Program Building: Balancing Stress and Recovery

2012 Iron Horse Half Marathon
Recovery isn't always pretty...

Building a training program is about balancing stress and recovery. Allow me to over-simplify for a second here. You ask your body to do something that's hard... much harder than it's used to doing. Something like running a mile or lifting a heavy iron bar with weights on the ends. Once that task is over, the second it is over, in fact, your body starts a conversation with itself. "That was hard. We might have to do that again. We better divert resources to making those muscles and blood vessels bigger and stronger and more up to the challenge."

And that right there is the whole of exercise physiology in a nutshell. Everything else is details. But here's the tricky part. Your body needs the right amount of work to trigger that process, and the right amount of recovery time to allow it to happen. Too little time between workouts, and you never get the chance to rebuild what exercise tears down. Eventually you reach a state called "over-training" where you are actually getting weaker as your body fails to keep up.

So what is the right amount of work for you? Depends on your current condition and your future goals. Right now, I'm trying to run about 25 miles a week. Pretty modest by some runner's standards, but consistent with who I am, what I can do, and why I'm doing it.

And what is the right amount of rest? For me, it's every other day. I run both days on the weekend sometimes, but I don't make a habit of it. Other runners can be out 5 or 6 days a week. I'm not one of them. I start to get tired, I slow down. I don't stop hurting, and worst of all: I stop enjoying my runs. And remember, running is a keystone of my mental health. It's pretty important that I not hate doing it.

Right now, I'm not training for any particular distance. I want to be ready to run any 5K or 10K that comes along, and I have a half and a full Marathon in mind for the fall, but this month, I'm in maintenance mode. To allow for the every-other-day pattern I prefer, I write my own programs on a 14 day cycle that looks like this.

	Sunday	Monday	Tuesday	Wednesday	Thursday	Friday	Saturday
Week 1	XT	5 miles	XT	5 miles	XT	5 miles	Rest
Week 2	13 miles	XT	5 miles	XT	5 miles	Rest	13 miles

XT means Cross-training. Those are the days I swim or ride my bike or walk. I also use those days for strength training. The point is, I don't use the same muscle systems in the same way two days in a row. Recovery happens on a microscopic level. That's why you can run on Monday and walk on Tuesday. You are not challenging the same muscles in the same way. 

I think of the weekday runs as "Purpose" runs. They always have a purpose and there are lots of possibilities. Recovery runs are light and easy, a great way to wring out the joints after a race. Tempo runs help you to learn your ideal speed and to know it by feel. Speed runs are designed to make you stronger and faster. Hill runs... well, they are just what they sound like. Awful. And beautiful. As in, "It feels so good when I stop."

The long runs on the weekend have a purpose too, but it's always the same: to build endurance. The short runs train your legs. The long ones train your will.

When I'm training for a long race, I stretch the distance on one of the long runs and shorten up the other. I've found through experience that I can add about 2 miles every 2 weeks to my long run. When I start training for my next marathon, I'll take that Saturday run out to 15 miles, and drop the next Sunday one down to 8 or 10. The week after that, I should be able to go 17 on Saturday. The following weekend, I'll run 10 or 12. A really long run requires more recovery time. That's why I won't try to run 20 miles two weekends in a row or to run 28 miles the week before a marathon. 

There's a lot of art and science involved in building a program, and I am not going to pretend to understand more than a sliver of it, but this is the way I train myself. Serious runners might scoff at these tiny numbers. Newcomers might despair at them. To the former I say, "Screw You! Don't you people know I'm a natural wonder?" To the latter I say, "Don't compare yourself to anybody. I once thought that a 5K was an unimaginable distance to run. I got to this place one step at a time, and so will you."

Find your own rhythm of stress and recovery. Your legs will tell you when it's time to test yourself, and your heart will tell you when you're ready for the test. Other runners will offer advice, some good, some not. Some authors will speak to your soul and others will talk right over your head. Your job is to listen and learn. And to keep running.

Sleep well. Eat clean. Lift Heavy. Run Hard.

Peace,

Bob

#436: The Last Long One Part 2: In Practice

Saturday Morning, 4:30 AM
The alarm chirps me awake. Mrs P breathes softly beside me. My clothes are already laid out in the bathroom. All I need is breakfast and a shower. Pad my barefoot way out to the den, trying not to wake the dogs. In the kitchen, I step on one of those damn cow hoofs that Mrs P gives them to chew on. I whisper my first four letter word of the day and start the coffee maker.

4:45
One cup of coffee. Only one. Two apple cinnamon scones. So sue me. I'll burn a couple of extra calories before this day is over. Check the route one last time. All city streets that I know well. I memorize the places along the way where I can find restrooms and Gatorade.

5:00
Check the page for Living Strong at the Y 2013, hoping for a little inspiration. I find a $1000 contribution from an anonymous donor, in honor of her mother whose cancer battle ended almost 8 years ago. I write the thank you note and feel the steel forming in my will. There are more important things than my depression. I see Coach's most recent message to me, posted last night. "I believe in you." I can only remember two people saying those words to me. One is my coach. The other is the love of my life. One is going away. The other will never leave me. My heart swells. No time for tears this morning. I can't afford to lose the water or the salt.

5:15 
Time to shower. Dr Bronner's Magic Peppermint suds finish the work that the coffee started. I step out of the tub awake and ready to go. I pay special attention to drying off my hair. It's 34° outside.

5:30
Dressing. The new spandex bike style shorts I got from John's. Body Glide everywhere. inner thighs, toes, nips, armpits, collarbones. Sunscreen everywhere. Never know how warm this day might get. Hope springs eternal. Lip balm. Heart monitor chest strap. White, LIVESTRONG tank. Black warm up pants. The gray Y half zip pullover that Coach bought me for the Monumental Half. White terrycloth wristbands. Check to make sure my route is programmed into the Garmin. Grab my race shoes and socks and pad back out to the den, flipping the cursed cow hoof under the kick space of the kitchen counter with my offended foot.

5:45
Pull on the socks, fitting each toe into its individual pocket. Slip into my NikeFrees, and tie them securely.Two pairs of gloves. SPI belt with energy chews and my interval timer set to 2:00 / 1:00. Hydration backpack that I bought last night at Meijer, filled with diluted PowerAde. Flashing red light on my pack turned on. iPod loaded with my favorite running mix. Slip on my John's running cap with my sunglasses over top for later.

6:00
That's the great thing about running. All you really need are sneakers and a tee-shirt.

6:15
Kiss Mrs P. "Be so careful," she says, not really awake. "I love you." "And I love you, my darling." I may have a schoolboy crush on my coach. but I love this woman with every cell in my body. I run for my cancer people, but I run for her, too. She is the reason I chose to stay alive.  She is with me every step of every run. And so, we run.

Mile 1
11:56. Too damn fast. This one is always a struggle. I feel great. Of course you feel great, idiot. You haven't even run two miles, yet. I try to imagine what mile 26 will feel like, and run at that speed instead. I run the second mile in 12:09 and start being a little more deliberate about my walk breaks.

