Fountains make everything better

There's one word that best describes my running over the last few weeks... it starts with S-U-C-K, and ends with an exclamation point.

Anyone who's been lucky enough to run a run of a lifetime, as I did almost a month ago (read about it here) (no, really, if you haven't read the post about my amazing run in the English countryside, you really should... it'll make you want to go run... outside... in the countryside... in England) knows that the bigger, more epicy the run, the bigger the let down after.

I know I should be running more. Hell, I'm 2 weeks away from a marathon for crying out loud. Ironically, I will be doing a lot of crying out loud, right around mile 22. But it's hard to get up for a training run on the same boring routes that won't remotely compare to what I experienced just a few weeks ago except that both included me, running, on the planet Earth. So instead, I pout and make excuses.

The good news is that this mope too shall pass.

In the meantime, let's talk fountains!

Those who read to the end of the English countryside post, well, good going! Probably took you almost as long to read it as it took me to run it. Sorry about that. But you also know about the new international flair of the fountain defilation campaign.

In fact, the defiling campaign has taken a decidedly "Go big, or keep your shoes on" character. And by big, I mean friggin' HUGE. And audacious.

Take for example the fountain outside Buckingham Palace.

Buckingham Fountain

That's right, Buckingham F'in Palace. Big enough? I thought so.

This was big, really big. And deep. And right in the middle of a huge-ass round about. You might recognize it if you've wasted several hours of your life watching any royal wedding. The carriage with the newlywed royals negotiates the round about just before passing though the palace gates on their way to their rumored ritualistic bath in the tears of the poor. Separate baths, or course... they may be married, but they aren't common.

The fountain is beautiful, but it also has the vibe that at any moment a gaggle of not-very-amused palace guards are about to march, in perfect ranks and step, around the bend and drag me off to Tower of London, which, turns out isn't a tower at all. More like a compound.

I hadn't been so nervous before a defiling since, well maybe ever. The GF and I scoped the photo angles and planned our escapes route, just in case. I took a little extra time to secure my rolled up pants, since the water looked pretty deep. Let me say that it's hard to look like you aren't about to desecrate a fountain when you're barefoot and lingering around a fountain with your jeans rolled up to your knees.

With the coast more or less clear, it was go time. As I approached the wall, a young boy holding his mother's hand walked by. The mother didn't even notice me, but the boy did and he seemed to know instinctively what I was about to do. I gave him a "yep, it's going down" wink, and put a "don't tell your mom or she'll wig out because she's all British uptight and won't understand that this is harmless flouting of societal boundaries" finger to my lips.

As the little boy looked over his shoulder with an anticipatory smile of disbelief and excitement, I swung my legs over the edge and knew immediately that the water was significantly deeper than I'd thought. Above my knees deep.

Four or five pictures, just to be sure, and I was out. No one batted an eye.

On a side note, if by chance you find yourself walking around London with jeans that are dripping wet above the knees, might I suggest the blissfully low humidity of the British Museum... dries them out in a jiffy.

Buckingham, alternate view

What do you do after you've soiled the Queen of England's fountain?

Smoke a cigarette?

Uh, I was being literal. That wasn't a euphemism, but I like what you did there.

The correct answer is head to Trafalgar Square. There are some incredible fountains in Trafalgar Square.

We walked Trafalgar Square to find it bustling with people, tourists and locals. And cops. Bobbies, I guess. Lots of bobbies. Undaunted, we scouted a round a bit to find a good angle for the photo. And then, it went quiet. A bad quiet. The unmistakable quiet of fountains being shut off.

If I remember correctly, I said something like "Oh golly, that is most unfortunate timing.", except way more vulgar.

Like any good runner, I refused to quit. After I finished pouting, and after being assured by one of the 397 security personnel that they were doing maintenance on the fountains and that they would be back on in 20 minutes or so, we retired to a nearby pub.

The Two Chairmen

After a proper pint and some sausages and mashed, we went back to the square, finding the fountains again sprouting forth, and picked the perfect spot. I disrobed, well just my feet, so I guess I dis-shoed and dis-socked, and started to the edge when I saw one of London's Finest walking directly toward me... me, the guy who's standing next to an internationally famous fountain barefoot with his jeans rolled up.

What did I do? The only thing I could do.

I used an old Jedi mind trick to persuade him to just walk on by. I wasn't the fountain defiler he was looking for.

Once the the fuzz was well on his way, in I went. Easy peasy. And not very deep. But still, epic.

