ready to return it to the library, I've created a new self-improvement goal. This time my book was The Way of the Runner by Adharanand Finn. The book is about the effect Ekiden has had on Japan's ability to compete in international racing. Ekiden is a style of long-distance relay racing that has recently taken over Japanese running. The result Finn describes is a nation of many excellent distance runners but zero elites. No one is fast enough to compete competitively in the international arena. As I completed my book about Japanese distance running, my takeaway was "time to focus on speedwork."

In the three weeks since I finished The Way of the Runner, I've done three speed drills. These represent 100% of the speedwork I've attempted over the past several years. My three workouts? Quarter-mile hill repeats, a five-mile time trial, and a five-pack of mile repeats. Next week, I was planning to run 20 X 400—modeled after Quenton Cassidy's 60 X 400 effort in Once a Runner (I know, Quenton ran three times my distance, but I'm not Quenton Cassidy. I'm just an old trail runner with three speed drills under his belt. Suddenly, it occurred to me that 20 X 400 might be too hard. If the immortal (and fictional) Quenton Cassidy was stripped raw by his sixty reps, why did I think the very mortal (and very real) me could handle twenty? This is what Google is for.

What I learned is what I already suspected. I can't handle this workout. Maybe I can gut through it, sort of, but it will leave me cooked... in weeks of recovery... stall my training. This workout will derail my upcoming 10K. The race I do every Labor Day in the nearby Catoctin Mountains.

I was over my head, out of my depth—so yesterday, I sent out this email to an internationally known distance running coach:

Hey <Name Deleted>

I've decided recently (today) to take my running more seriously. The last time I did any thoughtful training runs, I was in my invincible early-thirties. So, in truth there wasn't much thought, I just ran hard and got results. That sort of training doesn't work for me anymore. I'm interested in finding a coach that will work with me to improve my performance; give me some external goals; add some creativity; maybe some corrective instruction...

Are you (or anyone you know) qualified to provide this sort of armchair coaching to an aging runner? I've been injury prone in the past, but my recent diet changes (no more alcohol) seem to have fixed that.

Probably, I couldn't pay anything, but I'd do my best to barter something of value (I'm married to a massage therapist, you know). Plus, I doubt I'm looking for much effort—I'm just looking for someone to gain an understanding of where I've been, where I am now, evaluate my goals, suggest weekly workouts, and of course track my progress. Left to my own devices, I'll never get anywhere.

Any suggestions?

Jeff

PS: Who ever coaches me is going to get written about. A lot. That may be an enticement, but more likely, it's a warning.

Much like my Parkour email, I haven't heard anything back (yet). But I will.

~ ~ ~

Beer Running, Again

October 2016:

Email message from Mark: Jeff, are you planning on joining us this week?

My reply: Wednesday nights suck. Eli and I do a drum circle.

Or: Overbooked. Wednesday is my writers' group.

Or: Sorry, parenting responsibilities. Susan's taking a class. Gotta cook for the kids.

Or: Not this week, I have a work thing.

Or: Nope, early morning on Thursday.

Sometimes, I just don't respond.

Lots of excuses. They're all pretty good—once. Although I use them over and over. I'm not sure why Mark even asks. Wednesday nights do suck. In my town, everything happens on Wednesday. But the big thing, the thing I'm trying hard to avoid, is Beer Runners. It's seventy or more people on a good night. Go for a run, grab a beer at the designated bar du jour. In the summer it rocks. Lots of daylight, cooling down and chilling in the outdoor seating area.

It seems like a perfect match. I like running. I like runners. I like(d) beer (more on that, later). Why wouldn't I join the Beer Runners for the evening? Why not prioritize an activity that lets me do something I like with people I like?

Socializing. It's hard for me. Two or three people are usually fine, add any more and I'm flustered, tongue-tied, awkward. Historically, I've done my best socializing while drinking (a lot). Uninhibited, verbose, and by most accounts, funny. But I stopped drinking like that years ago. I reined in my drinking problem, and I misplaced my bar mojo at the same time. Now I'm a wall-flower.

I never know what to say to people. Running banter works for a minute or two—pace, mileage, upcoming races—but then I'm stuck. I don't know much about TV shows, or football, or current movies. My hobby is writing: ever try to have a conversation about writing?

The run itself is fine. A three to four-mile road loop. The idea is to keep it short, accessible for everyone. But my running is always off road, in the woods, on the trails. Going out for a road run seems an abomination to me—unholy, impure. I know this is ridiculous. On my weekend long-runs, I often spend up to seven miles on the road. Going from one trail to the next. Yes, I'm a trail runner, but I live in America, the land of asphalt.

An endless litany of justifications: If only they ran trails, I'd be there. If they ran in the morning and called it Coffee Runners; I stopped drinking in January; that's a pretty good one—I have problems with alcohol. The real excuse, the one I don't ever vocalize: gathering with people scares me. I don't like feeling my oddness.

Last summer, I went to Beer Runners consistently for a couple of months. One memorable evening: I paced off a group of three runners for just over a mile. When I started to stretch it out, one of them stuck with me. Subtly, we challenging each other to sustain our aggressive pace. At the final turn, we silently agreed to blow it off. We turned our three-miler into a five-miler—at a 5K pace. Back at the bar, I sat with a family I know while they ate dinner. The three of them did the run as a group. A perfect evening: a great workout; relaxing, comfortable conversation. That was my last Beer Run.

I haven't gone back. I have plenty of valid reasons. People seem to accept them, everyone but Mark. He sees through me. When we run into to each other around town, he patiently engages me in conversation. It always ends the same way. Mark: unfailingly friendly; Me: strange. For some reason, I'm his project. He even gave me a Beer Runner bumper sticker through a mutual friend. Similar to how World Wildlife Fund still sends me return address labels even though I haven't donated any money in six years. Mark's trying to draw me in through guilt.

He knows what's good for me. The only way to overcome social anxiety is through socializing. I was on a roll a year ago. A weekly gathering: a nice group run and some chatting with like-minded folk at the bar afterwards. I wish I'd go back.

~ ~ ~

Endurance, Tattoos and Pain

October 2016:

A year ago, I turned fifty-three. Too old for my early-fifties. Too young for my mid-fifties. I entered fifty-three with zero expectations. Just another year of life. A way station on my journey to fifty-five, or to sixty.

When I was in my twenties, I was a partier—the kind of guy who liked to drink to excess... a guy who drank nightly. The quality and quantity of my party nights was the benchmark by which I measured my life. A string of wild nights out meant living was good. If a big night materialized out of nowhere, well that was even better. Fifty-three reminds me of a well-crashed party from this period of my life. Like a Tuesday night planned with ramen noodles on the couch, but ending near dawn in a stranger's apartment. Fifty-three popped out of obscurity to become the pinnacle of my life.

Now I measure success by achievement. I'd prefer that I measure it by the amount of happiness I'm feeling, but really, I just want to check crap off a list.