Run for Rememberance

Mile 4
I arrive at John's just a few minutes behind schedule. 300 runners have gathered to honor the dead and wounded of Boston. The mayor is speaking about the generous heart of our city. Then Kieth takes the mic. He has been running for probably 50 years. He speaks of family. He speaks of unity. He speaks of courage. His heart catches in his throat as he declares, "We are sending a message to the people who want to frighten and hurt us. We will run. Today. Tomorrow. Next year. In Boston. On Patriot's day. Every day. Every where.We will run." And run we do.

Mile 7
The North Lexington Family YMCA. I've been dreading this stop. Mercifully, I only see one person I recognize. I don't have much contact with the Saturday morning crowd. A quick pee stop, and add water to my pack. I have drunk a surprising amount already. Much more than I would have carried on my hydration belt. Trot out to the pavillion where the kids will gather for our morning run. 4 miles. Elissa greets me, a little concerned. "Has the doctor cleared you to run?" I wonder which doctor she means. I am paired with two boys, notorious loafers, and we start off in the chilly morning. I finally need my sunglasses.

Mile 11
If I wanted affirmation for my decision to take time away from work, this was it. I spent four miles restraining the urge to cuss out a pair of 10 year-olds for their lack of motivation. They hate it out here. Elissa is waiting at the finish when I cross the line, alone. They are walking spitefully over the crest of the last hill. Their own personal drama of defiance. "Send them home." I tell her, as I run past the group and out onto the road. It was a mistake to come out here with them today. Kids need patience. Mine is gone. A pee break at the gas station on North Broadway, and I head for the gentle rolling hills of East Loudon Avenue. I am beginning the climb toward the highest point in my run.

Mile 14
The good news is that my four miles with the kids have slowed my pace considerably. Just over half-way through a marathon, and I'm finally warmed up and at tempo. The bad news is, the little store where I planned my next water break has been sold and turned into a restaurant. My pack still sounds full, sloshing happily, but I have at least three more miles before I get to the next water. I set my cap and run on.

Mile 18
I was sure there was a gas station here. Instead, I wander into Kroger. Glassy eyed. I buy a liter of Gatorade and one banana. The little guy monitoring the self-checkout lanes seems mystified. I'm carying a back pack with wires hanging out of it. I'm wearing an ear piece, dark glasses, a black cap, and am covered with little electronic devices that beep every couple of minutes. Not the best outfit to wear 6 days after a terrorist attack. I squint at the keypad without my bifocals, and make my way out of the store, find a place to sit down, and pour a jug of sports drink into my back pack. At least now they know I'm not carrying a bomb in there... Mrs P has sent me a worried text. "Where are you?" I tell her back, telling her where to find me on the map I left her. The sun feels nice, and I pull of my soaked warm up pants, tucking them under the cargo net on my pack. I have now gone farther than either of my last two runs. I figure I've consumed about 3 liters of fluid so far, with only two low volume pee breaks. No wonder I crashed last week. This big motor uses a lot more water than I realized. I pop an energy chew into my mouth, and I'm back on the road.

Mile 19.5
The first cramps.First hint of the approaching Wall. They start in my quads, way down above the knees, which is unusual for me. I consider it a triumph of Coach Carrie's training techniques that she has strengthened my calves so much. That's where I started cramping in Pittsburgh, right around mile 15. As if on cue, both calf muscles turn to fists. Now I can barely straighten my knees to take a step as I make my way through the rolling hills. As icing on the cake, my hamstrings join the symphony. I have felt more pain than this in my life, but never during a run. I think of Becky, doing chemo again for the second bout of cancer: the cancer they found in her spinal fluid. Becky hurts worse than this. So I run.

Mile 25
A very strange point for a break in a marathon. I arrive at the Beaumont Family YMCA, the flagship of our association. I always marvel at this place. It seems as if our entire branch at North would fit inside their basketball court. I haven't got my key tag, so I ask the woman at the front desk to check me in. I think we have taken some kind of class together, but I don't think either of us really remembers the other. I make my way to the restroom, and am surprised at how little urine I produce. For the first time today, my pack is empty of water. I have drunk a gallon of fluid, and not processed enough urine to fill a specimen jar. I've learned something very important about hydration today. I refill my ugly green backpack: my new training partner for life. I send my second text of the day, letting Mrs P know that I'm 3 miles from home. My phone is full of messages of encouragement and concern, many from other cancer fighters. If I could feel anything, I would feel love. But right now, I'm so stoned on Endorphin that all I can feel is my leg muscles seizing into petrified meat. Time to run.

"Bob? It's Dave."

Mile 25.3
Running downhill is a challenge with healthy legs. It is torture when your legs are made of stone. I arrive at an intersection, and there is a car waiting at the stop sign for me. I wave thanks and step off the curb. The driver's door opens, and a familiar bald pate pops out. "Well this is perfect," he laughs. Yesterday, when I was at my lowest, my phone rang. I recognized the number was from a YMCA, and answered with apprehension  "Bob, it's Dave. How are you doing?" It was the CEO of the Central Kentucky YMCA calling. I burst into grateful tears. Who are these amazing people and how in the world have I managed to fall into their loving hands? I was still crying tears of gratitude when Mrs P called to tell me she was coming home. I'm crying them again now as I type. And I cried them yesterday, just a drop or two, when Dave stepped out of his car in the middle of the street and threw his arms around me. "It's good to see you out running, " he smiled.

Mile 26.2
There is a park near our neighborhood. Its ball fields are usually empty when I run through. But yesterday, as I reached the marathon distance, I was surrounded by happy kids in brightly colored uniforms. Bats cracked out base hits all around me. I thought of the two boys who hate running so much. I hope they find something they love as much as these kids love kicking the dirt in the batter's box and pounding the pockets of their mitts into spring softness. My legs still hurt, but the pain was bearable now. I'm not sure if they were relaxing into submission, or if I was past the point of caring, but I felt myself rise up taller as I watched the mileage on my watch flip over to 26.2. 06:36 total elapsed time. That included all those breaks and the long stop in the Kroger parking lot. My time in the Pittsburgh was 6:21. I was going to beat that in Cincinnati, but the Buck-a-Minute donors were going to get quite a bargain.

Mile 28.37
It is finished. I run to the last corner in my route, and shut off my Garmin as I pass the stop sign. I am proud. I wish the neighbors who wave as I walk past could know what I just did. On the other hand, it feels good to carry such a secret inside. I didn't do it for them. I walk and trot easily, carefully cooling down. My next-door neighbor is mowing his lawn, and he shuts off the engine to greet me. He has been following me on Facebook. He knows I've been having a hard time. I thank him for his kindness and can't help bragging to this handsome, strong young man. He smiles. "You know. Most people don't ever run 26 miles until the race. But now you already know you can do it." Yes. Now I know.

I step inside and The Pack greets me. They love it when I come home from a run tasting of sunscreen and salt. I receive an enthusiastic leg massage as I make my way to the kitchen table and drop my nearly empty backpack. Strip off the sweat bands, the shades, and the hat. Grab a towel to protect my chair. Walk back to the den, and ease gently into my desk chair to read the loving messages that friends have posted during the 7 hours I have been out on the road.

