The Break Up

In January, I ended a long term relationship.

I haven't brought it up until now. It's kinda hard to talk about.

I was in this relationship for over 15 years, but then, the "other half" of the relationship.. well, changed.

It was really great for a long time. We kinda grew up together. But over the last few years we started to go in different directions, and then... there was an incident.

It involved my best running buddy Marty. I can't go into the details, but it was ugly. It's easy to forget that sometimes people aren't really who you think they are.

My friend Scott has a band. The band's name is Yoko Moment. It's named for that moment when you are faced with a choice, a choice of loyalty - your relationship, or your friends. John chose Yoko over his mates from Liverpool. I chose to stick by my friend, Marty. It wasn't a difficult decision.

So, it's been almost 6 months, I've had time to adjust, and I'm going public - I have broken up with The Runners Forum.*

A runner's running store is like your team, it's who you identify with.** It's the hub of your running community. You know the folks who work there, you get to know the other runners who are on the "team", you wear their logo'ed shirts, and if you're really into them, you might even work there part time, just to hang out (and get a discount on shoes). Changing stores is not something that happens often, or is taken lightly. But when things just aren't right, when you don't feel comfortable there anymore, it's time to move on, and you know it.

So, I'm back on the market all you running stores out there... size 10.5, neutral, T-shirt size L. I like high-cut shorts, no-show socks, and walks on the beach.

Good running,
Doug

*Marty doesn't go there anymore, either.

**If you buy all of your running gear online, you're missing out, but that's cool, your choice. But don't you dare go into a running store, even The Runners Forum, and try on shoes, milking them for their advice, and then order the same shoes from the web to save a few dollars. That's pure douche-baggery.

Image from here.

Participating from the Bench

Not being able to run sucks. No way to sugar coat it.

Except for my once-a-week, against-the-advice-of-my-trainer runs with Back on My Feet, I'm on the sidelines.

I've spent the last few weeks moping around, pouting, complaining. I haven't feel like writing. I don't really want to talk to anybody. I rarely shave. I'm not very good company. I'm cranky and pissy and short on the ol' temper.

This weekend, though, I may have found a cure.

Friday night I watched my youngest kick some serious butt at his first track meet of the season. Last year, his first season, he struggled. He just wanted so bad to be faster. I explained to him that kids mature and get stronger and get faster at different rates. And in this race, the little dude was flyin'! It was nice to be proven right. It felt better to see the look in his eyes when he held off the kid in the next lane to get his first blue ribbon.

Really, just walking around the infield, watching the kids out there running, just for the fun of it, was uplifting. They know that running is fun.

Gaggle of young sprinters waiting patiently for their crack at the 100m dash.

After the meet, I was stoked. And starving. Before I knew it, I'd eaten an entire small pizza (Bazbeaux: sausage and mushroom). It was delicious, but I DO NOT recommend eating the whole thing, especially if you are not running regularly. But with a stuffed tummy, I was sleepy and ready for bed.

Good thing, because early Saturday morning, I wedged myself out of bed, stumbled to my car, and wound through the streets of Carmel to find a more-or-less random spot on a more-or-less random street.

I've been involved in distance running for many years. I've run countless races. I've perfected my hydrating technique while snagging hundreds, if not thousands of cups of water from anonymous volunteers. But before Saturday, I'd never worked a water stop. I'd never been on the other side of that frantic, splashy exchange.

I had a blast! Our crew was small but lively. Ten minutes into setup and we were already making each other laugh. We were having so much fun, that folks from the neighborhood came out and joined us. Spontaneous volunteerism! The highlight was the trio of kids who setup a competing lemonade stand across the street. I'm pretty sure they out sold us, and I know they out yelled us.

The competition stealing another customer.

Waterstop #11 was voted the best stop on the course. This poll was unscientific in that it didn't actually exist, but I can't imagine another stop as entertaining as ours. And the runners were amazing. Halfway through their race on a hot, muggy day, well over half summoned the breath to say "Thank you." as they plucked a cup from our hands. Such a polite breed we are.

If was exciting to see the elites zip by, but it was inspiring to see those for whom a half marathon is a real challenge. They were pressing forward, one step at a time, with determination and spunk, and usually a smile.

Water Stop #11 during a rare lull.