My list for fifty-three (in the order of importance, I think):

7) Ran a 25K trail race in late October

6) Ran a trail marathon in June

5) Published four stories in respected publications during the year

4) Bought hearing aids in August

3) Successfully medicated my Tourette Syndrome in September

2) Published my first book in April

1) Quit drinking in January

Lots of checking on my checklist.

On Saturday, two days before my birthday, I went for a run. A long run. Something else for my checklist, an eleventh-hour achievement. It's been on my schedule for months. I should've been well-trained, I planned on being well-trained, but I wasn't. Since mid-June, my longest run was fifteen miles. Half as long as I hoped to run last weekend. Surprisingly, my poor preparation made my run more special.

I've wanted to run a 50K for over a year. That's thirty-one miles. A year ago, after my 25K, I enjoyed an easy few weeks and then immersed myself into training for my marathon. And after the marathon, I simply needed to hold onto my mileage until my October 50K—the Green Monster—a mountainous trail race in central Pennsylvania.

Things didn't go as planned. My car broke—a four-figure repair job. My truck broke—another thousand dollars. I bought those hearing aids, a new dish washer, and an expensive but awesome family vacation. My racing budget looked bleak. Seventy-five dollars for the race, a hundred for the room, gas for the car. A couple of meals out. Oh wait, Susan and my kids would want to come along for a mini-vacation. Six weeks ago, I made the mature decision; I passed on the Green Monster.

My thinking: plenty of trails here at home. The Appalachian Trail is close by. Why not just do a 50K point to point along the AT? This was my birthday weekend. I could be a bit selfish. I could ask Susan to meet me with a pizza mid-way. I planned my money saving adventure: the PA/MD border to Pine Grove Furnace State Park, just over thirty-one miles. I bought trail maps, I triple-checked the mileage, I talked with people who hiked that stretch. So simple: start at dawn, finish up before dusk. Well within my capabilities, I could walk it and still beat sundown.

After my marathon, I was burned out—or burned up. Race day was hot—in the mid-eighties. A first for the year. All of my training in thirty and forty-degree weather. I was truly miserable. I didn't have enough salt in my system: I suffered acute Hyponatremia. My digestive system shut down. Running my race with a belly full of sloshing water, still getting dehydrated. I couldn't digest food either. I bonked. That was my last truly long run. Twenty-six miles, including the four-miles near the end where "running" was no faster than a walk.

For the rest of the summer, I took it easy. I started a new medication, a serious medication—scary physical and mental side effects are possible. I wanted to spend more time at home, less time running. I pulled a calf muscle. My back and hips ached. My body told me it needed a break. In no way did I "hold onto my marathon mileage." I squandered it. "Long" now meant eleven to thirteen miles. My Appalachian Trail run seemed risky. If something happened, I would be on my own. I wear my SPOT GPS tracker when I run remote trails, but it would still take an hour or more for help to arrive—if I was able to push the help button.

Again, I amended my plan. There's the ten-mile trail loop behind my house. Horse and hiking trails around the battlefield. Mostly groomed, but a technical two-miles makes up for the easy eight. Three loops and change would give me my 50K.

People just don't understand. When it's part of a race, they grudgingly seem to accept mileage like this. But just to go out and run for six or seven hours for fun? What's the point? I couldn't answer that question. The best I could come up with: "I want to see what it's like to run all day."

Eighteen months ago, I subscribed to Trail Runner magazine. When I sent in the subscription card, I was already a trail runner. All of my training was on the horse trails. I ran a ten-mile and a 10K race annually. I wanted to read about the running I enjoy. But what I quickly learned is trail running is often synonymous with ultra-running. Races longer than marathon distance.

The majority of trail runners don't run ultras, just like the majority of road runners don't run marathons. But you'd never know this from reading Trail Runner Magazine... or from reading Facebook. When you find a trail running community online, it's almost always a "trail and ultra" community. At times I'm left feeling deficient. Or lazy. Or soft. Moving into my birthday run, I wondered about my motivation. Was I just trying to prove I was a real trail runner?

Finishing up my first twenty miles, I arranged it so I'd be at home. My plan was to eat lunch, change my shirt and hat, and refill my water. I grabbed a couple slices, put them face to face and ate a pizza sandwich while walking the mile loop around my neighborhood. I dropped back home to grab two more slices, and I headed out for my final ten. As I was walking out the door, Susan stopped me. "So, any big thoughts this morning?" She asks me this fairly often—typically, after a very long run or on a family trip when I've been driving while everyone else is asleep. Usually, I've had that big thought—a realization about the way the world (or at least a section of society) works. Often, I've come up with an idea for a story and written half of it in my head. But for twenty slow miles, I kept my brain blank.

As I started up my run again, a half a pizza weighing down my belly, I was feeling the mileage. Not bonking, not dehydration, not cardiovascular-wind-sucking—in those aspects I was fine. My muscles hurt: my calves, my hips, my quads. I was way outside my training distances. As I ran away from my house, ten miles seemed a stretch. I couldn't bear the thought of another loop. It just seemed too far. Maybe an out and back—running five miles seemed possible. Then I'd be stranded; no choice but to run the remaining five back.

And that's when I starting thinking those big thoughts—sort of a meditation on pain. Why was I running fifty kilometers? I've written before about suffering, I seem to enjoy it. I like enduring discomfort—serious discomfort—as long as I know it won't cause lasting injury. I often think I'm punishing myself for who I am.

Yesterday, I got a new tattoo. This doesn't go on my fifty-three list; my birthday has come and gone. I've been calling this tattoo a birthday present, but that's inaccurate. When I published my book, I hoped to earn enough money to justify my hobby as a writer. I wanted to cover my writing expenses—the cost of my website, my book marketing, and even the cost of my new low-end laptop. Once those expenses were met, I would splurge on a tattoo. A celebration of yet more achievement. I fell way short. My book (expenses and marketing) was almost a break-even. My website and laptop: those will be called business losses. I got sick of waiting for the tattoo. I've been thinking about it for most of the year.

On the table yesterday, the tattooing hurt. My two previous tattoos were on my leg; they didn't hurt at all. This one, on the inside of my upper arm, hurt like hell. So much that it shocked and satisfied me. It was something to endure. I felt like I really earned this tattoo.

This is how I felt on the very last leg of my thirty-one-mile run—those five miles I had to complete to get back to my house. All my muscles hurt. Even the muscle where my back turns into my neck. That muscle hurt a lot. After running the first twenty-six miles, my pace was pretty slow. That five miles home took about an hour. It was an hour of anguish but also an hour of satisfaction. I pushed myself as hard as I could, and I loved the way I responded—mentally and physically. I focused on the pain, knowing that what I was feeling was unique and fleeting. Maybe not once in a lifetime, but not as often as every year either.

And that's when I understood why I wanted to run fifty kilometers. I didn't want to know how it felt to run all day. I wanted to know how it felt to run five miles after I already ran all day. I wanted to see if I could tolerate the agony. I just wanted to see what I can take.