2:00
Mrs P comes in the door. My heart soars. Her voice. Her tender kiss. Her concerned eyes. She checks me for signs of dehydration, and pronounces me cold, but OK. She mixes a jug of PowerAde for me, and brings me glass after glass of the rejuvenating stuff. She puts some chicken tenderloins on the grill, and warms up a can of beans. Protein and Carbs. Recovery food. I finally have a good long pee. My heart is so full of my wife, I can hardly breath. Here is the love of my life. She is the reason I'm alive at all. We laugh together about our day. We listen to each other's stories. My hands may be cold, but I can feel the fire between us. There are places between a husband and a wife that no one else can be or even understand. It has never been easy, loving me. Many times, I've made it harder than it had to be. But she's never given up on me. No matter how much it hurts. After all my sermons and rants and righteous speeches and altruistic sounding pronouncements, Martha is the reason I run. I run for my life, yes. But I run toward her love. Always.

Sunday Morning
When I woke up this morning, the darkness was back again. A little less than before. A few tears. A few. Just a few. Guess I'm having an endorphin hangover. Time with my dogs. Time with my wife. Time to pray and reflect. I don't understand this journey that we're on. I don't understand why people I love suffer. Why I hurt them. Why they hurt themselves. I don't understand why I can't be the man I want to be: the man people see when they look at me through the eyes of love. I don't know how I've managed to live so long, make so many mistakes, and survive so many consequences. I'm 52 years old, and sometimes I don't think I know a damn thing. Except this. God made me. My Creator gave me deep flaws, but also gave me strength. More strength than I could have ever imagined. Strength to endure. Strength to survive. Strength to serve. Strength to love.

May God grant me the strength to run the race set out for me. And may I never stop loving the people God uses to teach me that strength and that love. May I never stop working to deserve their faith and their sacrifice and their trust. Today. Tomorrow. Next year. Every day. Every where.

The Fat Man runs.

Peace,
Pennsy

#435: The Last Long One Part 1: In Theory

How the Last Long One Feels

Every run has a purpose, especially when you are training for a long race. Sometimes you're teaching your legs to find the right tempo. Sometimes you're attacking hills to build strength or running intervals of speed and recovery to teach your feet to turn-over faster. There are lots of different kinds of running workouts, but the granddaddy of them all is the one that gets runners out of bed on Saturday mornings in all kinds of weather to hit the roads in pairs, in packs, and all alone. The Long One.

The Long One is about endurance. It's about building the conditioning and the wind and the will to keep going mile after mile. In the off season, the Long One might be 5 or 10 miles, depending on how you feel. When you're chasing 26.2, the Long One is your most important workout of the week, and my favorite of them all is the Last Long One. The biggest mileage you put up before a race.

Conventional wisdom has most runners going for 20 miles three weeks before a marathon. I have two problems with that. First, I found that three weeks of rest actually knocked a little of the edge off of my conditioning. In spite of putting in all the miles before Pittsburgh, I felt under-prepared. I decided last year that my "taper," - the time you spend easing up on the gas before an event - would not be as long this year.

Second, I know from consistent experience that it is very hard for me to add more than 2 miles every two weeks to my previous long run. A 20 miler would have me hitting "the wall," - and yes, the wall is very real - around 22 miles, making those last 4.2 an even more horrific experience than they are designed to be.

So today, I ran my last long one before the Flying Pig Marathon two weeks and a day before the start. and I ran just under 28.4 miles.

Now, if you're a runner, you know that is just insane, but bear with me. I've thought it out. I just have to wait until May 5 to test whether I was right. If I'm wrong, I'm going to have a looong ride on the bus of shame at the back of the pack.

Two weeks is my standard interval for increasing my long runs during training. I run long, then back off a little the next weekend to recover, then add two miles the next Saturday. That's just the way I've learned I respond to training best. If my body holds to form, I should be ready for a 30 mile run on May 5. The marathon  is a lot shorter than that.

But those miles. What's the point? Well, for me, there is only one point to the Last Long One and that is to put your shoulder into the wall and push the sucker back. Doesn't matter if I hit it at 17 miles, at 20, or at 25.5. I have to know that it isn't going to stop me, no matter what. The wall isn't a myth, it's physiology. At 20 miles, your body has used up just about all the resources it has to make you go. If you aren't well conditioned. If your training hasn't prepared you. If you haven't been taking water and nutrition for the first 20 miles. If you don't have the fuel and the guts and the will to endure the pain, your tank will empty and you will seize up like a jeep with a cracked oil pan. The wall hurts, and once you hit it, you only have two choices: give up, or push it back. My run today wasn't about 28 miles, It was about mile 28. I needed to know that I could run the whole marathon and then some before beginning my taper. I didn't run all out. I took long walk breaks. Stopped for water and a pee a couple of times, and once I even sat down and enjoyed a banana in the warm April sunshine for a few minutes. But at the end of the workout, after more or less 7 hours in motion, I had run farther than my legs have ever taken me before. And I pushed the wall out past the point where I will ever have to face it in this race.

I'm not going win any awards in Cincinnati. But I'm going to PR. I won't hit my dream goal of running an hour faster than I did in Pittsburgh, but I'm going to run strong. And I'm going to hit that finish line knowing that if I had to, I could knock out another four miles, just to show off.

Tomorrow, as you might imagine, is a rest day on my training schedule. Mrs P has some chores for me, and I might try to get to the pool for a little water jogging. But I also want to write about the run itself. I don't think I've ever had one quite like it. The combination of depression and distance can make for an interesting morning's work...

Peace,
Pennsy

#423: Running Long, Falling Short

"I went to the doctor. I went to the mountains..." My soul has always found healing in the mountains. This Sunday, the Great Physician led me to northern Kentucky where I got a generous dose of just the right medicine.

I had time for two long runs before my Marathon in May. The plan was to do 26 this weekend, take two weeks for recovery, then go longer than 26 one last time before the race. When a friend invited me on a run through the serious hills north of Lexington, I decided that the climbing would more than make up for the lost miles, and plotted a 20 mile course from Millersburg to my friend Sandy's house, deep in the hollers of Nicholas county. Before the day was over, I was to learn just how much I had under-estimated those hills. I would also experience one of the most gratifying failures of my life.

A Mountain Locker Room

We met after church. The weather was lovely. At 72 partly cloudy degrees, the Bluegrass finally felt like spring had arrived. Mrs P dropped me off in Millersburg where I joined my friend Jeri and some fellow runners. It was great to be in shorts and a singlet after the long months of tights and treadmills.

Jeri

Jeri and I started down the road out of town and we were soon climbing. She set a pace that was a little quicker than I would have liked, and chose 5:00 run/1:00 walk intervals. I planned to run the first 5 or 6 miles with her, then she would turn back while I continued on for my long run. I figured I could take the challenge of keeping up with her stronger legs for a little while, but the pace and the hills soon told me otherwise. "I can't keep up with you, Jeri. I'll slow down and you go on ahead." She seemed mystified. "What? I thought I was trying to keep up with YOU." She had interpreted my attempts to follow her as an effort to push her. We switched to shorter run intervals, and the trip became much less of a trial.

Take me to the River

Bridge Over Peaceful Waters

Blood and Sweat, but
No Tears... Yet

We talked about running and grandkids and dogs and our marriages. We puffed up the hills and gasped at the beautiful views from their tops. When my teeth popped out of my mouth (again...) we laughed at the silliness of it, and when a misstep off the edge of the black-top sent me tumbling, we joked about other great falls we had suffered on the roads. When we rounded the bend that led us to the covered bridge at Colville, our time together seemed much too short. Jeri's husband was there waiting with water, and Jeri snapped some pictures of my gory looking leg before I trotted off down the road toward the remainder of my journey. The hills were brutal and beautiful. There were long, steep climbs followed by descents that always seemed too short. Sometimes the roads led me along a ridge where I could see for what seemed like miles. Other times I followed along beside creeks in deep valleys where ancient houses, trailers, and barns lined the road sides. Occasionally I would pass someone feeding horses or just relaxing on their porch. They would stare in puzzled amusement as I jogged along.

