Revival

Incredibly, I can only estimate the number of days, months, or years it has been since I last ran consistently. I do know that it's been the better part of a year since I ran a single mile. And before that was a year of running an occasional mile or perhaps two miles. And before that were a couple of years of my body being able to run five or six miles when called upon, but such lengths were far from a consistent routine. Sometime before that I considered my routine run to be six or seven miles, and when I calculate all this tapering off, my memory arrives at a time almost seven years ago when my most consistent running partners moved away.

Not that most of my runs were community ones--I did mostly solo running--but my running partners, in retrospect, were a major motivation for my habit. Even when I had skipped a week of solo runs, I knew I would be running six miles on Thursday morning with Brad and Nick. After they left Kansas City, I still ran consistently, and Amy kept me inspired with her partnership, but I didn't run as often, and my frequency declined. And then Amy moved away in August of 2016. My running habit at that point could already be defined as a "rare" occurrence, but her move paired with my purchase of a house for the first time in my life precipitated the veritable death of my running habit. I went out for the occasional mile after moving into my house, but these modest efforts quickly tapered off to become every few weeks until each of them became an effort to "get started" again, and eventually this led to complete abandonment of the discipline.

But a couple weeks ago, I began my running habit again with a more determined commitment. My first effort was less than two miles on an urban trail, and I could feel well before I finished that the muscles in my legs were going to be quite sore. Since in all my running, including nine marathons from 2008 to 2011, I never quit smoking, I assumed that, in re-committing to the habit of running, my lungs would be the primary setback. But despite reaching an out-of-breathness rather quickly, I settled into a pace my lungs could accommodate. And while I'm certain it was a much slower pace than I was used to in my former running days, I realized it was my legs that need to be nursed back into the habit. Since that initial run, I've been out three more times, and my legs feel better each time. As for my lungs, they have survived, though what feels like the pace I ran in my prime is about a minute slower per mile.

I have yet to run more than two miles, but what I'm struck by is this: the joy that running brought me in the past has come back immediately. Though it may take my muscles and my lungs some time to reach the levels of function they previously knew, the pleasure of running trails, of choosing my steps, of feeling my feet against the earth, of navigating roots and rocks, of sighting birds and hearing squirrels scurry through leaves and up tree trunks, is a source of unforgotten pleasure. On each of my four brief runs, I have found instant focus and simultaneously instant freedom. My thoughts and my eyes wander. My eyes and my feet work in sync. My mind connects to my body, and I silently--without even speech or thought--offer thanks and praise for being alive. Put quite simply, I feel whole. 

the wimp runs SMP after dark

Night run at SMP (3.05.2011)

In following one of the marathon training schedules in the back of Bart Yasso’s book, My Life on the Run, today I was to do a “long, slow distance” of 10 – 15 miles. Initially planning a two-loop run on the Swope Park trails, I ended up at the Shawnee Mission Park trails instead. On my way there after 8:00, I experienced a rising concern regarding the park’s official hours of operation. The gates were open, though, and, stopping at the first sign after the entrance, I saw that beginning March first the park’s hours are until 11 p.m. Perfect. I started my run at 8:38 and figured I would need a bit over an hour per loop, so I should finish up just by 11:00, managing about fourteen miles before the park closed.

As it turned out, I called it quits after one good loop—completed in an hour and eleven minutes—but the story of the night is fairly uneventful except for a few heart beat increasing moments.

For those who haven’t run these trails, they are set up in a figure eight. The bottom portion of the eight, if one begins from the entrance near the marina parking lot, is roughly two point five miles, and the top portion of the figure eight is about two miles. A little over a mile into the top loop is a spur, an out and back that—thanks to trail workers—magically and wonderfully continues to grow in length, bit by bit, tiny parts of a mile at a time. It feels like a bit over a mile to reach the end of the spur.

Being on a night run, my headlamp band wrapped around my knit cap and I ran with the high beam pointing the way for me along the trail, lighting the curves and the rocks that jutted up from the ground. As I approached the section where I knew the spur broke off the main trail, I began to turn my head, shining the light in quick scans of the territory to the left. When a barbed wire fence began to run alongside the trail, I knew I must be close. At one point I stopped and retrace my steps briefly, fearing I may have passed the intersecting T of the spur. I had not. I ran on, fully attentive now, sweeping my headlamp often to the left of the trail. As I neared the intersection of the spur, I saw two gleaming points of yellow and thought they must be the glow of trail markings indicating the turn-off I sought. I kept my headlamp trained on these glowing points and shortly realized they were not signs of the trail at all; rather, they were the eyes of some nocturnal animal.