Now I know, I can take a lot.

~ ~ ~

Cold Laser

February 2017:

The groundhog goofed. The woodchuck choked. Punxsutawney Phil botched his forecast. Six more weeks of winter? That was a fail. Saturday, February 20: sunny, breezy, seventy degrees. It looks like we're going to get a week of this. This is not the winter weather Phil predicted.

But I'm not complaining.

Typically, I make a big show of accepting whatever weather Mother Nature throws at me. Running the North Carolina sand dunes barefoot on a scorching summer afternoon. Commuting by bicycle in a sub-zero freeze. I once ran a wooded hiking trail during a hurricane. My mantra is "You can't control the weather, just make it work." But in truth, I like comfort as much as the next person. Sunny, breezy, seventy-degree comfort. I think I'm getting soft.

For the past few years I've ended my trail running season with some fairly long races. Then, with only four or five months until my usual early-spring half marathon, I plow right through the winter to hang onto my mileage-base. Last year, winter running wasn't so terrible; most of my runs were temperate—in the thirties and forties. Two years ago, it was so cold, my water bottle froze shut. Two years ago, there was nothing soft about me.

This seems like a pleasant winter for running. Not too cold, zero snow. But I didn't run this winter. My Fall 50K abused my aging body. By November, I had a full-blown case of Plantar Fasciitis. For my non-running readers unfamiliar with this ailment, it's inflammation of the fascia muscle in the foot. It feels similar to stepping barefoot onto a lit cigarette... with every step.

Since becoming hobbled with Plantar Fasciitis, I've learned quite a bit about it. First off, I now know that almost everyone I've talked with in the past four months has already had it. Second, every one of them swears it's impossible to cure. Finally, each of these people cured their PF with a secret but foolproof remedy. So, take notes, because I'm about to spill. The only way to cure Plantar Fasciitis is...

\- Freeze a water bottle and stand on it for forty minutes each day; or...

\- Sleep in a boot; or...

\- See a physical therapist for a battery of exercises for your already overtaxed muscles; or...

\- Get monthly cortisone shots; or...

\- Surgery; or...

\- Quit running for life; or...

\- Soak your foot in rainwater collected from a rotting tree stump on the night of a lunar eclipse.

I made one of these up. So which remedy did I pick? I decided to take the winter off running and add lots of stretching. It's too soon to say how I made out. I'm just beginning to restart my running program.

I'm a superstitious guy. I worry about jinxes, taunting the gods, disparaging the natural order of things, that sort of stuff. I've spent all winter fretting about those secret cures I've ignored. I figure if I really want to run through the nice spring weather, I should be trying anything and everything to cure my Plantar Fasciitis.

My friend Lisa is a veterinarian. And like me, she's also an aging athlete. She's had Plantar Fasciitis too, and just like everyone else, only she knows the cure. She swears by Cold Laser treatment. You haven't heard of it? I'm not surprised. It's a low-level red-light laser that stimulates healing. But many uses of Cold Laser therapy aren't FDA approved. I'm pretty sure you won't find it in your local orthopedic practice. You might find it in Mexico, or Sweden, or any other country with a progressive government regulatory body that isn't primarily focused on earning money for pharmaceutical companies, but not in America. The one local place you're going to find Cold Laser therapy is at your local animal hospital.

Yes, while you, as a human, can't benefit from this non-invasive, nontoxic treatment, your cat or dog can get on a regular therapy program. Your pet can get the benefits of increased blood flow and reduced inflammation for their soft tissue injuries. The animal pharmaceutical industry is nowhere close to the lobbying juggernaut comprised by our domestic human drug companies. Therefore, Cold Laser is widely accepted for our animal friends. Since I know a vet, I've completed four treatments.

Last weekend, sunny, breezy, seventy degrees, I was lacing up my shoes for my first run of the year.

Sophie: Where are you going?

Me: I'm heading out for a run. I'll be back in like, twenty minutes.

Sophie: What? What happened to your thirty-mile runs? You're planning on getting more exercise than that aren't you?

Sophie, my fourteen-year-old daughter, perfectly channeling my long-deceased mother.

And she's right. I went out for my two-and-a-half- mile-run. And you know what? I sucked wind. My four months hiatus has wreaked havoc on my cardiovascular system. That mileage base I've so carefully protected over the past three years is completely gone. I'm starting from scratch. I'm now a non-runner.

But so far, Cold Laser therapy is working. My body seems to be responding to Lisa's treatments. Every week or so, I'll add an extra half-mile to my 'long' run. Maybe push myself up to a five or six-mile run and then hang out there for a few months. And hopefully that Plantar Fasciitis won't come back.

~ ~ ~

Bad Ass?

January 2017:

Baby Water! Remember that? Those who have been reading this book from the beginning know all about this. For those of you who just flipped open the book to this chapter, I've written half a book about my half-assed attempt to become a Bad Ass Back Woods Trail Runner.

With December slipping into January, the 2016 racing season is over and done, and along with it, my deadline to be a BABWTR. So how did I do? Let's review the past year...

When I wrote my first BABWTR blogpost back in December 2015, the term Bad Ass was fringe. Only cool trail runners like me used it with application to running. Bad Ass: think bloody shins from running through brambles; bloody knees and shoulders from taking a header over a tricky rock section; tattoos; cotton t-shirts; shoes topping six hundred miles. We were the runners who didn't follow the rules. Seriously. Bad Ass.

One year later, December 2016, my issue of Runner's World featured a cheery young woman on the cover: a skinny little thing, a road runner, a cellist from New York City, as fresh and clean as a shiny new dime. And they stamped the word Bad Ass across the picture (note: the italicized words are supposed to be spit out with disdain). They co-opted my term! They made it ordinary.

In my groundbreaking story Baby Water, I defined what a Bad Ass Back Woods Trail Runner is:

The kind of guy who drives into the mountains, straps on a vest, and heads out alone for a multi-hour jog—unafraid of what nature may throw my way. My goal is to begin running and racing in the "ultra" range—distances of thirty miles or more. Learning about Pennsylvania's wild areas by foot. A chance to enjoy some solitude, to get lost in the woods.

This was a pretty bold mission statement... heading into winter... still months away from the spring day when I'd actually have to try this. So, what have I achieved?

Multi-hour runs? Check! Susan was way generous with her acceptance of me disappearing for two to four hours every Saturday morning. Typically, I was out of the house just before dawn, and I was always back home before my teenage daughter woke up. I tried to make my runs as unimpactful as I could on my family, but my propensity to nod off on the couch every Saturday evening right after dinner was definitely the topic of a few conversations.

Thirty-mile races? Pfft. My race calendar included a 10K, a ten-mile and a marathon. I planned on running the Green Monster 50K in October, but a bunch of huge expenses (car, truck, dryer, awesome vacation to Bryce Canyon) got in the way, so I skipped it. On the day of the Green Monster, I ran my own 50K out my front door—thirty miles on battlefield horse trails and a bit of change around my neighborhood. I no longer have a desire to race a 50K. I've had Plantar Fasciitis ever since.