After all the fun of cup duty, I was ready to get home and release the hound.* Unfortunately, because there was this marathon thing going on, I couldn't get home, not in my car, anyway. Believe me, I tried.

One of the thousands of advantages of being a runner is that you get to know the streets around you. Not just the main streets, all of the streets. I used that knowledge to little avail. I managed to get within half a mile of home. I was closer to the finish line, so I went there.

It was a good choice.

There is no better place to get motivated to train for a marathon than the finish line of another marathon. It is a rejuvenating, energizing, moving place to be. I stood there for 90 minutes in the hot sun watching complete strangers finish their race. Ok, I didn't actually know these people, but they weren't strangers. They were runners, marathoners. People like me. And together, we were sharing their achievement, though aside from adding my claps to the applause of a few dozen others', my sharing was of the vicarious sort.

Need a lift? Hang around a marathon finish line.

When the finish dried up, I finally made it home. I really, really wanted to go for a run. Even though I couldn't, I felt a little bit better about it. I'd spent most of the last 24 hours soaking up to my neck in my sport, experiencing it from different perspectives, letting it remind me why I miss it so much. And now, I love it even more.

Good running,

Doug

* That is not a euphemism. I literally mean letting the dog out.

Brew Mile

Run a mile. Drink a beer. Raise some money for a good cause.

Seems like a pretty decent idea, right?

Dude, you have no idea...

I showed up early to help set up. As we put together the finish line, Marty and I guessed that 50, maybe, MAYBE 100 people would turn out for the first Brew Mile. There wasn't a ton of marketing, just an email, some tweets, a little Facebook action. It was pizza oven hot, too. And, it was Wednesday.

By 5:30, 30 minutes before registration officially opened, we had a small table setup to hand out numbers and collect the $5 (proceeds went to Back on My Feet). At 5:31 we had our first participants signed in.

And they kept coming.

By 6:00pm we had a steady stream. By 6:30, the posted start time of the race, the line snaked through the parking lot. We were moving them through as fast as we could, and they just kept coming. It was exhausting, exhilarating, and exciting. Singles, couples, whole families. We ran out of numbers, so I scribbled numbers on Post-It sized slips of paper. And despite the heat, and the up to 15 minute wait, no one complained, everyone was smiling, everyone was having fun.

Finally, at 7:00pm, we registered the last runner. The line was empty. Off to the start we all meandered. The start signal wasn't a cannon, or a gun, or even a countdown through a blow horn. It was just one guy shouting, "Ok... GO!"

Off they went, with giggles and smiles, down the Monon Trail.

I didn't run myself. I'd already violated my "You really shouldn't run for awhile" orders earlier in the day, so I helped at the finish. And I loved it. Every finisher was smiling and/or laughing, including Joann, the 78 year-old woman with her white cotton gloves (?!?) who finished far from last.

It was casual. It was social. It was low key. It was a big fat reminder that running is fun. Even the results include the runner's favorite beer.

After the mile, the crowd lingered. And there was more than the one free beer's worth of lingering. I met a dozen new runner friends before I realized it was 9:30. 9:30!  That's past my curfew on school nights. Not really, but I had to scoot home to release the hound. Still, it was tough to leave. These were my people...

I can't wait until the next Brew Mile.

Good running,
Doug

Back on My Feet

Today was National Running Day.

What is the right way to celebrate a made up national day? For me, of course, it's to hit the road for a run.

But today wasn't just any run. Today was Wednesday. And on Wednesdays I hoist my body out of bed at 4:30am, stretch half-heartedly between yawns, and drive 30 minutes to downtown Indianapolis. There, I run with my team.

My team is made up of strangers, but only because I'm new. They are from all walks of life. They are of many shapes, and sizes, and stories. And about half of them are homeless.

The other half are team members who show up to run with the homeless half. We come from all over the city. We run together, we talk and laugh together, we stretch together, and then half of us go home. The other half go back to their group house. They've been placed there by case workers and social workers, given a chance to rebuild themselves, to get control of their lives, and to start over again. And they've decided to run as part of their program.

The team is organized by a group called, fittingly, Back on My Feet. BoMF uses running as the basis of a program to build a sense of community, self-esteem, self-sufficiency, and strength for the homeless population. They are funded by donations and by corporate sponsors. There are chapters in 7 US cities.

Last year I'd read about the organization and chapters in other US cities and was blown away. And to tell the truth, I felt a little envious of the runners in those other cities.


