My Run, the movie

Do yourself a favor.

Get a babysitter. Skip your zoomba class, whatever the hell that is, and go see My Run on Thursday.

One day only. Thursday. Nationwide.

Do it.

I mean it.

(Trailer)

(North-side IndyTheaters) (Other Theaters)

Good running,
Doug

Best 5K, ever.

It was windy, and cold. 24F cold.

My time... 48 minutes. Slowest 5K I've ever run.

And I'm using the word "run" here very liberally.

So what was so good about this particular 5K?

I ran it with my 10 year old. Our first race together. His first race ever.

It didn't quite go as planned. He and his friend started toward the front. Waaaay toward the front. Like on the line.

Notice that no one is in front of these boys at the starting line.

This was his friend's idea.

His other idea was to blast off like a scalded cat at the gun.

My boy didn't like this idea, because he's not crazy.

So within a few yards, my boy found himself running alone, as hundreds of people, zoomed by him.

Being an experienced runner, and an even more experienced dad, I started behind the boys. And when I saw mine, on his own, looking up at every adult who passed him, I knew he was looking for me. He knew that I would be there for him. He knew I was the one running buddy who wouldn't ever drop him.

The boy was not the least bit happy. Can't blame him. A good running buddy doesn't leave you. At least not without you saying it's cool.

And sure, the boy took his anger out on me, is dorky dad, at first.

He did not want to run, even a little bit. "I'm a sprinter, not a distance runner!"

He wanted to walk. And just get it over with. Finish and go home.

Once he realized I was good with that plan, which was at about the half way mark, he decided it was ok to speak to me.

By the end, we were talking. And laughing. And running.

And then the little rat squirted out ahead of me in the last 30 yards. That's ok, I'm pretty sure I was finishing out of the money anyway.

My placing and my finish time don't matter one bit. It was who I finished with that made it the best 5K, ever.

Good running,
Doug

When good has to be good enough

It's so easy for our vision of ourselves to get in our way.

On my run this afternoon, I actually felt... good.

I haven't really felt good running for a while. It's bad that it feels weird to feel good. It's welcome all the same.

A couple days ago my Stretching Professional (aka Mistress of Pretzel-Twisting Pain) decided that my progress wasn't actually progressing, so she broke out a can of Whoop-Ass brand torture. Releasing fascia is not for the weak, or anyone who shrieks like a frightened little girl when elbows are used to loosen up the lumpy bits. She inflicted it on me anyway.

But, two days later, here I am, cautiously optimistic.

And cautiously cautious. I've been fooled before. I've felt "good", which was really just a slight upgrade from "near death", and thought that was a green light to kick in the afterburners, which of course put me back a couple steps, back to "nearer to death".

Today, things felt good. No twinges. No hitches. Just smooth goin'.

I was steady. Not slow, but not fast either.

Thing is, there's nothing like feeing good to make you want to go fast, especially when you haven't gone fast in a long time.

And man, do I want to go fast. I don't like dragging behind a group whose collective asses, just a few months ago, I could dust.

I want to be fast, again. Not for the ego boost of beating my buddies. Just to know that I my body is strong and durable and fast. Right now it's none of those.

But, as Jayne said "If wishes were horses, we'd all be eating steak."

“A man walks down the street in that hat, people know he’s not afraid of anything.”

I can be fast again, but not today. And not tomorrow. Maybe not this summer. And certainly not if I do something stupid like try to act like I'm fast now.

We are who we are. And we are at the exact place in our life where we are supposed to be. Forcing ourselves to be something, or someone, or somewhere else never goes well.

Change, positive, real change, takes patience, and practice, and work, and commitment. You can't wish yourself into shape, physical or otherwise.

So let those boys run out in front. You just keep working on your own stuff. And one day soon, they'll be squinting, trying to find you off in the distance.

Good running,
Doug

One red sock

I'm gonna warn you now... this one's going to be a little on the gross side.

Ok, maybe a lot on the gross side. Like maybe 30 or 40 yards deep into gross territory.