Enjoy some solitude? Check! Yes, an abundance of that!

Get lost in the woods? Here's the thing. When I'm in the woods, lost is my default. My plan was to convince my friend Blair to teach me map and compass skills last winter. He teaches topics like this to our county's sixth graders each year when they head off for a week of nature camp. I figure if they can grasp the concept, so can I. Unfortunately, I never got around to asking him.

A few weeks before my marathon, my friend Audrey and I went for a trail run together on a hot May afternoon. We plotted a three-mile loop that ended at my car, and then we'd head directly into a seven-mile loop on the other side of the road. Because we had an opportunity to refill our water bottles after three miles, neither of us took much with us—one handheld bottle each. It was my run, training for my race, running at my pace (which is slower than Audrey's). I said I knew where we were going. I run this route ever year in Twisted Turkey race I mentioned earlier. I know the course like my own phone number... or so I thought.

An hour later, still on the three-mile side of the road, Audrey chastised me for not even being able to point in the direction we came from. Without her navigation skills back to the car, we would have been drinking directly out of puddles.

Today, I took a day off work and went for a hike. I've been wanting to get out on the local section of the Appalachian Trail for a run ever since I started this BABWTR nonsense. My Plantar Fasciitis is still healing, but I thought a brisk four-mile hike would be a nice test to see if it's improved.

I ran into many of my typical problems: The map I brought with me for my hike shows a completely different section of the Appalachian Trail ten miles to the north. I couldn't find the right trailhead and wound up hiking a trail, miles away from the A.T. And despite my easy out-and-back route, where I carefully placed fallen branches at each intersection pointing the way back to my car, I got lost. Eventually, I found the road but not my car. I had to guess which way to walk to my car—left or right. I chose left. I chose wrong.

Since my description of a BABWTR includes (even encourages) getting lost, I guess I've mostly achieved my goal. But lost isn't the way I prefer to experience nature. I rarely have several extra hours to spend looking for my way out of the woods. I've been truly lost before—out mountain biking with a friend's teenage son, underfed, out of water, and deep into dusk. It can be a scary experience.

So, my final evaluation: I don't feel Bad Ass, I feel incompetent. Around my June marathon I felt as tough as the throngs of heavily tattooed runners fidgeting around me before the gun. But then it all faded away. By the time my October 50K showed up, I was burned out, only half-interested in success. I'm not sure if 2017 will include a second attempt at becoming a BABWTR, but one thing I'm sure of—I'm going to learn how to read a map.

~ ~ ~

Starting Over

March 2017:

"Mr. Cann, we expect you to stay off of that trail. You need to give the woods a chance to rehabilitate." Eighteen months ago, a pair of park service cops arrived at my door. They gave me crap about the wooded trail starting behind my house.

Decades ago, I was a hardcore runner. A serious ten-miler, a sub-seven pace. Ten miles was a popular distance—this was before the half marathon caught on. Before knee-bursitis hobbled me. My mileage became medically limited—a maximum of four-miles per week. Frustrated, I quit running altogether.

Six or seven years ago, I started up again. I rebooted my running form. I stretched religiously. I ran only trails. I progressed slowly. By summer's end, I was good for a pair of five-mile runs per week. But always with a whisper of knee pain. Always on the edge of a full-scale bursitis flare-up.

Directly behind my house is the battlefield. A wooded portion that no one uses. Swamps, poison ivy and brambles. Interesting to explore in the frozen winter, all but impassable in the summer. Just beyond these woods is the trailhead. Parking for then ten-mile hiking loop. One hundred yards from my back door.

But I couldn't get there. To run to the trailhead required an out-of-the-way paved route that ate up more than a mile of my limited running mileage. And then I had to get back. My five-mile trail run included almost three miles of pavement. Because the park roads were one-way, driving to the parking lot was a six-mile round trip. I needed to find a way through the woods.

It started innocently enough—clearing out some of the brambles behind my house so my kids could play in the woods. Animal paths and old hiking trails were evident beneath the brush. I followed the paths, scraping away the poison ivy, digging up the brambles, bridging the wet areas with the fields stones I found stacked in the woods. In two or three weekends, I broke through to the parking lot. Ten miles of running trails starting at my back door.

And so, I started my current incarnation as a distance runner. A trail runner. A quick warm up in my back yard, start up my watch and gallop off into the woods. More trail than I could handle. My go-to run was a seven mile out-and-back. Leaving six and a half miles of the trail network completely unexplored.

And then the cops came. I haven't used my trail since.

Ultimately, they did me a favor. I still craved my seven trail miles, but now I was forced to add on the almost three paved miles to get to and from the trail. I began stretching out my distances. By last October, I took my longest run—a 50K to celebrate my birthday. Thirty-one miles, mostly on park trails, but with ten miles on pavement to round out the distance.

And then I stopped running. I took the winter off.

Now I'm a newbie. My four-month break has completely dismantled my cardiovascular capacity. It tricked my legs into atrophy. My first run of the season, a two-mile jaunt, left me shocked and humbled. Two miles on a flat, hard packed trail. It might as well have been uphill... in sand... with a headwind. I was immediately anaerobic and out of energy after a quarter mile. My calves hurt for a week.

I've now completed five runs. One of them felt pretty good. The rest were a repeat of the first—sucking wind and pushing through pain. Not the familiar pain of fasciitis or bursitis, but the long-forgotten pain of unused muscles, untested lungs.

The remnants of my backyard path are still visible. The brambles haven't returned to that area I cleared out for my kids so many years ago. A quick jaunt through the woods would give me simple access and allow me to easily knock out these short reacquaintance runs completely on trails. But the lingering threat of arrest keeps me off that trail. Now I'm driving into the park, twenty-five minutes in the car to take a twenty-minute run. I hope I can rebuild my mileage quickly.

~ ~ ~

Buzz

May 2017:

The four of us huddle in the dorm room, lights low, a single candle burns on the coffee table. The candle sits in a mountain of wax covering what was simply a Budweiser bottle just a few hours ago. Each of us digs at the candle, at the wax-mound, with glowing hot paper clips. Heat the paper clip in the flickering flame, sculpt the wax; heat, sculpt, repeat.

Profoundly drunk—yet hyper-aware, attuned to our surroundings. Deafening music rattles the room. Whining guitars, pounding bass. Each note dissected and analyzed. Our sharpened senses register the smallest nuances—the pulse, the electricity in the room.

Our dilated pupils catch the slightest movements. All except for the half-full bottle of beer sharing a bookshelf with the stereo speaker. Ever-so-slowly, the bottle has vibrated its way to the edge of the shelf. It teeters. Eight eyes snap to attention, watching. The bottle tips, plunges to the carpeted floor.

It hits just beyond parallel, spits out a splash of beer and bounces up straight. It lands squarely upright and sticks the landing. A small fizz of foam escapes from the neck. But barely enough to dampen the carpet. We dissolve into laughter.