I encountered lots of other critters on my way. This isn't thoroughbred country. No million-dollar farms out here. These horses work hard for a living, and it shows. Their pastures and their coats are both a lot rougher than their cousins at Keeneland, but they are no less beautiful. Cattle knelt by roadside fences as if in prayer, and lumbered warily to their feet as I passed. An occasional snort from a muddy pen let me know that next winter's hams were rooting contentedly in the shade. And of course, there were the dogs. Working dogs are like working horses. No carefully bathed sissies out here. There were the big old shepherds patrolling fenced in yards. Shaggy giants roaring from barns. And then there were the Pits.

There is a certain amount of... how to put this?.. home-style chemical manufacturing going on in these woods. Years ago, that might have meant white lightening. Probably still does in some places. But things being how they are in the mountains nowadays, the products are more sinister. Meth labs are scattered among the shacks and abandoned out-buildings in the hills, and they take a terrible toll on our people. Of course, whether you're cooking meth or moonshine, you need a security system, and that often means dogs that are meant to keep strangers far away. A couple of bruisers charged at me as I ran, but I just raised myself up tall, didn't change my pace, and acted for all the world like the biggest dog in the woods. Once they saw that I was not weak or wounded, and had no intention of stopping to sniff around, they always settled down. One even sidled in beside me and trotted down the road quietly for a couple hundred yards. I'm not sure if he was  being a partner or just escorting me off the property, but it was funny having such a fierce looking monster on my heel for a while.

The terrain had been rough all day, but around mile 10, I started wondering if I hadn't bitten off more than I could chew. By mile 13, I was pretty certain that I had. I switched my run/walk intervals to 30 seconds. Soon I was walking 30 and shuffling 30 with an occasional break to sit on a roadside rock where I contemplated the insanity of a 50 year-old-cancer survivor trying to raise money by running marathons. Somewhere during mile 14 I said it out loud: "I'm in trouble here." Cell phone signals are few and far between out in the hills. I had to wait to get to the top of one before I could see any bars on my screen. "I'm about five miles from you, and I'm out of gas," I gasped to Mrs P. "I need you to come and get me." After she had dropped me off in Millersburg, she had gone on to Sandy's house for some R&R. She had a detailed map of my route in case I needed rescuing. The two of them hopped in Sandy's truck and headed toward me.

As Far As I Was Going to Go

Knowing help was on the way gave me heart and I tried jogging a little. I was in a very pretty valley and the road was as flat as I had seen all day, so the going was pretty smooth. I knew from plotting my route online that there was a mile long hill, the steepest of the day, waiting at mile 17. Around 16.8, I came to a pretty little crossroads with a beautiful country church standing silently by. I saw a large concrete pad that I knew must be the sceptic tank, and limped to it. This was as far as I was going to go.

I don't remember what I thought about as I sat there on that cement sewer. I'm not sure I thought of anything at all. I was well past the "stupid zone" where my brain shuts off and my legs take over. Both were exhausted now, and I sat quietly in that contemplative state like a soggy monk, waiting for deliverance.

Just a Little Road Rash

Sandy almost drove right past me. She expected me to be back around mile 15, where I was when I made my SOS call. When she and Mrs P pulled to a stop in the gravel beside the church. I wasn't sure if I would be able to walk to the truck or not. My wife got out to help me, and fret over the blood that was caked down my right calf. My fall with Jeri had left me pretty well scratched up and the blood thinners I take had done their work.

As we turned onto the ironically named "Johnson Road," I finally learned just how badly I had underestimated this run. The mile long climb was as steep a road as I have seen anywhere this side of Colorado. I couldn't have run it. I couldn't have crawled it. As Sandy swung the big crew-cab across the bridge and up the long drive that leads to her house, I knew that they had saved me as surely as if they had rowed up beside me in a lifeboat on a stormy sea.

At Last, a Friendly Dog

No joke: this was the toughest run of my life. Not even my marathon left me as drained and helpless at this trip through the mountains. Along the way, I had questioned everything from my attempts to raise money to my dreams of running another Marathon. I had doubted myself and my own strength. I had doubted my own intelligence! After only 15 miles I had decided to just give up. I sent up a flare. I sat by the side of the road and thought about what it felt like to surrender.

Then I thought about the reason I was running. I thought about Becky, fighting for her life against the chemo that was trying to kill her second bout of cancer. I thought of Raynee and the tumor in her brain that threatened to steal her from her husband and little children. I thought of the scar on James' scalp and the fire in Jaspal's eyes and always, always Coach Carrie's voice. "You can't do this, Bob." And Melissa. "I see you running a Marathon someday." And Mrs P. "I believe in you, Bobbo." I got up off my ass when I didn't have a drop of energy left and no hope in the world of finishing this course, and I by-God ran. I ran two more miles after I was sure I couldn't go another step.

How? Courage? Determination? Stubbornness? Stupidity? God? Yes, I think it was God. God, who created me to be a runner. God, who let the cancer almost kill me so I could discover my own strength. God, who appears in the eyes of every survivor, every caregiver, every doctor and nurse and kind friend I meet in my battle against a disease I hate.

The View from Sandy's Porch

The two great seasons of the church year are Christmas and Easter. Incarnation and Resurrection. God with us, and God redeeming us. The spirit of God is alive in the people I serve. They are my inspiration and my strength. Whatever courage I have, I learned from the warriors I have met in the gym and on the road. That's why I run. That's why I'm always begging for money. And that's why I will run that crazy race in May.

Not because I can't let them down.

But because they won't let me fall.

Peace,
Pennsy

#415: Intervals: Just Keep Going

There are a lot of different kinds of runs. One of my favorites is the Long Slow one. I usually schedule one a week, at least 8 miles: longer if I'm training for a race. This is pure endurance training, miles for their own sake. I always record my time and pace from these runs, but I rarely pay much attention to them while I'm on the road. More often than not, I'm enjoying the scenery or the company if there is any.

A Recovery Run is great after a hard workout or race. 2-4 distance. Easy jogging. Lots of walk breaks. I use it to keep the joints moving and get the blood flowing. A Recovery Run is a healing run.

Tempo Runs are more aggressive. They're all about speed. If you have a time goal for an upcoming event, you might try to hit your goal pace for part of a run or even the majority of your workout. Tempo Runs can take you a little beyond your threshold of comfort.

Then there are Intervals. Intervals take you way past the threshold. Yesterday's was an interval workout. I jogged about a mile to warm up, then set my timer to go off every thirty seconds. For the next three miles, I tried to hit progressively faster speeds, for half a minute, with walk breaks in between. By mile 4, I was running at 8 MPH: that's a pace of 7:30 per mile. That's about as fast as I can go no the treadmill which makes it about as fast as I can go.I was pleased that I could keep the intervals up for the entire last mile.I guess the next step is to start making the quick ones a few seconds longer. In any case, yesterday had more than it's share of frustrations, so I was glad for the chance to blow off some steam out on the trail.