The squeamish should probably go here instead. Or here. Or maybe here.

Either way, you've been warned.

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V

I know, right? See, I told ya.

That's what I saw when I pulled my shoe off after a 6 miler. And let me tell ya, the picture doesn't really do it justice. It looked like something you'd see in some cheesy film-school lawnmower-turned-evil short.

What would be going through your mind if that lovely sight greeted you... and it was your foot?

Here are the thoughts that went through my head... in order:

1) Cool!

2) Huh. I didn't feel anything. Still don't. That's weird.

3) Damn, I love these socks.

4) Hey, it's still wet. I can rinse them out in the shower. Sweet!

5) I wonder what kind of carnage is going down in there...

Note: At no time did the thought occur to me that I might have lost a toenail. Or a toe. Or that I'd stepped on a nail. Or been a snack for some voracious spider-scorpion-pacman hybrid.

Inside the sock, there was blood... a LOT of blood. Most of my not-so-big toes were covered in blood. But no real damage. Toenails intact. All toes accounted for. No critters scrambling for cover.

All of that blood came from one tiny hole in the side of my middle toe. One teeny-tiny hole.

So why all the gore?

Because life is messy sometimes, but usually, things aren't as bad as they look at first.

One day, probably soon, you're gonna take off your metaphorical shoe and find a metaphorical horribly bloody sock.

You can scream and make a scene and limp around like an invalid. Seriously, go right ahead. No one will think less of you.

Or... you can look at that sock, examine it. Wonder why and how. Contemplate it, and your reaction to it. Soak in that moment and experience it for what it is.

It's a surprise, a break from the ordinary.

It's an unexpected jolt, snapping you from your sleepy routine and reminding you that the unexpected, the unplanned, is a part of life... maybe the best part.

It's an awakening. 

It's also a reminder to take that extra second or two when you're trimming your toenails to make sure you don't leave a razor-sharp pointy bit on the side.

The sock rinsed clean. Band-aid on the toe stemmed the crimson tide. All's back to normal.

Things always, eventually, settle back to normal.

Good running,

Doug

Images from here and me.

The perfect lunch for feeling awesome

The perfect lunch on a cold, dreary, rainy day is NOT a bowl of spinach and tuna.

That's what I had today. Not what I wanted, but what I had.

Yesterday I gave in to my deeper desire for immediate gratification and french fries. I went to Wendy's and had a nice, warm, salt-ridden serving of cholesterol and fat. And it was delicious.

Until it was gone.

The rest of the day, I felt like crap. That oh-man-why-did-I-eat-that crap.

Crap is the opposite of awesome.

Later in the evening, I was tired. Really tired. Lethargic. Not just from my stupefying lunch. It was a long, slog of a day.

All I wanted to do when I got home was plop down in front of the tube and waste the evening. And maybe drink.

Instead, I drug my ass to Hot Yoga for Runners*. Why? Mostly out of mindless loyalty to my training program. It says right there... "Monday: Yoga". Kinda like when my calendar says "Dentist: 9:00am". I don't want to go, but I go because the calendar says to.

When I got there I realized I'd forgotten my mat. "Ha! The universe is telling me to go home and veg. See ya, suckers!"

I was out the door.

Halfway back to my car, I stopped.

A tiny, soft, whispering voice inside my head said, "Hey, you. Yes you, jackass. I thought you wanted to feel awesome. If you go home now, that just means one more day of feeling like crap."

That stupid, sensible, and kinda rude little voice really pisses me off sometimes.

I turned around. I went back in. I rented a mat. I sweat my ass off for an hour.

And today, I had a salad for lunch.

It's easy to say that you want to do the right thing, the best thing for you. Everyone wants to think that that's what they want.

The moment, or moments, of truth, are when we decide if we really mean it.

In those moments we have to fight against our habits, our urges, and our fears. We have to summon the courage, strength, and good sense just long enough to side-step our base desires.

And those moments come everyday.