Fountain in Trafalgar Square

That was it for London. But really, what more could I have asked for.

Well, I'll tell you what I could ask for... how about a few days with my boys in the greatest city in the world not even 2 weeks later. Sure, that'll do.

I took my boys to New York City over Spring Break. We did the Empire State Building, Central Park Zoo, Guggenheim, National September 11 Memorial, and the American Museum of Natural History, the one from the Night at the Museum movie, but not quite enough like the Night at the Museum movie to meet the expectations of an 11-yr old who really loves Night at the Museum. But that's another story...

Anyway... I have a few fountains on my hit list, and one of them is in Central Park. If you guessed Bethesda Fountain, you're today's big winner.

The boys and I were making our second visit to Central Park, and I pulled rank and put the fountain at the top of the agenda. When we arrived on the plaza, we noticed a bunch of cameras and microphone booms and people standing around like only union workers can stand around. Sure enough, they were part of a crew shooting a TV pilot. Those who weren't standing around were shooing people away from their shots. Undaunted, I forged ahead.

My youngest is the most adventurous of the lot, and always up for a fountain defiling. He even defiled a fountain with me in Milwaukee, but that's also another story, one you'll have to get from me in person. When his big brother's around, he plays it cool, but I knew he'd be up for being my photographer. And as much as they groaned about it, they were all smiles when I got in.

Bethesda Fountain, Central Park, NYC

I was glad to finally get that beauty in the books. I was glad it wasn't very deep because it was quite cold. The older boy was glad I hadn't been arrested.

We spent a good part of the rest of the day playing on the rocks in Central Park. It was a great day.

The next day was our last day in the city, but it was chock full of fun. One thing the boys insisted on was hitting the Lego store at Rockefeller Center. This day would be our second visit to "The Rock". The first was late one afternoon on a mistaken hope that the NBC tours weren't sold out.

On that first visit, I pointed out the lovely, but upon investigation seemingly unattainable fountain down by the ice rink. You know the one... in front of the golden flying guy, right below where the Christmas tree is. Not all the time, just around Christmas. We'd even scoped out the lower level, but there just was no getting to the fountain. Unless...

This day, the youngest, again the adventurous one, said, "Hey Dad, let's go skating." I knew what he really meant. And so, apparently, did his older bother, who opted out of skating. The deal is, there's a rest area for skaters, only for skaters, that is just to the left of the fountain.

In the fountain defiling racket, we call that an opportunity.

Incredibly there was no line to skate, so we bellied up to the cashier. I paid $34 dollars. We got into our rental skates, and there we were, skating at Rockefeller Center.

I'd always wanted to skate at Rockefeller Center. I even got in line once, but half way through the line, my less enthused travel partner (at the time) changed our mind. This time, The Duke and I were cutting it up.

After a few laps, and a fall for the little man, he gave me the look.

"You ok with taking my picture for this?", I asked.

"Sure", he said, trying not to act excited.

I faked the need for a rest, took off my skates, gave the boy a nod, and got in. He took a most excellent picture.

Fountain at Rockefeller Center

This, boys and girls, is a huge get. It took a trip to New York City, imagination, planning, execution, $34, a willing assistant, and a patient assistant's brother. I feel a little guilty for making the young one an accomplice. No I don't. He was more than willing. I'm very proud.

These fountain adventures have buoyed my spirits. I'm getting back on the roads and trails. The marathon? Oh, I've already booked my airfare, so I'm going. And I'm scared shitless. Those hills are going to kick my ass right up around my neck. But that's cool.

It's going to be a beautiful course, a run of a lifetime, and I bet there's a really nice fountain somewhere in Monterey.

Good running,
Doug

PS - Those new to this musty corner of the internet might enjoy browsing my interactive Google map of fountains I've defiled.

Epic Run: English Countryside

There are some things in life that no matter how much you try, you just aren't prepared for. Earlier this month, one of those things happened to me.

I knew I was going for a long run with Marino through the English countryside. I'd been looking forward to it for weeks, certain that it would be a great run, but I didn't know just how amazing it was going to be. Amazing. And long. And difficult.

Marino was just 2 weeks removed from a 100 mile race. Let that sink in a bit... 100 miles. 100 miles. That's a rounding error away from 4 marathons, in a row, in 24 hours. That's a long ass way my friends. It was also a good thing for me, because I knew he'd still be recovering and at least a tick off of his best. That meant I had a chance of staying with him, which was good because I didn't know where I was going.