The run got me thinking about "intervals" in general. You know, the way life can sometimes feel like you're either going full speed or not moving at all? I'm sure everybody has times like that. During a depressive "spell," it seems like that's all there is. You're either frozen, not daring (or wanting) to move, or else everything around you seems to be moving at light speed and you don't see any way in the world of keeping up.

One of the hard lessons a runner has to learn is "Run Your Own Race" If you have a competitive bone in your body, you always feel a little tug when another runner passes you. You don't want to get left behind by that kid or that old guy or that pregnant lady pushing a stroller. But the truth is that sometimes, runners are just faster than you are. You have to learn to let them go. I guess that's how I manage my dark times nowadays. I remind myself that I'm running injured. I can't go as hard as I'm used to going. There are some parts of life that I just have to let run on past me. That's tough. I may not be a champion, but I'm pretty driven to always give my best. It's tough to take when your "best" only feels like 45%.

I started on the new, higher dose of "nerve pills" yesterday. The chemistry takes time to adjust. Time. It's just one more of those things that you have to let go at their own pace and trust that you'll catch up eventually. In the meantime, the people who love you suffer right along with you. Harsh words are spoken, promises are broken, plans fall through. At its worst, the disease tries to convince you that the only solution is to stop running and get out of the race. I know that voice well. It spoke to me with screams around mile 16 of my marathon when my legs started cramping at every stride. All I could think, all I could say was, "Just keep moving." Every time my watch beeped for another walk break, I just wanted to put my hands on my knees, fall to the curb, lay down in the gutter and quit. But I knew people were counting on me. I was counting on myself. "Just keep going."

On the track, you can make it through the intervals by reminding yourself that they don't last forever. Your lungs burn and your legs ache, but you know that the sprint only lasts for a few more seconds. You know that the hard part doesn't last. You can make it. You just keep going.

And in the end, what's left is the strength. Your heart comes through stronger. You recover faster. You move a little quicker. That's why you run intervals on the track. And I guess, I do them in life for the same reason. I just have to trust that they'll be over eventually and I'll be stronger for having gotten through them.

Just gotta keep going.

Peace,
Pennsy

#399: Life After 20 (Miles)

Yep, ran 23 miles Saturday morning.  I wanted to hit the Run the Bluegrass half-marathon course one more time before the race next week. I also had a long run on my training schedule. I managed to do both, and along the way, I went someplaceI've never been before.

I AM UP EARLY anticipating getting on the road just after dawn. 7:30 is a good time to start a run here in the Bluegrass. The sun is just high enough that you don't need to wear flashing lights and reflective gear. The night before, I laid out my clothes and spent some time learning how my new Garmin 405 works. I got a great price on Amazon, and this would be my first time on the road using it. I feed the dogs, scoop the cat boxes, tape the nips, and kiss Mrs P good bye.

Just before walking out the door, I make one last bathroom stop. Once I'm out of town, there is no place but the cedars to hide should nature call. I'd rather not take a chance on messing up my good shoes.

The air is cool: 50° and the sun is just starting to glow in the east. I've decided to use the first half-hour of my run as a warm up, and have my watch set to go off at 30 second intervals. I want to get the blood pumping without using up the fuel I'll need on the hills to come. The beauty of this rhythm is that it makes it almost impossible to go too fast. I feel so good that I don't realize I've missed the first turn on my planned course. I'm only a few blocks away, so it's easy to get back on track.

Photo by Nick Weller

PARKER'S MILL ROAD is a beautiful stretch past neat little suburban ranch houses, a couple of million dollar mansions, and acres of horse farms. It is very narrow in places, and I have to step off into the wet grass a couple of time to give room to oncoming cars. I can feel my socks getting damp, and make a note to carry an extra pair on long runs from now on. Wet feet mean blisters, and I don't have time to recover from them before the half next weekend. I decide to get up on the rumble strip at the edge of the blacktop and hold my ground. I give a wave to drivers as they make way for me and most of them wave back, country-style.

The gates of Keeneland

KEENELAND looks fantastic this morning. The early spring has brought out bluegrass and redbud trees. Even a couple of dogwoods are blooming. By this time, my intervals have changed to 1:00 run/1:00 walk. I feel strong as I begin the half-marathon course. A few runners are out, testing the hills. Some zip past me, some just chug. I let them go. I have a bigger agenda this morning. I get to the back gate and realize that THIS is where I took LaDonna on our first long turn back when we ran out here a few weeks back. She's been razzing me lovingly ever since, and I make a mental note to think up a way to make this her fault.

THE HILLS are everything I remember: long, steep, and relentless. They are also breathtakingly beautiful. A flock of Canada Geese honks over a pond in the middle of a farm in a hollow to the left. A hawk soars above, looking for breakfast. It's the biggest one I've ever seen; so big I wonder if it is really an eagle. Eventually, I cross the railroad tracks for the third time, and make my way to "The Chicken House." It's a pretty little farm house in a copse of honeysuckle with a fierce sounding dog and an even fiercer sounding rooster in the yard. Woe to any trespasser here. I hang a left, and resume climbing.

THE LOWEST PART OF THE COURSE is just past the 6 mile point. That's where I turn right onto Old Frankfort Pike, and while there's lots of steep up and down, I'll be climbing the rest of the way. In my mind, this is where the race really starts.

In any season, the Pike is breathtaking

OLD FRANKFORT is as Kentucky as a road gets. White fences. Rolling hills. Stone walls with ornate iron gates. These are the farms I've heard about when I watch triple crown races. Oaks, Black Walnuts, and Red Buds line the way and there is no shoulder at all, only ditches or steep upward embankments. It's no place for headphones, and it's no place to zone out. I listen for cars in both directions, and stay as far to the left as I can, walking if I have to when someone comes barreling toward me over the crest of a rise. It could actually get a little stressful if it wasn't one of the most beautiful places on earth. Some of the views are breathtaking. I shout out greetings to two men in white straw cowboy hats who are spreading mulch around the landscaping at one of the farm gates. I also pass a dead skunk which is strangely not as horrible as it sounds.

JUST WHEN I FEEL LIKE I'VE CONQUERED THE WORST OF THE HILLS, there is a right turn off of Frankfort Pike and I'm heading some of the toughest terrain on the course. I climb about 100 feet in the last half of mile 9, up an S-curve that teases me 4 times with the impression that I'm almost to the top, only to reveal more slope. I pant out "YES" as I finally reach the true crest, and recognize the barn where LaDonna and I took our pictures the day we were lost. I finally know where we were! There is a merciful half-mile decent after "the curve" that leads to the last turn on the course. A creek. Shade trees. Twisting blacktop and farms, farms, farms. The hills continue, and I really feel them since I've now progressed to intervals of 3:00 run/1:00 walk. Galloway recommends 1/1 for the pace I want to run, and am seriously considering that he is right again. Then, between miles 11 and 12, I have a lucky accident.

With a check for an article and Mrs P's permission...