When you're faced with deciding between immediate gratification and one tiny step toward long-term awesomeness, which will you choose?

Good running,
Doug

*Should be called "Hey runners, you think you sweat out there? I'll show you sweat. Come in here for an hour and we'll melt you."

Image from here.

The year of feeling awesome

This morning was the same as most mornings. That's not a good thing.

I woke up sore. Rolling out of bed was a festival of crackling and popping. Once on my feet, I stood, motionless, waiting for the sore muscles to accept that they were indeed being put back into service, one more day. When I felt I had a greater than 50% chance of not face-planting on my first step, I moved slowly toward the door, hoping that the pogo stick that I call my dog wouldn't knock me on my ass.

After padding around the house for a few minutes, the parts started cooperating, and I was walking more or less normally. But for the rest of the day, if I'd been sitting for more than a few minutes, I had to replay a short version of the morning, coaxing the stiff and sore bits back to life.

In the immortal words of The Dude, who was quoting the least incompetent of the Bush presidents, so far, "This will not stand."

I see people every day, some younger than I am, barely able to move. They shuffle when they try to walk. They fall into chairs. Getting back out is a feat of leverage, rocking momentum, and sometimes pulleys. That, sir, will not be me.

2010 was the year of getting my head back on straight. I ran and wrote every day. Those two habits served me well. They were the key parts to my process of figuring out who the hell I was and what that means.

And it worked. I've never felt more in touch with the guy inside this body.

Now, it's time to focus on that body.

2011 is the year of feeling awesome... physically.

My dear friend and yogic mentor Robin reminds me (often) that there's absolutely no reason to suffer. If you're stiff, stretch. If you're sore, take an ibuprofen and go easy next time. If you're in a bad place, move.

My plan is... ok, I don't have a plan yet. As my plan comes together, I'll fill you above-average looking readers in on the whats and hows.

I know I'm going to be stretching every day. I'm going to eat a little less and a bit more healthy. I'm going to do some strength work.

And soon I'm going to friggin' run, get out of bed, bend over to pet the dog, and generally live, in a much more accommodating body.

Good running,
Doug

Image from here.

It's good to feel good

Yesterday, when I dragged my carcass out of bed, I felt like I'd awakened into a new body.

The yuckiness from Monday - the tightness, the soreness, the metaphorical rust - gone. All it took was an entire evening of stretching and kneading, a dash of foam roller self-abuse, and an icepack for dessert.

And with my fresh-from-the-body-shop body came a new attitude. It's so refreshing to not be miserable. Without the fog of despair that a nagging injury brings to the party, the day wasn't half bad.

And my first work-based run in ages, was fairly rockin'.

I ran well. I didn't get hit by a car. Didn't get hit by a beer can from a car. Didn't even have my masculinity questioned from any passing hill-jacks.

Taking a slightly different (i.e. shorter) route, I noticed this oddity...

At some point, some developer had a serious crush on Susan. I'm guessing this intersection creeped her out.

The most daunting part of the run was dressing. Or more to the point, undressing. My new office has about 4000% more windows. Two whole walls of windows. And there I was, sans clothes, jaybird-like, holding on desperately to my belief that the windows are, indeed, mirrored on the outside.

A view of the people who I hoped didn't have a view of my junk.

Post-run, I didn't crumble into a heap. A little stretching and I was right back to work. My positive vibe has lasted through to today.

I don't like that it feels weird to be in a good mood.

I'm thinking that my 2-month sabbatical was less vacation, and more punishment. Punishment for not taking better care of myself while I was running every day. Karmic backdraft for hubris.

Having my feet back under me and on the road where they belong, and having a goal to keep them there, is what I need.

We need a goal. We need accomplishment, or at least to feel that we are striving for something. Something that we don't know that we can achieve. It gives us purpose. It challenges us, and our self-imposed limits.

It also helps to mark our time on the planet.

Without goals, either achieved or not, time wooshes by, unnoticed. And before long, 2 months, or 2 decades, gone. And you don't have anything to show for it.

Good running,

Doug