The run started out Marino's front door, on a perfect sunny Sunday morning, on his insanely English street in Milford. Every street in the area, known as Surrey, is a postcard for quaint, with gentle rolls and beckoning curves, flanked with houses built before 1900, each with little English gardens, and little English garden fences.

Milford, yes we are that quaint.

After my habitual jumping jacks and trunk twists, we were off, moving from adorable street to even more adorable street. It felt good to run after a two of days of hard-core touristing. After a quarter of a mile, it felt like any other run.

That didn't last long.

After just half a mile, we were in the country, on a narrow country road. I was leading. Marino said, "We're going left at that sign post up there."

Thing is, the only sign post type thing was a simple wooden pole poking out of a hedge that seemed to mark nothing. It wasn't until I was exactly at the post that I saw the trail.

Marino assuring me that we were indeed hanging a left at the sign post.

For those who don't remember, the UK has something called the Right to Roam (explained by yours truly, here). I'd imagined what it must be like for a runner many times, but I wasn't prepared for the sight of a truly unbroken public footpath. It was glorious.

Trail, as far as the eye can see, and then some.

Kids, this is a sight I will never forget.

Gorgeous, open field, horizon to horizon, green and lush, with a thin brown line tracing the way across, the way to the next unbelievably beautiful view. I was six-year-old-on-Christmas-morning giddy.

This is the way things are meant to be. This is where, and how, we are meant to run, across the land, the best land with the best views, as far as we want.

We have views like this, and fields like this, here in the good ol' US of A. But they're on private land, with rights and liability concerns, and fences. We love our fences. This trail, and hundreds like it all across the UK, are also on private land, but every citizen has the right to use the path. And yes, they have fences, but the fences have "stiles".

Stile:  noun - a series of steps or rungs by means of which

a person may pass over a wall or fence that remains a barrier to sheep or cattle.

Pretty damn ingenious, right? Sturdy, so we roamers don't damage the fence. Can't be left open like a gate. Easy peasy to get up and over. How could this get better?

I was in running heaven. How could anything improve such a glorious run. It would have to be something amazing, like happening upon, and crossing, a mediaeval bridge built by monks in the 13th century. One like, oh, I don't know, this one...

When this bridge was built by monks, Indiana was populated by American Indians.

So was the rest of America

Unforgettable moment #2. Barely 2 miles in, I was running a dream run.

And it was about to get better.

Over another stile or two and Marino and I were in a pasture. Lush and breathtaking in it's beauty and size, and green as green gets... except for a few white specks up in the distance. What are those?

The white specks are sheep. I was running with sheep. Sheep, people!

Not easy to see in the photo, but there were lots, and lots of sheep in this pasture. Just up the path there was a tree. In the shade of the tree were easily 3 dozen sheep, ignoring the rest of the flock, in various stages of an early morning nap. They were not nearly as excited to see me as I was to see them. And honestly, their displeasure, and accompanying sideways glances and irritated "Bahs!" made it even more fun as they lumbered to get to their feet and moved just enough to allow me to pass along the path. They so close I could smell the dirt on their damp wooly coats.

For a while the path wound about other small hamlets, down a little path, over a bit of yet another quaint street, and sometimes between properties, leaving a narrow, but inviting passage of wilderness.

But soon, we left even the tiny towns behind and again found, just over a heavily treed ridge, over a rickety and slightly slippery stile, even more open, magnificent countryside.

Simply took my breath away.

Shortly after crossing this valley, at 11 miles, my breath was taken away again, this time by a brutal climb. After a couple miles of gradual uphill came a brutal, steep, sandy, did I mention steep? climb. Half way up, I actually felt a sharp pain in my chest, sharp enough and painful enough to cause me to imagine the tabloid headline "American Flatlander Drops Dead On English Hill, 15 Meters From Top". Luckily I survived, because at the top was the best view of the day, and one of the best of my life.

Unmatched view of the English countryside from way too far up

Marino and I, on top of the hill, 11 miles in, when I was still chipper

This is a good time to mention how great of a host Marino was. Not only did the man plan and play tour guide for this run of a lifetime, he also carried water and food for both of us. Not many people would do that. Take me, for instance... if we're out for a long-ass rugged trail run, you'll be carrying your own water and cereal bars.

Anyway, after a Marino-supplied snack and some Marino-shlepped water, I took one more minute to soak in the majesty, to let it wash over me, and to appreciate how lucky I was to be financially capable to travel to such a place, and physically able to experience it the best way possible, on foot in shorts and running shoes.