A half an hour later, the experience has climaxed. We begin to sober up.

Wait. This story is about the other LSD. Runner's LSD—Long, Slow Distance.

The last time I ran fast was a year ago—during the first loop of the two-loop Big Elk Trail Marathon. I was well trained, fit, properly tapered, and mentally prepared. I attacked the first half—a brisk pace, everything according to plan. But then the heat picked up, and it picked me apart. The temperature took control. The second loop was more of a jog... or a walk. I'm not sure I've ever recovered.

It took me weeks to get my legs back. By then, I'd settled into a plodding jog—sixty to ninety seconds off my pre-marathon pace. My running program stalled for the summer. Maintenance mode: one run per week. Out at sunrise each Saturday, the grass drenched with dew, pockets of chill still in the air, I'd jog off for an hours-long run. Slower and slower each week.

Months later, for my October birthday, I checked an item off my bucket-list. I knocked out my 50K. Running at a pace I could sustain all day, I did just that: I ran all day—or most of it. My languid pace reinforced by achievement.

That slightly sore heel I ignored all summer finally stepped from the shadows. Plantar fasciitis—a hobbling case. I took a break from running. Nothing until March, almost: In November, I ran my favorite season-ending race. A rocky, hilly ten-miles in the foothills of the Appalachians. When the gun went off, the small crowd raced away from me. The men, the women, the seniors, even the children, they all set a pace I couldn't match. Historically, I'm a mid-packer, occasionally an age-group winner. For the first time in my life, I lost a race. I came in just about last.

My winter break is over. My foot is mostly healed, but I'm limiting my distance anyway. I'm capping my runs around five miles right now. When I started up again, I vowed to use this cautious, low-mileage period to work on speed. I planned to push my pace back down to a respectable clip. I'm not trying to win races, but I set myself a clear goal: don't lose again.

In the two months since I restarted running, I've focused on a couple of primary workouts. Tempo runs and hill repeats. These are my favorite 'hard' runs. Speedwork? No—I figured I'd put that off for a while.

Here's what I found: The running I've enjoyed the most this year is when I'm grinding up a long, relentless hill. As it turns out, I like running slowly. It relaxes me.

I enjoy my runs more when I jog. I don't mind running hard—many of my hills are tiring even to walk—I just don't seem to like running fast anymore. My long, slow distance runs throughout last summer left me feeling peaceful, happy, maybe even intoxicated. I didn't notice because I wasn't paying attention.

I gave up drug use decades ago, but I only quit drinking last year. Alcohol was an addiction that weighed heavily on me. There was no joy in it, it no longer relaxed me. Alcohol became something to fret over—it stressed me out. And a few months later, without realizing it, I replaced alcohol with distance—long, slow distance. My new drug.

I won't say that I'm done trying to push my pace; I might even attempt to train-up for another age-group medal someday. But for now, I'm done beating myself up over LSD. It's become my favorite way to get a buzz.

~ ~ ~

Going for a Run

November 2017:

One o'clock in the afternoon. I'm heading home from the office. I'm working part time at a local company. It's a great set-up for me. It's right in my town, a mile from home, and the organization's mission is right up my alley. It's a domestic violence and sexual assault non-profit. We advocate against... we shelter from...

Well, I don't. I account. Possibly I'll fundraise. Hopefully I'll write. I'm not even an employee—I'm not on the payroll, I'm a contract employee. I like to call myself a consultant. It sounds Bad Ass... workplace Bad Ass. I'm going to put it on my resume. Bad Ass Consultant—October 2017 to present. Employers are going to be begging me to come work for them.

When I walk in the house, I'm surprised by an unexpected rush of activity. Sophie and Eli are arguing at the kitchen table, eating a Domino's pizza. Really, they're eating two pizzas. Domino's has this ridiculous deal where one medium pizza costs $12.50 and two mediums cost $14.00—so, we always buy two. It's a happy coincidence that my kids prefer completely different pizzas. They would fight about toppings if we bought only one, so the forced extra purchase works out well for keeping the peace (to a degree). While they eat and argue, Susan bustles about the house knocking out some chores.

I forgot today was a half-day at school. And I expected Susan to be giving a massage. I was counting on an empty house. Suddenly, my plan to go running seems selfish. Maybe I should have some family time instead. I voice this concern to Susan, and she insists that I go for the run. Everyone will still be around when I return.

And this is when I realize just how long it takes me to get out for a run.

Have I eaten enough? Do I need to use the bathroom? Where are my gloves? My compression socks? My watch? That long-sleeved wicking shirt I've owned for twenty-three years? My favorite ball cap? Collecting my crap takes fifteen minutes. Because I only have one of everything, getting ready for a run usually includes digging through laundry. Dirty laundry on the basement floor and clean laundry in baskets that I haven't folded.

Next up are my high-maintenance muscles. My legs need a lot of TLC. I've already mentioned the compression socks. These are knee-high socks that "compress" a runner's calves. They're ridiculously tight. So tight, it takes three times as long to squeeze into them than it does to put on and tie my shoes. According to the running magazines and the marketing materials, compression socks are supposed to increase circulation and reduce injury. I can't speak to all of this. For me, they keep my calves from knotting up. This happens occasionally on a run, and when it does, I'm walking home.

Daily, I'm supposed to foam roll my legs. A foam roller is a cylinder made of a stiff, springy material that runners use to massage their muscles. You actually lie down on top of the cylinder, full bodyweight, and roll the thing up and down your leg. I need to roll my thighs, my hamstrings and my calves. If I did this every morning instead of sitting at the kitchen table reading the same news from three different websites, I'd always be ready to go. Because I only think about foam rolling as I'm getting dressed for a run, this becomes an extra fifteen minutes I need to tack on to my prep time.

Today, all these little routines seemed to take forever. From the time I said "I'm going for a run" until the time I actually left the house, more than forty minutes passed. Periodically, I hear a "you're still here?" from one of my family members.

The last thing I need to do is put on my running shoes. I know where to find these, they pretty much live on my front porch. I do all my running on the battlefield horse trails. If it's rained at all over the past two weeks, I'm running through puddles. And unfortunately, these aren't mud puddles. Decades of horse tours have left the paths covered with a generous layer of dried poop.

One dry August day a few years ago, I ran past a young family on hanging out on the trail. The mom and dad watched with uncontained pride as their toddler-aged daughter made a small castle with a mound of loose dust. As much as I thought I should, I couldn't bring myself to warn them that the girl wasn't playing in dirt.

After each run, I return home and kick my shoes off on the porch. They're usually soaked with muddy poop. My plan is that once they dry, I'll take a plastic brush—the kind you use for washing your car tires and hubcaps with soapy water on a warm summer day—and brush my shoes clean. Then I can bring them inside. I always forget and leave my shoes on the porch until the next run. In the summer, this is fine, but on a day like today, mid-forties, I put my shoes on and my feet are instantly freezing. They stay cold throughout my run, and as if that isn't enough foot torture, when I finish, I immediately ice the soles of my feet for twenty-five minutes because I've still got Plantar Fasciitis.

