How do you run faster as you get older? Simple math really. Hard Work + Never Quit = Payoff.
There are a lot of great things about this story but the simplicity of just running without the gym membership or all the fancy doodads is what gets me. I've never understood why more people don't run especially when there is almost zero barrier to entry. I understand why the less affluent aren't as healthy as the more affluent. Cheap, empty calories versus expensive fruits and vegetables, access to health care, longer working hours, shift work, longer commutes all lead up to a less healthy lifestyle. Yet the answer is right in front of our eyes and so few of us take the time to see it. Running isn't like other sports with registration fees, expensive specialized equipment or access to highfalutin facilities. You just put on a pair of shoes (even the cheapest will do) and go. Any time, day or night. As far as you want, as fast as you want.
“I could tell you the temperature and wind speed by feel. I knew the humidity index by my sweat. I knew the date by the moon.”
I use to have a bad habit of coming home from work, lying down and having a solid nap. I’d wake up, weigh myself, then feel guilty and go for a run. By the time I got home and showered I’d be eating supper sometimes as late as 10 PM. Then I’d go to bed and sleep like a baby. Sleeping well was the first thing I lost when I stopped exercising but it wasn’t the only thing. It’s been ages since I’ve run regularly and in the meantime I gained weight and got doughy. Like 20 lbs doughy. I’ve since realized I've lost more than I gained.
When you run all the time you get to know your neighbourhood. I knew every pothole, every stage of every construction project. I recognized other runners who were regulars. I knew if I was ahead or behind schedule by who was sitting on their porch. I knew when the SPCA volunteers would walk the dogs in their care. I even knew those dogs. I knew cats that prowled and scurried from shrubs or beneath cars. I knew what flowers bloomed when. What trees budded and for how long. Because I often ran at dusk, I had a sense of how the moon was waxing or waning. I knew the mix of smells, mostly sour and urban, but some sweet and floral. I knew which neighbourhoods smoked more pot than others from the pungent acrid smoke that followed the men on their evening walk. I knew the sounds of kids and the names that would be yelled across the park. I knew which birds to avoid in the Common - trust me, do not turn your back on a redwing blackbird. I knew when the raspberries beneath a public art piece were ripe or that there were berries there at all. I knew which water fountains worked and where new ones were installed (the new ones have a spout for pets near the ground and a taller faucet for refilling water bottles). I knew when ball games were played or when local teams practised. I knew which sidewalks had heaved in the spring and which had crumbled in the fall. I knew which street lamps were faulty and which alleyways were lit. I knew when streetlights would change and could count the seconds accurately in my head (“1 Jeremy Irons, 2 Jeremy Irons, 3 Jeremy Irons, go). I knew when garbage trucks took which street’s waste. I knew which houses had well kept gardens and which apartments ordered a lot of fast food. I knew where the cabbies gathered to break and talk their native language.
I could tell you the temperature and wind speed by feel. I knew the humidity index by my sweat. I knew the date by the moon. I could tell you the next day’s weather by the clouds. I could sense who won the big game by the traffic on the Gardiner. I knew people’s private moments when they thought no one was near. I startled more than a few couples canoodling (poodle faking as a friend’s father would say).
I knew my pace by counting in my head. I knew how far I’d gone by my steps. I knew how to add 500m more, 1 km more, 2.5 km more by lampposts and stop signs. I knew my heart rate from touch. I knew my body fat from a pinch. I knew my weight to the gram by my lightness. I knew every street name, stop sign, no parking zone and house number. I knew where raccoons gathered, where rats were plentiful, where rabbits hid, where foxes, deer or raptors might be seen. I knew the time of night by the stillness. I knew the darkness because I ran within it. I knew where crackheads smoked, vomited and pissed. I knew where the prostitutes stood, bored and anxious. I knew where the cops slept. I knew when the seasons changed by taste. I knew when the skateboarders would land their jump or stumble from their boards. I knew when grass was cut, where drugs were sold, where dogs crapped and where drunks passed out. I knew the city better than the back of my hand because, honestly, the back of my hand isn’t that interesting.