Another view from the church at the top of the unholy hill

From the high, literal and emotional, of the church hill, it was downhill, again literally and figuratively. Eleven miles on rough, rolling, and slippery (did I mention it rained like Queen Elizabeth (reign, rain... sorry) most of Saturday) was taking its toll on my legs and spirit.

Our route took as along a river and a wonderfully winding tow path. I'd love to show you more-attractive-than-average readers some pictures of the wonderfully winding tow path and river, but I wasn't in the mood, and not in any condition, to take many pictures. From mile 15 on, it was head down, left, right, get home.

That is, until the bucolic splendor was interrupted by this...

WWII machine gun bunker, aka pillbox

Marino explained that the British had prepared for what they thought was an impending German invasion from the south. Assuming the Nazis would then make a beeline to London, they noted the natural pinch points in the terrain, and built these defense positions to slow the advance, hopefully allowing the British Navy time to circle around and cut off their supply lines before they made it to London. Imagine being one of two, maybe three guys, each with a machine gun and maybe a couple grenades, ordered to slow down the German advance. These guys wouldn't be winning any battles. They were there to annoy the Germans by not dying too quickly. I'm glad it never came to that. I'm glad the river and its tow path weren't scarred by war.

After the pillbox, I was really feeling the miles. The slippery footing was stealing any momentum I could muster, so I decided to try to pick up the pace a bit. Opening up my stride, using different muscles, felt good. It was tough, but it felt good, and felt like we were making progress. Until we came to another stile.

I didn't know it, but this would be the last stile of our run. I was sore, tired as hell, and my legs, hips, and back were tight and cranky. I thought back to just a couple hours previous, back to that first stile, and how impressed I was by its simplify and utility, and how fun it was. For this last one, having surrendered that hard earned pace and momentum, as I dug deep to find the strength and will to lift one leg, and then the other, I told Marino "These stiles are bullshit." He laughed, noting the irony, and knew, as any long distance runner knows, how mood, perception, and opinion change as the miles pile on.

The path on the other side of the last stile,

unofficially named Bullshit Stile

That last stile took us to about mile 18. Marino confessed that he too was hurting, which was a huge relief to me. But then Marino mentioned that we might be a little longer than the planned 19 miles.
He thought it would be just a bit long, but not more than 20. That is not what you want to hear when you're hurting. When every quarter mile feels like a gargantuan effort, when all you want is to be done, you don't want to contemplate the idea that it might be even a foot farther.

It helped that we got to run the streets of Godalming, the quaintest damn town on the planet. I'm not kidding, I'm sure there's a plaque somewhere.

No, this isn't Epcot's England, this Godalming.

At 19.5 miles, both of us running on fumes and Gummy Bears, it was clear that we were more than half a mile away. In this situation, you have a few choices. You can throw in the towel and walk, or cab, the rest of the way in. You can get pissy, which helps nothing. Or you can put your head down, accept that the goal wasn't a number, it was getting back home, and that home isn't moving away from you on purpose just to mess with you. There is a distance to be covered, and it's best to just get to it.

As we turned onto the street, Marino said "There's my car, right there." I grunted something meant to confirm the car sighting, but in reality, I had no idea where his car was. The distance from the corner to his house seemed so much longer than it ever had, including when the GF and I had walked it two days before.

Yet we managed to cover it. Stopped the watch at 21.25 miles, right at 4 hours (total time including snack breaks). Toughest run of my life, other than Tecumseh Trail Marathon. High-fives and in we went for a glass of water. We had just 15 minutes for a quick shower before heading out to a UK Mother's Day feast. As I sat on the bed, half dressed, I was momentarily overwhelmed. If I'd been even slightly better hydrated I probably would have cried. The immense effort of the run, especially the finish, along with the beauty and grandeur, it was just too much to process. It was more than I could have imagined. And yet I'd just lived it.

I tear up a bit just thinking about it.

I'll say it again... There are some things in life that no matter how much you try, you just aren't prepared for. Though I had looked forward to this run for months, I could never have dreamed how fantastically inspiring, enriching, empowering, enlightening, exhausting, invigorating, and memorable it would be.

I would be a total tool if I didn't thank my guide, sherpa, and running buddy Marino for the running adventure of a lifetime. It will be hard to top this one, but we have an idea that might come close.