With my dressing ritual, my foam rolling, my drive to and from the trail head, and my post-run icing, I've killed a full two hours on a four-mile run.

About a year ago, I only ran once a week. I'd head out for a two or three-hour run every Saturday morning. I moved away from this because I thought I used up too much of the weekend running. I always figured it would be better to take three or four shorter runs each week—less of a time commitment, less of a distraction from my family. Now I'm starting to understand that my old method was much more efficient. With all of my extra pre- and post-run primping, it seems like I'm wasting up to eight hours a week on running. I was wasting half the time when I ran it all at once.

~ ~ ~

A Most Unusual Resignation Letter

August 2017:

Today I quit my job. Well, I haven't told anyone yet, so: Today I decided to quit my job.

And it isn't my real job, not the one that supports my family. It's my hobby-job. My fun job. My job as a spin instructor. The joy is gone.

Tonight was the second week in a row that no one came. I waited until the time for class to start, and then a little more. And then I packed up and left. I was praying that no one would come. Well, I don't pray, so I guess I was hoping strongly that no one would come.

The second most embarrassing thing that happens in my life is when no one comes to a spin class. I walk out of the room ten minutes past the start time. The gym patrons all look at me with a knowing smirk: "That guy got shutout." (This doesn't really happen, except in my mind, in which it happens every time). The only thing worse than being shut out is when only one person comes. There I am at the front of the class, music pounding, covered in sweat, in an almost empty room. Shouting out my drills at one person. I want to hide behind my bike.

Someone actually came both weeks. The guy who comes to every class ten minutes late showed up last week and tonight. How do I know this? I saw him in the locker room this evening as I changed my clothes to go for a run. He was already ten minutes late, and he was still getting dressed. I could have gone back and taught the class. I could tell he wanted me to, but you know, most embarrassing thing in the world. Plus, I'd already quit... in my mind.

I'm not sure how I ever got mixed in as a spin instructor. I hate standing before a group. Public speaking makes me ill. I have anxiety. And social anxiety. Before I started taking medicine for my Tourettes, I would have these attacks. I'd double over in the spin room, retching. Not throwing up, just retching. Reacting to stress.

And it's always stressful. Is anyone going to show up? Are too many people going to show up? Is the class going to be any good? Too hard? Too easy? It's all too much.

Now it's over. For the past six years, the anxiety before the class was barely offset by the rush of actually instructing the class. But I've stopped having fun. Now I just have stress. I'd rather go for a run.

~ ~ ~

Jenn, Lance and Me

June 2015:

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

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

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

When I returned home from the beach, I had two Trail Runner magazines waiting in my mailbox. Six weeks ago, I grabbed one in a bookstore. I loved it and decided to subscribe. This always ends the same way. I'll buy a magazine at the newsstand for an absurdly high price. I'll see that I can subscribe for a whole year for a few dollars more than I just paid for the one issue. I wait and wait, and when the magazine finally arrives, it's the one I've already bought. At least this time they included the next issue so I had something new to read.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ ~ ~

Crest the Hill

September 2016:

A week before my senior year of high school began, I took stock of my growing up experience. A varsity letter suddenly mattered to me. I wasn't a runner, but I showed up at cross country practice and joined the team. I can't call cross county exotic, but maybe unusual. In 1979, distance running was hardly a mainstream sport. The "running industry" was still getting off the ground.

Cross country seemed more like a club than a team. Anyone could join, but if you sucked, your time didn't count. In my school, the popular kids played football. The athletic kids played soccer. No one spent the summer weighing the decision whether to run cross country or play another sport. In 1979, guys who could make the soccer or football team played soccer or football. The guys who couldn't? Some of us ran cross country.

While cross country wasn't a popular sport, Greg Dunston, my coach, easily ranked as the school's most popular coach. Newly married and not yet thirty, to his students he looked and acted more like a college-aged hippy than a math teacher. He looked like a slightly older version of ourselves. His demeanor was unfailingly upbeat. He taught geometry with the same mix of humor and patience he applied to coaching.

The year I ran cross county, we fielded a team vying for a state championship. I was nowhere close to earning that varsity letter. I trained with the kids who joined the team looking for something to do with their fall afternoons. In general, we ran with the assistant coach, an amiable earth science teacher named "Corky." Dunston ran with the varsity team.

While the team was split up for workouts, there was no hierarchy. No one was treated as less or more important than the fastest or slowest kid on the team. Yes, we had weekly races, which our varsity runners typically won, but Dunston's priority as a coach was to build our character and esteem. Dunston encouraged everyone to run to the best of their ability, which was, uniformly, almost good enough. Improving my running performance was Dunston's long-term investment, although he would reap no benefits from the gains that took years to materialize. His short-term success? Creating a runner who was proud of his losing times.

Coach Dunston popped into my mind today as I ran the Round Tops—a pair of hills that represent the highest elevation within the National Park. The Round Tops played a key role in the Civil War's Battle of Gettysburg. They're a popular tourist destination, and viewed as either a bane or a boon by area runners.

* * *

This morning, I couldn't sleep. I'm messing with my meds. I just completed my best two weeks of the last five or six years. For the first time in the current decade I've felt focused and relaxed. I'm motivated, clearheaded, and happy. Therefore, I shook things up; I adjusted my dose; I increased it by fifty percent. Risperidone, it's an antipsychotic they give to schizophrenics. My off-label use is to control Tourette Syndrome and OCD. To reduce the compulsive sounds and movements, the intrusive thoughts, the anxiety.

My starter dose seems life changing. A chance to re-become the person I was twenty years ago—before I gave up drinking. Yes, I was a drunk, but I was a high-functioning drunk. Alcohol offers many of the same benefits as Risperidone. On a steady diet of booze and beer, I didn't know I had Tourettes. I didn't see my compulsive tendencies. I didn't hear my obsessive thoughts. Plus, what seemed like a bonus at the time, I was frequently buzzed.

For the past fifteen years, I've laid low—not drunk, but still drinking. In a constant battle to temper my alcohol intake. Sober, I lost most of my confidence, and my friendships, and my career.

Now I'm completely dry. I've replaced alcohol with Risperidone.

My new dosage hijacked yesterday. It left me agitated and lazy... aimless... confused. I hung around the house all day, never really getting out to do anything. I even took a nap—something I almost never do. Still, I went to bed last night well before dark, in a crappy mood—wondering why I changed my dose when things were working so well.

Early to bed, et cetera... By four o'clock this morning, I was drinking coffee. It's not as early as it seems. My alarm was set for five. I wanted to be running before sunrise. This has been a rough summer. Unusually humid since May. Now August, it's unusually hot, too. I don't put a lot of credence in "heat index," but this year, it's hard to dismiss. Mid-morning every day, breathing becomes a chore.