THE GARMIN 405 can do amazing things. It's tracking my heart rate. It's recording my course and elevation. It's beeping out my intervals. It's telling me how far ahead or behind my target pace I'm running. It even has a function that will tell me if I'm on course or not. You push a button and a little compass arrow points you toward the road you should take at any crossing. I get a little worried at a fork in the road and decide to push the button. I discover that I've made the right choice. Then I discover that I've stopped the workout I had designed. Now there's no way to know how far I've run since I started, and there's no way to get back to the intervals I was running. I have to start all over again. I'm back to running 30 seconds, then walking 30 seconds. And I'm feeling just what I'm supposed to feel. My legs are recovering. I'm getting stronger. My pace, which had been growing more and more slow with each run, is soon back on target. When I reach the finish line of the course, I'm feeling strong and confident. I've gone almost 18 miles, well past the point where I crashed on my last long run.

THIS WEATHER IS PERFECT for a run. It's probably in the high 50's by now, just cool enough. The sun is beaming as noon approaches, but there is a nice breeze to balance it's warmth. I notice a familiar pain on my chest and look down to see a growing spot of blood on my chest. The tape has come off and my left nip is bleeding. I am perversely proud of this development. It's as much a part of a real runner's life as black or missing toenails. I make a note to put a trial-size stick of Body Glide in the pouch with my dry socks when I run long again.

IT'S A HAPPY COINCIDENCE that I hit 19 miles at the same intersection where I had to stop and call for Mrs P to come pick me up two weeks ago. She happens to call to check on me as I approach the spot, and I tell her I feel fantastic. I really do.

AT 20 MILES, I smile. It doesn't matter what happens from here. I've gone farther than ever before in my life. Every stride is pushing the wall back another yard. I imagine I'm an offensive lineman, pushing my defender into the secondary. I don't have to bust the wall, I just have to push it back to 26.3 miles. For the first time, I really believe that I will be able to run a marathon. The last 3 miles are like a celebration. I'm approaching home, and remembering how big these mole-hills seemed to be a year ago. People are mowing, walking their dogs. I keep smiling and saying good morning, which is funny since it's almost 1:00 in the afternoon. I hope they can see my bloody shirt and know what it means. I take the last turn, and coast down hill to the stop sign where my run ends. There's no doubt in my mind that I could do another 3 miles if I had to. In about 5 weeks, theres gonna be a 26.2 sticker on the back of the Honda.

A STRETCH, A SMOOTHIE, AND A NAP are in order. I make my log entries, brag a little on Facebook, and post a tweet for LIVING STRONG AT THE YMCA:

23.39 miles today. What's it gonna take to get you to join my fundraiser for #LIVESTRONG at the #YMCA? http://www.crowdrise.com/pennsyycky

A couple of friends give me a RT, (and later, another $25 comes in from a fellow survivor.) Late in the afternoon, Mrs P and I go out for some dinner at Ramsey's. I order the blackened catfish which seems wholesome enough. We indulge by sharing a piece of Key Lime Pie.Then it's home and early to bed.

Adding this movie to my "must see" list

LAST WEEK I TWEETED, "Make your goals outrageous!" I'm doing my best to follow my own advice. The Spirit of the Marathon is a jealous gal. She doesn't give those last miles up easily. She's there at every hill, waiting for you, testing you. You can't steal her kiss, you have to earn it. It is outrageous to think that a man like me could ever taste those lips, but that's just what I intend to do.

And then, I'm gonna take a very long nap. (Typical male...)

Peace,

Pennsy

#395: Pennsy Meets The Wall

It was not a particularly glorious finish. Standing glassy-eyed by the side of the road while drivers slowed down to ask if I was all right. 19 miles into a 21 mile run, my longest ever, I had found it. The crash. The bonk. The WALL. The wall is legendary in Marathoner Lore. He's a boogie man who lives out there around mile 20 and asks each runner a simple question: "Can you run through me?" I had never met him before. I was not ready to battle him. Not yet.

Long Slow Run - 40° to start. 19.1 miles/04:24:54 @ 8:34 AM. Green Pegasus. Old Frankfort/Pisgah/Parkers Mill. Started at 3:00 run/0:30 walk, but slowed it down to 1/1 at the end.

Splits 13:07, 12:08, 12:16, 12:42, 12:23, (Mile 1-5 / 01:02:36, avg 12:31) 

12:53, 12:53, 12:37, 13:15, 13:33, (Mile 6-10 / 01:05:11, avg 13:02)

13:29, 13:40, 13,35, 14,18, 13:10, (Mile 11-15 / 01:08:02, avg 13:10)

14:53, 15:51, 17:52, 16:47, (Mile 16 - 19 / 1:05:23, avg 16:20)

Started too fast.Felt strong through the first 15.

I started out at what felt like a conservative pace. My goal this morning was to hit the 11 mile mark feeling strong and fresh. At Pittsburgh, the stretch from 11-16 miles is all uphill. It's a 220 ft climb that starts with a 164 foot ascent from the Monongahela river to Oakland in just 1.2 miles. There's nothing like that around Lexington, not that I know about. All I can do is run enough small hills, and hope I'm ready for the big one.


So, yes, I tried to set a very easy pace for the first 11 miles. And I was successful at that. When I turned the corner onto Pisgah Pike, (which is the most beautiful road in the Bluegrass, by the way,) I felt pretty amazing, and my splits show it. I was slowing down, but still around my target pace of 13:30/mile. By the time I finished mile 16, though, I was pretty well shot. I tried adjusting my walk breaks, eventually setting my timer at 1:00 intervals, but at 19 miles, the gas just ran out. I found a grassy spot and called for Mrs P.


I got a couple of good lessons from this run: about myself, and about The Wall. I learned that it is extremely motivating if you tell everyone you know that you are running a marathon and doing it to raise money for people you know and love. That's a lot of hearts to carry with you. Also a lot of scrutiny if you decide to wimp out. I don't think I could have have done those last four miles without you.


I also learned that The Wall is real and will shut you down in a skinny minute if you are not prepared for him. I thought I did everything right. Drank water. Took nutrition. Stuck to my Run/Walk/Run schedule. Ran Happy. I did my best. But I need to make my best better. 


This was my longest run ever. There will be a few even longer. I need to pay more attention to my pacing in the first part of a long run. I didn't slow down to my target pace until mile 10. I sure could have used some of that energy when I got to mile 17. 


Hey, I have a lot to celebrate. I ran 19 miles, for crying out loud. But 19 isn't 26.2. I did my best, but my best just isn't good enough to take on The Wall yet. 


But soon...


Peace,
Pennsy


LIVING STRONG AT THE Y, Pennsy's fundraiser to support LIVESTRONG at the YMCA is up and running. Please learn how you can contribute by clicking this link. Click. Give. Share. Together, we can do so much.

#387: Long, Slow, Chilly Run

As my marathon training turns serious, I want to make blogging a more consistent part of the process, so here's today's run report...

52° - 43°, 15.8 mi/3:41:09 @ 3:09 PM. Arboretum. Red Pegasus. 1:00 run/1:00 walk for 8 miles, then 1:30 run/1:00 walk. Splits 13:41, 13:21, 13:47, 13:22, 14:02, 13:23, 12:56, 13:17, 13:17, 13:02, 14:35, 14:08, 14:51, 14:53, 15:04. Lost my key. M saved me.

All of which means I had a really beautiful, sometimes puzzling, and ultimately weird run today.