Thanks also to Marino's fabulous wife Angie for letting Marino go out and play on Mother's Day. And her sister, the GF, for letting me tag along to England with her.

Oh, and before I forget... many have asked... Yes, fountains were defiled!

Buckingham Fountain, just outside the Palace

Trafalgar Square

Good running,
Doug

My Don Kardong Story

Last weekend I was freaking out about how little I've been able to train for the last few weeks. Turns out going from moderately low mileage to marathon training... not easy to pull off without aggravating a few muscle groups to the point of mutiny.

My return to the marathon is not going to be quite as glorious as I'd hoped. In fact, it's probably going to hurt a little. Big Sur will be beautiful, inspiring, and most likely long, slow, and kinda painful.

Dwelling on this reminded me of my Don Kardong story.

A few years ago, I was lucky enough to have a few minutes to chat with US running legend Don Kardong.

Don Kardong leading the pack in the 1976 US Olympic Trails 5000

Don Kardong is best known for his wonderfully fun writing about running (think Dave Barry, but in running shoes) and his 4th place finish in the 1976 Olympic Marathon. For those who don't remember, the gold medal for the marathon in 1976 went to an East German who, in this blog we will call Helmut Von Cheaterpants, because he was so juiced for that race that he left a trail of steroid drippings the entire 26 miles, 385 yards.

There were suspicions at the time, like when Helmut ate half a bale of hay in the athlete's village, but confirmation came after The Berline Wall came down and documentation was discovered. Those East Germans were meticulous about their cheating. Don is the rightful bronze medalist, in every way except for having the actual medal. And in the official results. We all hope that Helmut is enjoying his ill-gotten gold medal and that it doesn't accidentally get wrapped too tightly around his cheating throat.

I also hope that Frank Shorter got his silver medal gold plated.

Don Kardong and Bill Rodgers at 1976 Olympics.

Bill: "Helmut just ate an entire apple, in one bite, right out of that little girl's hand."

Don: "He has like 60 carrots in his bag."

Anywho, there I was chatting away with Don Kardong. It was a little surreal. It was like a budding chef bumping into Julia Child in the produce section. Or a Formula Ford driver finding himself on an elevator with Mario Andretti.

My marathon "career" was just starting. I'd run my first and was training for my second. That first one had kicked my ass and given me a crash course in respect for the distance. I was punished for my early-miles cockiness with a final 5 miles of "survival shuffle". Five miles is a long way when you're not sure if your legs will support you for even one more step.

I had been training especially hard for my second marathon, and reading and studying and learning as much as I could about preparing for the distance, mainly because I did not want to go through that torture again.

So, back to the story... I was standing with, and had the undivided attention of, a bonafide (mostly) Olympic medalist in the marathon. We were talking about running and his books and his race, but in the back of my head, I was coming to the realization that I was as close to the fount of marathon wisdom as I was gonna get before the gun went off in Chicago. It was my best chance to mine the vast experience of an international mega-stud. So I waited for the right moment, and asked as cavalierly as I could manage, "So, Don, what do you do when you hit the wall? How do you work through it?"

I was ready for the wisdom. Eyes, ears laser focused. Brain set to Record.

Here's what he said...

"You know, I've never really hit the wall. I'm pretty lucky that way."

... that's when the awkward moment unfolded... me staring at Don, him looking at me, me unable to speak and trying really hard not to show on my face everything I was thinking in my head, four examples of which are:

• Astonishment ("Wait, what?!? You've never... never?!?"), 
• Stark and utter surprise ("That is NOT what I was expecting you to say.")
• Disappointment ("So, there's no magic training regimen or mental imagery to save me from lactic acid hell?"),
• Jealousy ("I'd give just about anything to be able to run a marathon without hitting that moment when I would rather crawl into the sewer, that's just right there next to the sidewalk, and snuggle up to an unidentifiable sewer-smelling rodent until my everything stopped hurting, than keep running, even though I know that my leg cramps are way too severe and there's no chance I'll be able to bend down and make it into the sewer.").

It never dawned on me. I always assumed that those elites had to deal with the race, the distance, the same as I did. It didn't seem fair. Why didn't they have to feel the pain like we mortals do?

People like Don Kardong are just different than the rest of us. The same way Julia Child and Mario Andretti are.

For a moment I was devastated. I would never run a marathon like Don Kardong. Not only would I never be that fast, but it would never be as "easy" as it was for him.