Today's run, like all my runs, was the highlight of my day. A tempo 10K with a couple of extra "Ks" tacked onto the end. Those last two kilometers were more of a jog. By mile six, the sun was up over the trees and hills; I was cooked. But I still had to get back to my car, which was abnormally parked at the entrance to the woods. Yesterday eroded my confidence. My medication left me feeling unsure of myself. I felt so unsteady, I drove (instead of ran) the easy, paved mile or so to the trailhead.

As soon as I started to run, I forgot my concerns. The breaking dawn dimly lit the wooded path as I wound my way through the cool, thick air. My confidence returned in increments as I checked off the various mental landmarks of the trail: My first creek-crossing, entering its third month of waterlessness. A quiet, sleepy Confederate soldier reenactment camp—men in handsewn wool uniforms stiffly rolling out of their canvas tents to brew coffee over the remnants of last night's fire. Crossing a reconstructed nineteenth century farm—a small, red hatchback incongruously parked alongside the hand-stacked stone wall surrounding the house.

And finally arriving at Big Round Top. A long, steep churn to the top of the hill, a small descent, more like a dip really, and then another grind over Little Round Top—surprisingly, the taller and steeper climb of the pair. These aren't mountains, but they're brutal. They're hardest hills I run when I'm not out running hills. And they happen to be part of my normal weekend loop. Usually, I stay on the rugged, rocky trails interlacing the woods behind the Round Tops, but those paths are the most remote place in the park. I was feeling good, but if my Risperidone dose tweaked my heart or my brain, I wanted to be found.

As I neared the peak of each Round Top, I imagined Dunston's trademark refrain: "Crest the Hill!" Meaning run hard, continue your climbing-surge over the top of the hill. Don't back off until you're sure you're heading back down. Our coach felt that races were won or lost based on how strongly we finished each hill. Now, twenty-five years older than Dunston was when he coached me, thirty-five years into my running career, I still embrace his decades old advice. "C'mon Jeff, crest the hill!"

I'd be hard-pressed to come up with any other lasting piece of training strategy I learned during high school. In the seventies, coaches were still feeling their way through what worked. To some degree we tapered the day before a meet, but I also recall the Friday afternoon before our biggest race of the season: we played Ultimate Frisbee in the rain as a fun workout—a way to blow off steam. Yes, it was a blast, but after a bazillion sprints during our two-hour game, every team member had thoroughly dampened any spark remaining for when the starter gun sounded in the morning. Heading off after a different Friday practice, Dunston dispensed what served as sage nutritional advice for the day: "Early race tomorrow, guys. Take it easy tonight on the beer."

As Dunston taught me sportsmanship and the ability to lose with grace, I stood on a precipice preparing to step off into the roughest period of my life—twenty years of unrestrained alcohol abuse. In many ways these years can easily be disguised as my heyday. I built a successful career; I posted my best running times in a variety of distances; and I enjoyed the largest social circle of my life. Everything seemed perfect, but it wasn't a lifestyle that could last. After a wild couple of decades, I slowly reined in my drinking to a point where drunkenness was a thing of the past.

As I make my way through my sober, adult life—the life I've formed out of family relationships, responsibilities, and small successes and failures—Dunston's call to crest the hill is more important to me than ever. A life built around mental illness and alcohol abstention is challenging. Every day includes a hill to climb, an obstacle placed directly in my path. Sometimes everything clicks, and I crush my day like I crushed today's run. But often, I waste my day with anxiety, self-doubt and naps.

It doesn't surprise me that I've remained a runner. Cross country was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. Not because I won races, I didn't. But because I was made to feel like a star even as I struggled. My coaches and teammates cheered me across the finish line when they could have been congratulating each other on their win, or packing up their stuff to get back on the bus. Dunston welcomed me as a member of his team, even though I contributed nothing to our score.

During that rough twenty years and my readjustment period afterwards, I doubt if I've thought of Greg Dunston more than a handful of times. He hadn't yet reemerged as the important factor he now is in my life. But around four years ago, I began thinking about him frequently. I dropped him a short email simply stating that "the impression you left on me has been immeasurable... so thanks."

Now I'm taking that message a step further. I'm attempting to measure how important he was—and still is—in developing the person I am today. But I've learned once again, it's still impossible to measure.

~ ~ ~

Arc of an Athlete

June 2018:

My thirteen-year study: The Effects of Age on an Athlete's Performance.

I've recently expanded my use of the term athlete. There was a time I would only use it to describe an elite crowd. The professionals, the college standouts, the runners who win races but still need a day job because running doesn't pay the bills. These guys, these men and women, they're clearly athletes. Peak performance, top of their game, all that crap.

Recently, I've been using athlete as a term for anyone who competes. The Merriam-Webster dictionary agrees with me: a person who is trained or skilled in exercises, sports, or games requiring physical strength, agility, or stamina. They make no distinction for professionals or for NCAA Division I players — most of whom are recruited to attend college specifically for their athletic prowess.

Merriam-Webster even takes it a step further. They offer the title to anyone trained or skilled.

My study kicked off when I moved to Gettysburg in 2005. I was exercised-focused before the move — in my twenties and thirties, fitness was my first priority. I ran (a lot). I ran the monuments of Washington, DC. I ran the biking trails adjacent to the Potomac river in Northern Virginia. I ran the C&O Canal towpath out of the city and into suburban Maryland. And I ran the wooded trails interlaced through DC's Rock Creek Park.

But by the time I hit my forties, back in the early 2000s, my primary exercise was the walking part of my daily commute. A couple of miles — out and back from the Metro. Home ownership, a challenging job, and a newborn baby gobbled up all of my time.

Gettysburg is a paradise for runners. Twenty-six miles of park roads, eleven miles of hiking trails and endless country roads radiating out in every direction. Runners have countless routes to choose from. With my move, I joined the ranks of the remote workforce. Suddenly I had no commute. After work, I was free to lace up for a run before dinner.

I've never been an awesome athlete. In general, I'd call myself competent. In school and as a young adult, my sport was soccer. I played two or three days a week. Another player, once asked about my skill, referred to me as "Good-ish." And as a runner, good-ish works as well. I've spent most of my career in the mid-pack.

Gettysburg is a small town. Every road out of Gettysburg leads to a city — Carlisle, Harrisburg, Westminster, Frederick — but each city is fifty or sixty minutes away. Gettysburg is a rural exburb situated right in the middle of nowhere. Here's something city folk don't know. People living in small towns know way more people than those living in a city. Because I see the same people over and over again, every day, every week, I seem to know pretty much everyone.

One thing's for sure, I know all the runners. Or I used to.

Eventually, I wound up working at the YWCA as its Finance Director. The Gettysburg YWCA is a fitness center, a child care, and an advocate for women's issues and racial justice. It's also ground zero for the local running community. Hosting three 5Ks each year, those of us who helped manage the races knew all the area's top runners. Over the thirteen years I've been associated with the YWCA, I've watched the arc of many running careers.