And in case you're wondering, the answer is yes, 3:00 in the afternoon is a really stupid time to start a long run in the middle of winter. I slept in this morning, and had a serious dearth of gumption so I put it off for way too long. Then, when I saw that the temperature was 52°, I just couldn't stay inside.


I intended to make this a very long run. I had fantasies of 20 miles dancing in my head, but given my speed and the lateness of the hour, I would have been running until bedtime. My most recent long run was 11 decent miles followed by 3 miserable ones, followed by 2 miles of wishing someone would put a bullet in my head. I decided to just try and improve on that and see how far my legs would carry me.


I chose the Arboretum because a) it's a trail in a park, so there's no traffic to deal with, and b) I had nearly collapsed on my last long run, and the Arboretum trail is a circle, so you're never more than a quarter mile from the car if things turn weird. Which they did.


I used a very conservative Run/Walk interval: 1:00/1:00 for the first eight miles, then 1:30/1:00 for the last 8. This worked really well for me. The short run interval at the beginning forced me to hold back on the early miles. Now that I get a good look at my splits, I'm thinking that stretching out the run to 1:30 might have been a mistake. I certainly started slowing down at 10 miles, which will be a problem in Pittsburgh, where the toughest part of the course is around mile 11. I need to be training so I'm very strong at 10 miles, not starting to fade. My plan is to have no more long runs any shorter than 11 miles. I'll need both conditioning and pacing to climb that hill on May 6.


At mile 11, I felt great. At mile 12, my calves started hurting a little but had recovered well after the minute walk breaks. I was running happy after mile 13, knowing that I had completed the half marathon distance without misery. By mile 14, I could tell I was slowing, but I still felt strong. I knew I could go on for a few more miles. I said out loud, "I feel good. I'm going for 17." I got to 15 in good form, feeling prettier than I probably was. 


Then, at around 15.2 miles, my phone rang. It was Mrs P's ring, and I noticed it was really getting dark out, so I knew she was calling to check up on me. I assured her that I was feeling great, going for a new personal record for distance, and would be home soon. Yes, it was dark. No there were no lights on the path. No, I wasn't wearing my little flashing lights. I was fine. Don't worry. Love you. Buh-bye. And as I closed my phone and slipped it back into my pocket, I realized that my car key was gone.


So here's where I am. It's dark. The temperature has dropped almost 10 degrees since I set off in shorts and a long sleeved tech shirt. I own only one key to my car. We lost the duplicate years ago and added replacing it to that long list of things we ought to take care of some day. It's Saturday night. It's a three-day weekend. And I'm wandering back and forth on the path looking for a single key, in the dark, using my cell phone as a flashlight. #fail. 


I called Mrs P for help. She brought me warm, dry clothes and a flash light. We hiked the .25 miles to where my phone rang, and found the key easily. Then we walked back to the parking lot holding hands in the cold Kentucky night. It was much more romantic than you might imagine under the circumstances.


Which made me kind of glad that I dropped my key. Even if I didn't run 20 miles today.


Peace,
Pennsy

#379: A Christmas Day Run

Nephew.. keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine. - A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens.


So here's how I kept Christmas this year:

‎32° 10.01mi/2:07:47 @ 9:15. AGL/ParkersMill Loop. Adidas Grey. 5:00 run/0:45 walk. Splits: 12:53 12:11 12:12 12:15 12:33 12:54 12:55 13:17 13:18 13:10.. Once you're off the highway, this is a beautiful course. Hills, farms, horses, South Elkhorn Creek. Perfect Christmas run.

It was still dark when the dogs woke me. I let them out and bundled up next to Mrs P for a few extra minutes. Before long, Clare started yipping and a smoke alarm started the chirp that tells you it's time to remove the battery and forget to replace it until the time changes again. I got up and fumbled with the thing for a while, then let the dogs back into the house and gave them breakfast. Put on a pot of coffee. Pulled on the running clothes I had laid out last night. Made some toast.


Even under the best circumstances, it's a bit of a chore to get Mrs P up and moving on Sunday morning. Of course, last night we were at church until late, then we came home and made our final preparations for Santa's arrival, (just in case, you know?) I was pretty confident she would be sleeping in this Christmas. The dogs returned to their naps, and I opened up mapmyrun.com to find a route for the morning. There is a road near our home I've been wanting to run, but it's pretty narrow and I worry about traffic. I figured Christmas morning was likely to be a low volume time, so I laid it out. 10 miles. Rolling hils. Country roads. Just my style.


While I was there, I did a search and checked out the route for the Pittsburgh Marathon. Man, it looks so brutal. There's a nearly 200 ft climb from mile 11 to mile 12. That's steeper than anything I've ever tried to run. I'm going to need to spend some time in the mountains this winter.


Once the sun had come out and the temperature had risen to a balmy 32°, I put on my warm-up suit and reflective vest and hit the road. The morning was just beautiful. The steely gray sky gradually warmed to clear blue as the day warmed my face. The first 3 miles are along a highway that I have driven many times. It's such a different perspective when you run. At one point, a bunny loped along ahead of me, by the side of the road. I'm not sure if he was running away, or trying to coax a tortoise into a race. We had fun for a few yards, anyway. My route took me past my beloved Actors' Guild, then turned toward farmland. This little road follows the banks of South Elkhorn Creek for a while, then climbs up toward Bluegrass Airport. Running past horse farms on a sunny morning is heavenly. Doing it on Christmas morning defies any language I can put together. I can't explain this, but when I'm running, I find the smell of horse manure in a field to be so exhilarating. It smells of earth and life and it's just so... I don't know... pure, you know? 


It got me thinking about Joseph. Poor, old, quiet Joseph. He had to walk a long way, a lot longer than I ran this morning. He had a young finance who had turned up mysteriously pregnant. He had a dream telling him he should marry her anyway. Now, he had the Romans calling him back to Bethlehem for a "census," whatever that meant. Probably more taxes. This was no way to start the winter. Then, when he finally dragged his little family into town, they couldn't find a bed. Wound up sleeping in the barn. Surrounded by animals. The smell of horse manure. I wonder if the carpenter from Nazareth took any comfort from that. Sitting there awake while his wife delivered somebody's child in the straw. Smelling the animals. Hearing their breathing and shuffling feet. And once it was all over, and Mary slept with the child on her breast. Did Joseph put his head down in the straw and look up at the stars, breathing in the earthy smells of the stable, wondering what just happened, and what it would mean for him and his bride-to-be? Before long, Joseph would be walking again, the Gospels tell us. This time, he walked all the way to Egypt while Herod hunted for the little boy hidden in swaddling clothes, riding in his mother's arms on a donkey laden with gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Myrrh. Just what a newborn needs. Maybe he could sell it when they got to Egypt to buy some tools. I wonder if Joseph had any hope in his heart, in the midst of all that confusion. He was doing his best to do the right thing, and it was turning out to be more difficult than anyone could have anticipated. He would marry the girl. He would raise the boy. He would pretend nothing was wrong, that he couldn't hear the snickers, that it didn't hurt to know his wife had been unfaithful. He did it for the sake of the child; for the sake of the woman. He did the right thing. And in a way, Joseph taught his son how to do the right thing; even when it hurt; even when it made no sense; even when it cost more than anyone could have imagined. 