But then I tried to imagine what it was like to beat everyone in the world except Karel Lismont from Belgium, defending gold medalist Frank Shorter, and a remorseless cheater to the finish line 26.2 miles from where you started.

I remembered the last race I'd actually won, a 600 meter indoor heat race in college... 600 meters against college kids... and how for the last 423 meters of that race I thought I was going to die.

Reality is that a marathon isn't even remotely the same race for elites as it is for us. They are running unimaginably fast for over two hours.

To race a marathon, not run it, but race it, must be excruciating. Those who do race it don't face a singular moment of increased difficulty. For them, it's balls out, from gun to tape. For them, it's really one 26.2 mile wall.

I can't imagine what it must be like to race hard, against the best in the world, pushing so hard, for over 2 hours.

But Don Kardong can't imagine what it feels like to have your quads and calves and hamstrings turn into steel rods 4 miles from the finish, and still trudge on.

And neither of us can imagine what it's like to run, or walk, for 6 hours, finishing the marathon when 97% of your fellow finishers are back at their hotel, showered, dressed, enjoying their 3rd beer.

That's the greatest beauty of the marathon. It's a challenge, monumental challenge, for every one who puts their toe behind that starting line... some of our toes are waaaay behind the line, but we're still there. We're still covering the same distance, at roughly the same time. We're in it together. It's hard for each of us. It's different for each of us.

Every marathon has many runners. Every runner runs their own, unique marathon, right alongside everyone else. And every marathoner understands, and honors, the time, dedication, courage, and fortitude that it takes to make it to the starting line, and to the finish line, no matter how long it takes to get from one to the other.

And for every runner, each marathon is completely different experience. You just never know. You never know if you'll finish, let alone how long it will take, and how you'll feel. You never know what's going to start you laughing out loud, what you'll step in, what will touch your heart, or what's going to make you wonder how you can possibly keep going, or where you'll summon the strength to do just that. You never know what's waiting for you down that blue* line. And that's a pretty cool, if you like that kind of thing.

I spent the weekend moping about the glorious marathon that won't be. Now, I'm anxiously awaiting the marathon that will be, whatever the hell it looks like.

Good running,
Doug

"No doubt a brain and some shoes are essential for marathon success, although if it comes down to a choice, pick the shoes. More people finish marathons with no brains than with no shoes."

- Don Kardong

* Your color may vary, but your mileage will not.

Review: Zombies, Run!

Here's an excerpt from an email I got from my buddy Marino yesterday that was my introduction to "Zombies, Run!":

The game creates the illusion that your run is taking place in a zombie-filled post-apocalyptic wasteland.

Ever since I read that sentence I've found myself spontaneously shaking my head, laughing, and thinking to myself, "This is either brilliantly awesome, or completely idiotic. And maybe both."

First, let me make now thing clear. I'm not a zombie geek. I'm a running geek. I'm a GPS geek. And I'm an Apple fanboy currently on my 3rd iPhone. So the idea of an app that would turn a normal, kinda boring training run, into a zombie-filled post-apocalyptic wasteland, is . Or idiotic. Either way, I couldn't wait to try it out. I grabbed my phone, agreed to pay the $7.99 (Guh!), and stared at the screen, wondering why the hell it wasn't downloading faster.

On Marino's recommendation, I planned to run on the trails, in the woods, for "a better suspension of disbelief".

I'll admit, I felt a little ridiculous. I don't even run with music! And here I was, donning  headphones, to run among make believe zombies. All zombies are make believe, but these are really make believe. Regardless, I started my "mission" with simultaneous feelings of excitement, trepidation, and embarrassment even though I knew that no one knew I was about to play pretend in the woods.

Here's the deal... you are a survivor who is in one-way communication with "base". During your run mission they talk to you, moving the story along, telling you what's going on, giving you assignments. They talk to you at the beginning of the run mission, and between songs on your selected playlist. (I recommend slashing guitar rock... goes well with zombies.) You also pick up items along your run, items that the base needs, like food, medicine, batteries, etc. You don't have to vary your run, or change direction, or bend over. As long as you keep running, you'll accumulate supplies. You know you're accumulating things because a robotic-type voice half-mutes your song and tells you, "Picked up underwear".

When you start your mission, you have the option to turn on "Zombie Chases". Look, if you've paid $7.99 for a game called "Zombies, Run!" and you don't turn on Zombie Chases, you're an idiot. Ok, I know... they put that in just in case you're running in traffic... I get it. But honestly, if you're running in traffic, you shouldn't be wearing headphones at all now, should you. Besides, come on... you're playing a game that, in the title, tells you to run from zombies. You don't go to the pool and not swim. You don't go to a bar and not have a drink. Turn on the chases.