Yesterday, I went for a run after work. I ran my current favorite route — a series of paths zig-zagging across Pickett's Charge. Pickett's Charge is a huge field and one of the principal landmarks of the battlefield. It's the site of the Confederate Army's last offensive in the battle. Essentially, it's an uphill slog across a mile of open space. The Confederate Army got creamed, and this defeat is said to be the turning point of the Civil War. The Union Army rode the momentum of this win through the end of the war.

But I'm completely uninterested in Gettysburg battle history. From my perspective, this is just an excellent place to run. I don't know how far my route is, I've never measured it. And I don't know how fast I'm running, I don't wear a watch. I just go out and enjoy my run. This is where I am in the arc of my running career.

I no longer work at the YWCA, but last weekend, I wound up working a race. The Spirit of Gettysburg 5K. I heard they needed volunteers, and I said I would love to help if I could be out on the course. Over the past thirteen years, I've seen this race from every possible perspective. I've caught glimpses of the race from the parking lot where I'm still directing traffic even though the starting gun has already sounded. I've called time at the one-mile mark: 5:54, 5:57, six minutes, 6:03... I've watched the top runners battle for the lead in my rearview mirror as I drove the press truck around the course. This past weekend, I handed out plastic cups of water as runner cruised by.

There were five of us passing out water, and in a 5K, half the runners don't even drink. My job was completely stressless. Mostly, I just enjoyed the race. I was able to cheer on the runners, the runners I've known for years.

And where were my runners?

- Allison: For years, she contended as the fastest female, annually earning a chunk of the prize money. This year, she's further back, a dozen women out-pacing her.

- Seth: I think he took third place overall a couple of years ago. Whoa, that guy's really put on some weight.

- Tina: She usually wins her age group. Now she's running mid-pack and not looking so great.

- Joan: Something's up with her knee. She walked the course this year.

\- And Jason: So wracked by injury, he skipped this year's race for the first time in twenty-six years.

Everyone's getting old.

During my weekly run on the battlefield, I try to keep loose, relaxed. My pace is minutes per mile slower than it was ten or fifteen years ago. And while I was running twelve or fifteen miles at a shot just a couple of years ago, I now consider four miles to be sort of long. We age. We age out of our abilities as athletes, and we're forced to adapt. As we slip over those decade milestones and enter a new age group, we're given new opportunities to compete and excel, but never at the level we did in the past.

Before I realized this was happening, I used to try to meet and beat my previous years' time. Sometimes I do, but year after year, I can't. And when I try, I wind up injured. My approach to running has changed this year. I'm happy jogging, and in truth I'm happy walking. I'm doing far more walking than running these days. I've decided that consistency is more important to me than competitiveness. Being outside doing something, anything, is my number one goal.

I'd love to sit down with Allison, Seth, Tina, Joan or Jason. I'd love to find out how they feel about their changing relationship with running. Are they still chasing their personal records or are they at peace with the descending arc of their athletic career? For the first time in years, I'm content with my running. I'm not trying to achieve anything special. Not distance, not speed, I'm just going for a run.

~ ~ ~

Twilight

September 2018:

The sun already set, not below the horizon, but behind the cauliflower clouds, a halo hanging just above the earth. Orange-brown light bled through the thin spots like an iodine stain and rimmed the crest with a subtle ember glow. The entrance to my trail shrouded by the gloom.

I was late, too late. Helping Eli with his homework, I let the evening slip by. I saw the clock and snapped: "You're on your own. I need to go run." Ten minutes later, I stood with my car at the trailhead, contemplating my usual route, wondering what would happen if I ran the woods in the dark. Across the street, another option, an out-and-back winding across a field. I avoid this trail. Too public, too many horses.

This night, I chanced the field. The horseback riders probably long gone, heading home for a late dinner and a glass of wine. I started at a trot, my only warm-up. No stretching, no high-knees, just the short drive from my house. My muscles already loose, the temperature hovered close to ninety.

Gaining speed as I churned up the half-mile slope leaving the stream valley that parallels the roadway; thick, watery air caressed my cheeks and arms, comforting, but difficult to breath. My shirt and shorts already clinging with sweat.

Out across the field, a dirt path gashed through the end-of-season grass, waist-high, gone to seed, harboring countless rabbits and a family of whitetail deer. The critters bounded away at my intrusion on their evening meal. The twilight deepened as I rounded a farmhouse and followed my trail into the woods, worrying a bit about the descending darkness and the knowledge that I was still running away from my car.

As I turned to retrace my steps, I pushed up my sleeves and twisted at my shorts trying to reduce the friction of my soaking clothes. My sodden ball cap, fully-saturated, couldn't absorb any more sweat. Rivulets streaked my face and glasses. The rhythm of my feet striking the disappearing trail broke the silence of the twilit dusk. Midfield, I once again disturbed the grazing deer. They scattered through deep grass and over a decorative wooden fence to perceived safety.

Gliding downhill towards the stream, I shivered. Despite the temperature, my wet clothes sapped my heat. My muscles, tapped of energy, prematurely began to cool. As I recrossed the stream, I walked—unable to see the water and trip-stones clearly in the dark.

Back at my car, I realized that night had settled over the park. I had a momentary flash of panic that my family might be worried about my safety. As I returned to my calm, well-lit house, I tried to match my family's mood—they were in social mode. Eli done with his homework; Sophie taking a break from hers; Susan, her evening responsibilities complete, holding court in a good-natured conversation. Instead, I retreated, alone, to my screened porch, quietly drinking a glass of water.

~ ~ ~

Race Day

January 2015:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it's over. I go home and resume my day. I wonder if it's worth all the stress, all the anxiety. Yes, it is. Two days later, and I'm still buzzing. Still feeling the adrenaline. Picking a line through the rocks; hopping a creek; ducking a branch. Me against nature, or me in the midst of nature. A chance to be outdoors... running a trail.

~ ~ ~

The Final Stuff

Jeff Cann lives, works, writes and runs in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. His essays and stories have appeared in the Gettysburg Times and Like the Wind Magazine, as well as various websites dealing with the topics of mental health, running and culture. Jeff is married with two children.

When he isn't working, parenting or writing, he can be found hiking or running the wooded trails surrounding Gettysburg; driving his kids one place or another; or reading novels, biographical essays and blogs.

His first book of personal essays, Fragments—a memoir was published in April 2016.

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As a self-published book, BAD ASS can be offered for free (or close to it on some platforms). But as a self-publisher, I don't have a marketing department. If you enjoyed this book, please share a link for your friends on social media, leave a (good) review on Amazon or Goodreads, and if you haven't already done so, read Fragments.

I'd like to thank Annie, Robyn, Steph and Susan for the proofing and edits they each offered. Without their help, your experience would have been less satisfactory.

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Have a comment or question? Email me at jeff.t.cann@gmail.com

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Blog: www.jefftcann.com

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Twitter: @JeffTCann