Earlier this year, DougRun365 reader, knower of all things going down in Indy, and virtual friend, Amy Crook pointed me to a news article about a BoMF chapter opening in Indianapolis. As I read the article, my heart started to race... I read faster and faster...

I've never been one to feel a "calling" to something, but seriously people, an organization that uses running to rebuild peoples lives... this is right in my wheel house. This is my passion and my mission come to life. How can I not be here. Immediately, I knew I had to get involved.

And by immediately, I mean it took 2 months.

The deal is, before you can join the team, you need to go through an orientation meeting. These meetings were systematically scheduled so as to make it impossible for me to attend. At least, that is, until last month.

The orientation is all about the organization, how it started, how it's funded, what the runs are like, stuff like that. The BoMF folks didn't know it at the time, but it was just a formality. Twelve seconds into it, I knew I was in.

I've been on two team runs. We meet butt-early. I run slow. We hug, a lot. And we sweat. And then we hug some more. It's not especially sanitary, but it is heartfelt.

Honestly, the experience is beyond words. It's something you have to see, to be in, to appreciate. The love and respect and support shared in that circle of runners is real, and I am honored to be a part of it.

If you would like to be a part of it, too, check out this link to learn more and this link to sign up for an orientation meeting to learn even more. Or, if you can't join us for the runs, consider throwing a few dollars their way.

Good running,
Doug

Just-for-Fun Meet

Yesterday, my son's Middle School track team had their awards program.

After the blissfully short program, there was a very informal, "just for fun" meet.

There were no stop watches, no starting guns, just kids jumping into events they've never run before, laughing. Three girls did cartwheels for most of their 100 meter dash. A school record-holding sprinter ran a blistering first 300 meters, and then tagged in the team's best shot putter to finish out the 400. Not many shot-putters get to be the first to cross the finish line for a 400.

It was a gorgeous, sunny day, a great time.

Let me pause for a moment, here...

When a plane crashes, it's rarely due to a single thing going wrong. It's almost always a combination of factors, small things that alone would have been no big deal. But together they spell disaster.

Factor 1:
A few days ago, I had a birthday. I'm now 46, though I like to refer to it as 30-16. 30-16 feels farther from 50 than 46 does. Turning 46 is like being in the front car on a roller coaster just as it crests the hill. The other cars are still on the other side, still "clak-clak-clak"-ing up the hill, their weight holding you back. Your car is hanging, just for a moment, pointing down to your impending doom, just waiting for those behind you to push you toward it.

Factor 2:
I have barely run since January. As part of my "Year of feeling awesome" plan, I've been overhauling my core after a couple decades of abuse, kinda like rehabbing a worn out kitchen, or replacing the engine in your car just before it seizes up. To rebuild, you must first tear down, and I'm in the tear down phase. My core is about as stable as overdone spaghetti.

Factor 3:
That "just for fun" middle school track meet? Yeah, well coaches and parents were encouraged to participate.

You can probably guess where this is going.

I was a sprinter and hurdler in college. I'll save you the trouble of doing the math... that was 24 years ago. That's right, if I'd had a child right after I'd ended my hurdling career, that child would itself be out of college.

Luckily, the hurdles were the first event. It's easy to say no to the first piece of cake. "Oh no, I can't possibly, but it looks delicious."

Next up was the 100 meters, which my son jumped into. "No, really, I just can't. But thank you." The coach ran the last heat of the 100. He looked alright. He's a little younger than me, but not that much younger.

"Boy, ya know, that cake does look yummy."

After the mile was the 4x100 relay. "Maybe just a small piece..."

I talked the coach, who had just finished the mile, and a couple dad's into fielding a team. My son was also on a team, a team of young pups, with hopes, and dreams, and working hamstrings. I hadn't warmed up. I hadn't stretched. See factors 1 & 2 above.

Lined up one lane outside of me was one of the coaches for the girl's team. She could easily have been a classmate of the fictional 24 year-old born after my last college race. When the gun went off, well, actually someone just said "Go!", I blasted off the line the way ketchup blasts out of the bottle... not really blasty at all. I tried to blast. I thought I was going to blast. Didn't happen. It was like slow motion. It would seem that a stable core is important if you want to blast.

Eventually, though, I got moving, and I'm proud to say I stayed with the 20-something girls' coach, made a pretty slick baton exchange, and didn't die.