As you're running, and gathering supplies, if you have Zombie Chases turned on, which of course you do, occasionally, you'll get a warning that zombies are in the area.


You know there aren't any zombies in the area. You know there aren't any zombies anywhere. But still... it gets to you.


Then... the beeping. The beeping means they are close. Faster beeping means they're closer. The beeping is telling you... you guessed it... "Zombies, Run!" And you really do want to run. You really don't want to get caught by the zombies, the zombies that aren't there, but kinda are.

Yeah, I was totally sucked in.

You can actually hear the zombies behind you. You hear twigs snap, which is, indeed, more effective if you are actually in the woods. A chase lasts about a minute. Supposedly, you just need to speed up, not reach a certain speed, to outrun the mob. I was "chased" twice in my first mission. They caught me the first time thanks to the gully I had to cross. The second I managed to outrun. And it was a serious chase. I don't want to give too much away, but one of the zombies used to be a runner like you, but she got caught. And she's fast. I'll be honest, I was moving pretty damn fast at the end of that chase. And I had a distinct vision of a zombie-runner-girl wearing a green singlet, trying like hell to run me down and eat my brains. Those beeps get into your head.

If you don't outrun the zombies, you don't die, or become undead, you "drop" the supplies you've collected, I guess to distract the brain-starved. So, the more zombie mobs you outrun, the more supplies you bring back. 

So what? Well, after your run mission you get to divvy up your supplies to the various buildings back at base. The more supplies in a building, the higher its level. Higher level buildings unlock more missions.

On the techie side, there were a few glitches... like I couldn't understand the robot voice over my music, and when I paused the mission and restarted the music didn't come back until I restarted it manually, and during the run mission I noticed that it was measuring in kilometers and found no way to switch to miles, and most glaring, after the run mission I couldn't retrieve my time, distance, and pace. I'm sure these are being worked on. And it's very possible I missed something. I've only done one mission and I wasn't diligently digging for things, just trying to use it as a normal person would. [Update (4/11/2012): Downloaded v1.1 and glad to report many issues have been resolved. Keeps distance and time log, can select miles, shuffles your playlist, game volume is adjustable and better.] 

Does running really need to be gamified? No, of course not. But I'll tell you what, Zombies, Run! is a lot of fun, and a great distraction on a short run. I'm already looking forward to my next solo run... not that I will really be alone...


Zombie, Run! $7.99 on iTunes
I give it 4 out of 5 brains.


Good running,
Doug AKA Runner 5

Sick During Marathon Training

What's worse than being sick?

Being sick when you're supposed to be training for that marathon that's looming, out there, in the not very distant future, like a fully operational Death Star. You're supposed to be training your body to defend itself against the distance and the course. Instead, your flat on your back.

It can happen. Trust me. I've spent that last 2 days sick as the proverbial dog. Which when you stop to think about it is a weird proverb because even when my dog's sick, she seems just fine when she's not actually in the act of being sick. When I wasn't in the actual act of being sick, I was in bed, and either shivering or sweating like a pig, though pig's don't sweat.

I think we should keep animals out of our proverbial metaphors, at least when it comes to bodily functions.

So, what do you do about your training if you get sick?

Good question.

Thanks.

Patience is the key.

Your body just saved itself from some nasty marauders who meant to do it, and you, serious harm. Give it a break.

You're probably dehydrated. You might not have eaten anything for a couple days.

Missing a few days of training because you were sick is not going to ruin your marathon. Jumping back into hard training too soon, and getting yourself sick again, just might.

Respect your body and what it's been through. Give it a day or so after you are back on your feet. Then, try an easy run. If that goes well, then you're back in business.

But what about the training you missed? Do you make it up?

Another excellent question.

You're weird.

Those sick days are lost days. Don't try to make them up.

If you were down less than a week, ease back into your training, and be honest with yourself about how you feel and how well you are running. The more days you were sick, the longer this will take. Once you are running 100%, pick up with the training plan with the workout you had planned for that day. Essentially you pretend that those sick days, and ramp back up days, were part of the training all along, replacing whatever workouts you had for those days, and starting back on the original program as soon you are ready. It might be a bit of a jump up, since you could have missed a build-up step or two, but do the best you can. In no time, you'll be right back in the groove.