I made it home just as Mrs P was wrapping the last present. She got a set of Harry Potter DVD's. I got two books on marathons by Jeff Galloway and Grete Waitz. We went out to Hunan for dinner, but didn't have the Chinese Turkey. Now, as I type, three dogs are stretched out on the floor, Clare is curled up in my chair, Kizzie is sleeping on a blanket in front of the heating vent in our bedroom, and Maggie is rolled up in a ball on our bed. Mrs P is reading. It's as perfect a Christmas as I can imagine. I hope old Joseph got to enjoy one or two in his life. That's the best part about Christmas. It's the night Hope was born.

He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms.

Peace, and Merry Christmas
Pennsy

#367: Great Workout

My day started with some letters and paperwork that needed attending to. Then I got a message from a friend about a really attractive acting opportunity that I won't jinx by going into right now. Then, I packed my bag and hit the gym.

I started with some boot-camp style circuit training. Squats, lunges, and presses with weighted bars, Swiss balls and dumbbells, laps around the basketball court, lots of belly and butt work that made me sweat and swear. I worked with a couple of friends from the LiveSTRONG group and our trainer, Carrie. I don't know when I've ever loved and hated a pretty woman as much as I do Carrie when she's pushing me to do "Just one more."

Then it was time for my run and it was a good one. Here's my log entry:

81 degrees. 4.03 miles/43:31 @ 2:13 PM. Legacy Loop. Adidas. Intervals. Podcaster 178 BPM intervals. Splits: 11:09, 10:27, 10:38, 11:00. That's a pretty high cadence for me, but I was able to sustain it. Miles 1 & 4 include warm up and cool down.


 I ran it much quicker than usual. I used Podrunner, to keep my cadence. You know I'm not a big fan of running with headphones, but I find that the steady beat of these specially designed mixes let me run and not have to think about speed or pace. Won't use them on the road, though. It's really good to be able to hear what's coming behind you when you're alone out in the country at 6:30 in the morning. Still, the music can be very relaxing. I'm sure I'm going to fall asleep while running someday. Now that will be worth a blog post.


Then it was back to the gym for some weights.

Exercise	Weight	Sets	Reps
Deadlift	155	2	15
Shoulder Press	40	2	15
Step Up	40	2	15
Lat Pulldown	130	2	15
Reverse Crunch		2	25

HTML Tables

I have one more week of these New Rules for Lifting Break-in workouts, then I'll take a rest from the weight room and taper my runs in preparation for the Half-Marathon on the 23rd. After that, I'm going to cut down to three runs a week, and hit the weights hard. I'd like to build more upper body strength while my legs recover in November.

I dressed and went to the pool for some cool-down, but the joint was full of firefighters training for water rescue on one side, and some sort of little kids' swim team that appeared to be made up of tiny human/dolphin hybrid creatures on the other. A couple of them must have had motors. There is something so beautiful about a really fine swimmer. The strokes are so smooth and efficient. The body seems to slip through the water. I stood enjoying them for a few moments, but old guys watching little kids in swimming togs are more suspicious than they used to be, so I went to the steam bath for a little stretching.

OK, I have been in the sauna. I guess it's good for you. It smells like the woods in there, which I like. The steam room? That's just weird. I suppose it's good for opening up your lungs, and I'm sure it must be fantastic for your complexion, but I just found it creepy. Maybe if there had been a few more fat old man wrapped in towels...? A soggy cigar or two? I wandered out and slipped into the Jacuzzi. Now this, I like.I love the hot water. I adore the bubbles. I even sort of enjoy the camaraderie of sitting in a big bathtub with a bunch of strangers. The thing is, all that full-body hydro-massage does something to my blood pressure. When I stand up out of the tub, I have to make a bee-line for the nearest bench before my spinning head blacks out and I fall crashing to the tile floor. I don't understand why this happens, and these head-rushes don't scare me as much as they used to, but I still need to be careful. With all the blood thinners I take, a hard crack on the skull could be pretty bad. Even if the place is filled with firemen.


Tomorrow is a rest day, then I'm joining the Striders on Saturday morning for a long, slow 16 miles: my last long run before the race. I feel fantastic. I know I can finish this half-marathon. I just have to make sure I don't get worn out or hurt between now and then.


For now, it's time for some beauty sleep. And maybe a couple of Tylenol wouldn't hurt either.


Peace,
Pennsy

#347: Opening Night and a Rambling Recovery Run

I'm a huge fan of rest. Love it. Can't get enough of it. But waiting three days to get back on the road after Monday's 10K seemed like an eternity. True, my legs didn't really feel like running until today, but the rest of me was jonesing to get out there. I know I'm addicted now, because I start getting restless and irritable when I go too long without a run.

I decided to "ramble" today. Left the driveway with no particular distance or route in mind. If anything, I wanted to explore some streets and paths that I hadn't used before. All I knw for sure was that I wanted to go sloooow. At the end of Monday's race, I pushed myself. Hard. It felt great, but I have no idea what that long sprint (if I can call it that with a straight face) might have done to me. I just wanted to get out and move my feet for a couple miles. Just get the blood flowing.

It was hot. Like 85-89 degrees hot. Like 101 degree heat index hot. I was careful to drink plenty of fluid before the run, and checked in frequently to make sure that my head was clear, my vison sharp, and my skin sweaty. My mouth did dry out a couple of times, but that happens to me a lot thanks to the false teeth and the damage the radiation did to my salivary glands. I kept a slow enough pace that I didn't over exert myself, but stayed just fast enough to keep the breeze blowing against my face. I don't think that the heat affected me much one way or the other.

I pulled the Nike Pegasus Trail Runners out of the shoe shelf today. I haven't run in them for a while, and while they're pretty old and squishy, I like the way they feel and like to use them now and then. Today I discovered that they can rub me a little wrong. I had on very short socks, like a little pom-pom short of being what Mrs P calls "footies." Ordinarily, these are just fine, but the tongue and welt on these trail runners are a little higher than my other shoes. The lining rubbed my skin and while I didn't get any blisters, I did get a couple hot spots on the back of my heels and the top of my right ankle. My toes seemed to be getting on one another's nerves a lttle, too. I may try putting a little Aquaphor on my feet before my next hot run, just to see if it helps.



Fat Man Acting...
"Woe, woe for England..."

Richard III opened last night to very kind notices. I'm not usually a fan of reviewers, but Candace said something nice about me, so I'll be eating out of her hand for a few more days.Of course, if she hadn't mentioned me, I'd be calling her an idiot right now. Let's not get carried away. A critic is still a critic, after all.

I was a little surprised at how positive the review was. I have a sort of sick, maybe even pathological reverence for Shakespeare. I'm never as hard on myself and my colleagues as I am when playing in one of Will's little worlds. I am so focused on perfecting my work, I can only see the flaws. Kind of nice to have an outsider look in and say that she enjoyed what she saw. It doesn't keep me from trying to improve the authenticity and clarityof my playing, but a little applause can be good for the soul.

I'm looking forward to tonight's show for a couple of reasons, but particularly because I just had this nice hot run in the part of the day that I usually fill with a pre-performance nap. At the moment, I feel a lot fresher than I do when I've spent an hour asleep in the afternoon. It will be interesting to see if that lasts until the curtain call... or at least until they cut my head off in Act 2. I'm going to be doing a lot more playing and running in the next few months. How great it would be if I find them starting to compliment one another?

Peace,
Pennsy