"That tiny piece of cake was very tasty. Thank you."

High-fives exchanged and smiles all around, though it took longer than I'd expected to feel recovered, and by "recovered" I mean not on the verge of a stroke-heart-attack-pulmonary-rupture-projectile-vomit-and-pass-out episode.

Once I did recover, I felt pretty good about it. I joked with my boys. They called me old and slow. But I'd held my own.

Then they announced the 200.

My son, the recently track awarded one, was running the 200, as was the boys' coach.

"Get out of my way! I'm taking the whole cake. Don't you even try to stop me! Screw the fork, I'm eating it by the hand full! Nom! Nom! Nom!"

I lined up in lane 7, with the coach in lane 8, so I could keep an eye on him. "GO!" Again, my legs took their sweet time getting up to speed, "speed" being a relative term. But I ran the turn well and hadn't lost too much ground to the coach.

In fact, I ran a pretty good race, if the race had been the 140 meter dash.

It wasn't.

With 60 meters to go, I decided to make my move. Problem was I didn't have a move. My legs had checked out. In fact, most of my body gave up.

"Too. Much. Cake. Why did I do that?"

You'd think I'd have been humiliated, a once moderately successful Big 10 sprinter pooping out two-thirds of the way through a 200. But at that moment, I didn't have time for embarrassment. I was 100% focused on reaching the finish line before I died. It was clear that I was going to die, probably on the track. I just wanted to make sure I went out having finished the race.

I crossed the finish line, a good 10 meters behind the coach, and almost everyone else. I did manage to beat my son, but only because he'd just finished a hard 400 right before this race started.

Some slightly lower high fives, fewer smiles, I found my son and we swapped some smack talk. I walked across the field to retrieve my shades and camera, walked back to say bye to the boys, got to my car. This all took 10, maybe 15 minutes. Yet when I got to my car, my heart was still pounding so hard I could hardly turn on my phone, let alone dial 911. It was a good 30 minutes before I felt like I'd survive my foolish attempt to reconnect with my youth.

We all want to feel young. We all want to play with our kids. We all want to pretend that a pair of running shoes is actually a time machine. Sometimes all of that want overcomes reason.

Had I not just crested that hill toward 50, or not been keeping myself from running for so many weeks, or not brought running shoes to the track, that disastrous 200 would never have happened. I'm not sure yet if that would be a good thing, or not. I'll let you know in a few days when, hopefully, I have feeling in my legs again.

Good running,
Doug

No takers

Well ... that was disappointing.

I bet this is what it feels like trying to unload Brickyard 400 tickets.

Is the Mini-entry market really that flooded?

I'm going to assume that it's not because the deal required a token donation to just about the most wholesome charitable organization on the planet. This has got to be more attractive than buying one on Craig's List, right?

I'll put it down to low traffic in this dark corner of the interweb, at least in the I-need-a-mini-number-3-days before-the-race demographic.*

Good running,
Doug

*Turns out it's pretty happening for the I-need-an-image-of-Ren-&-Stimpy crowd.

Mini Entry Up for Grabs

Hi gang.

I have, in my slightly smaller than average hands, one entry for this Saturday's 2011 One America 500 Festival Mini Marathon in downtown Indianapolis, IN.

This card, and all of the benefits it entitles, could be yours!

Problem is, I can't use it. Well, I could use it, as a coaster, or to fan myself, or to marshal crumbs off of a table, or to give one of my enemies one hellacious paper cut. I can't, though, use it for its intended purpose: running the half-marathon this Saturday morning.

If you are itching to run the Mini, you can have my entry.

Seriously, take it.

Take it!

Put your hand out and take GET BACK HERE!

What?

Of course there's a catch. You think I'm rolling naked in a pile of Mini entries? I've got one. This one. The one I paid $60 for and can't use thanks to some unreasonably uncooperative muscles.

Here's the catch: You can have the entry for the price of a donation to the American Red Cross. You decide how much, but the largest donation pledge in the comment section by 11:59 Wednesday, and verified with an emailed copy of a receipt of an e-donation by noon on Thursday, gets the entry.

Tie breaker: Tell us why you want to run the mini and/or why I should give you my entry. Points for being funny, or moving, but mostly for being funny. Judgement of the blogger is final.

Click the comment link and crack open your wallet.

Good running,
Doug