If you were down for more than a week, it's time to reassess your goals. You were REALLY sick. It's going to take a while before you're 100%. Consider changing your race to one a month or so later. If you can't do that, acknowledge that you're going to go into the race less prepared that you planned. Not your fault, just bad luck, and part of the plight of the marathoner. When you are full strength, after you've eased back into running, start back on your training plan where you left off, minus 2 weeks. That will give you a little slack to recover your mojo.

These are rough guidelines. I'm no doctor.

One of the key benefits of training for a marathon is the keen awareness you develop of our body. Like a good jockey does with his race horse, listen to your body, don't force it, give it time to find its stride, and then run it hard for all it's got.

I think that metaphor held together ok.

Good running,
Doug

Image from here.

Rest Days

Rest at Harvest

Adolph William Bouguereau paintings

Unless your doing something stupid like running every day for a year, your training schedule will include rest days.

Here's the thing that most runners don't know... rest days are NOT days off.

Just because you aren't running doesn't mean you get to do nothing.

Rest days are a chance for your legs to recover... so you can beat them up some more.

Your legs get to rest, not you.

On rest days spend some time helping those legs recover.

• Stretch. Often. Better yet, hit a yoga class.
• Break out that foam roller you bought at Target, used once, and put in the corner. 
• Rehydrate - don't go anywhere without a (reusable) bottle of water.
• Take care of your core. Maybe do a little work on the upper body.

Oh, and don't pig out, either. You aren't on vacation.

Rest days are just as important as long runs, tempo runs, and intervals. Use them to prepare your body for more training, not as an excuse to undo the training you've already done.

Good running,
Doug

Vicarious Running

To try to break up the monotony of the weekend's scheduled long run, I thought it would be fun to try live tweeting along the way.

I've been snapping pics during runs for years, so the idea of tweeting seemed like no big deal. Plus, a little live feedback, encouragement, even hazing would provide a few seconds of distraction from the arduous task of moving my body, and the water I was carrying, the required obscene distance.

But, turns out... it was pain in the ass.

Taking a picture when you're sweaty, and huffing and/or puffing, and your heart is trying to pound a hole in your rib cage, is wuh-aaaay easier than typing something remotely coherent under the same conditions. I know, obvious, right? Well, sure.. NOW it is.

Wake up the phone. New tweet. Picture icon. Take a picture. Actually take the picture. Use picture I just took. Type tweet. Post tweet. Uhg.

Stopping to tweet totally killed my pace. And my momentum. And after 10 miles, my will to live.

Worse, the hassle made me think twice about taking some pictures, and twice was all it took for most of them to be cut from the movie. Too bad, too, cause some of them were kinda fun. Just not fun enough to endure the torture of the tweet.

And when i did tweet, I'd start editing myself after I'd posted, thinking "Oh, man, I should have said 'blah blah' instead.", but it was already posted, read only.

Still, fun experiment. I learned a lot. I'll probably tweet some live pics from Big Sur just to share the beauty and the agony, and to let those few who care that I'm still alive. But, a regular feature of DR365 this isn't.

With that glowing introduction... I present the Doug Run 365 Long Run (no longer) Live Tweet:

9:30 AM - 5 Feb 12: Live tweeting on my long run this morning. Vicarious types, run with me!

9:38 AM - 5 Feb 12: I won't be totally alone. A few others on path this am.

9:53 AM - 5 Feb 12: Minor equipment malfunction. 

10:19 AM - 5 Feb 12: 86th street chicane.

10:41 AM - 5 Feb 12: Warmish sun, chilly shade making it hard to regulate temp. Sweaty and cold most of the time. [ed. - No picture. Trust me, it's better this way.]




10:49 AM - 5 Feb 12: PBR can art in Broadripple 1/2 way thru long run. 

11:01 AM - 5 Feb 12: Holy crap. Transformer just blew up 50 feet from me. Heart pounding extra hard now. [ed. - No picture. We've all seen what a transformer looks like, right?]




11:09 AM - 5 Feb 12: Speed.

11:41 AM - 5 Feb 12: The southern stretch of the Monon is long, straight, monotonous. Perfect training for the last 6 of a marathon.

11:53 AM - 5 Feb 12: 10th street.

12:07 PM - 5 Feb 12: Got[ta] thank my cheering section.

12:15 PM - 5 Feb 12: To commemorate the Super day in Indy, I'm posting today's mileage in huge ass romans [on the circle]. XV baby!

Good running,

Doug