I slowed my pace, eventually walking, and finally coming to a complete stop as I came close enough to identify what type of animal I had the luck to observe. It was a raccoon.

The thing that disturbs me about raccoons is their apparent lack of nerves. A raccoon may look like a hip bandit, but it is in fact as cool as a seasoned thief. Once my headlamp reflected these watchful eyes, I kept the light shining directly in his or her face. The raccoon had neither moved its feet nor turned its head. It simply stared, waiting, I assumed, to startle me with a sudden burst of speed, commencing a merciless attack. Slowing to a walk and a momentary stop, the ‘coon just several yards away, my heart rate rose, and when I began walking again, I afforded the raccoon as much distance from me as possible, walking on the right-most edge of the trail. As I walked past, I kept my head turned to the left; long gone is that childhood idea that if I close my eyes I can’t be seen . . . this Mr. or Mrs. nerves-of-steel simply glared and eventually I gained the courage to turn my back on this human predator. I can only imagine the heart-rate I might experience if I were a night trail runner in California, where the possibility of mountain lions would undoubtedly kick my imagination into overdrive.

As I began the mile-long spur, my heart rate returned to its moderate pace and my thoughts retreated from the momentary panic they had experienced. But returning on this out-and-back, I found myself anticipating another run-in with this creaturely resident of the Shawnee Mission Park woods. The slightest rustle in the leaves off the trail put me on alert, and I marveled at the momentary yet sudden panic these rustlings would set upon me, feeling strangely threatened somehow by indicators that there was some other cognitive form of life in the urban woods in which I ran.

An Experience with Virginity

journal entry, Jan. 20, 2011

Thursday morning run with Brad. As has been true much of late, we ran through several inches of snow, which makes for a damned intense workout.

At one point, while I was leading, I commented that I may have just come to a new understanding of the word "virgin." The snowfall fresh from yesterday and last night had indeed created a landscape which was entirely new and untouched. The trail lay hidden; but for our knowledge of it we would not have known of its existence. The snow lay lightly and silk-smooth, in obedience and complement to the contours of the land and to the terrain of the Missouri woods.

A truer blessing is hard to come by than running in these conditions with all senses engaged: this serendipitous sighting of nature's momentary yet perpetual virginity; the tactile awareness of cold dry air around one's face; the layer of snow gathered around our ankles and packed into the spaces in our shoes; the smell of a winter world, whatever that is; the sounds of . . . ourselves, grunting as we planted our feet on hidden stones, chatting periodically and breathing heavily as we slipped and legged ourselves up a number of hills; and the taste of cold, Midwestern winter air, biting at first but soon taken for granted and sucked in without noticing the pleasure - the taste of life, really.

What gratitude I'd now like to express for this gracious gift.

Red Bird

journal entry, Jan. 19, 2011

I thought of Jake Page twice on my run today. First, about a mile in, right after crossing under the bridge at BRP, I saw a flash of red zip through the trees, settling in an upper branch for a minute. I stopped and stared, instantly aware of the stillness surrounding me. I had spotted a cardinal. Just yesterday, I read Page's essay, "Red Bird." In it, he mentions in passing that the cardinal chooses to make its life with us year-round. On looking again, I wonder if I imagined this direct statement, but I do remember thinking as I read, Really? I never knew. His essay in part is about a little burst of hope, a choice for optimism we can experience in sighting this little bit of bright red in the midst of a gray and dreary winter.

And then, a day later, for the first time I can remember, I have the joy of experiencing this myself. The background today was not simply gray however; it was a beautiful winter day, though quite cold. But snow was falling, the ground already coated with a thick layer rapidly growing thicker; small flakes struck my face and eyes as I ran, and tree branches carried that "crew cut" snow-profile Page describes in another essay.

So this cardinal today was a bright red beauty within bright white beauty and I stopped in my tracks - not for the last time on my run - for several moments until the mysteriously hearty bird lifted itself from its temporary perch and flew further away.