I’ve grown to really dislike films by Robert Zemeckis. One in particular: Forrest Gump. I dislike the conceit that a simple country bumpkin would somehow be at the centre of the 20th century’s most important moments. Heck, I don’t even like which moments that were chosen as being important. What I dislike the most though are the quotes. Firstly, “Life” is in no way like a box of chocolates mostly because many chocolate boxes have a menu reflecting what each candy contains, there’s also a list of ingredients and… you know what, no, I’m not even going to continue this line of reasoning because you can’t use logic and reason to explain something that has no logic or reason. Most of all though, I really really dislike (is “hate” too strong a term?) the quote, “Run Forrest, run!” Why? It’s simple. So many times, when I go for a run, some idiot, or someone about to expose themselves as an idiot, will say it after I pass them. I quietly and respectfully will pass a person on the sidewalk and then, without prompting, I’ll hear, “Run Forrest, run!” and judging from the sarcasm in their terrible version of a Southern accent, they are not encouraging me, but mocking me or simply showing their disdain for… for what? Disdain for a person exercising? For all they know, I’m running from a marauding axe-wielding maniac and “Run Forrest, run!” will in fact, be their last words. That would be a shame, to die with your last words being a sarcastic, unimaginative, unoriginal and unfunny quote from an old movie, probably delivered in an approximation of an accent that borders on racist. That would be a shame.
Typically, you know who will say this. Usually, they are young, probably aging from as young as 12-13 to early 20s. And usually they are male. And usually they are in a group of two to four. A person walking on their own has never said this to me. They are also… how do I say this without being too offensive (it’s probably too late in my life to not be offensive)? They are likely to “appear”… well, not stylish. Not affluent. Not genteel, nor refined. They will appear to be very casually dressed, in fact probably more casually dressed than would be acceptable in many work places. Ironically, they are the kind of person who wears athletic clothing while never engaging in any athletic activity. They will appear brash or full of braggadocio and walking with a body language of exaggerated swagger. Oh and they usually wait to say it as if it takes a moment for them to process a person running by and an opportunity to say “Run Forrest, run!”
The other night was different but really the same. I passed two women, one of whom was walking a dog, both were wearing sweatpants and I believe what you might call a halter top. I left the sidewalk to pass them, turned the corner then heard “Run Forrest, run!” and laughter. It was unexpected because my “social profile” was wrong. I didn’t realize this level of idiocy crossed all social demographics and groups. Likewise, I was in an elevator leaving work this week when someone said they had a train to catch and their colleague said, “Wow, you’d better run.” As the doors opened the train commuter bolted and started walking briskly. His so-called colleague then called out, “Run Forrest, run!” and laughed. No one else laughed. No one else laughed because it was a stupid and unoriginal thing to say. So now we’re just saying this stupid quote to anyone in a hurry? Again, my demographic profiling was wrong. This paunch with legs and necktie was dressed “Business Casual” (a term for anything less formal than a suit, but more formal than blue jeans). I can only guess this man’s friend was thinking to himself as he was treading away from the elevator, “Run Forrest, run?? I’ll remember that the next time you’re late for a meeting. Maybe you should’ve ‘Run Forrest’? You little neck waddle with arms.”
I suppose you might think me “cranky” or just a “crank”. You might even bring up the trend some years ago of finishing sentences with an exaggerated “NOT” (eg “I looooove rainy days – (pause for effect) – NOT!”) as a passing attempt at humour. I assume this was begun as a sophomoric catch phrase by Mike Myers in Wayne’s World, then re-invigorated by the film Borat (I would suggest both comedians used the device ironically). Yet this dumb use of a dumb quote continues to thrive and annoy. I have no answer for it except maybe if you just call people out on making a dumb joke they’ll stop seeing the humour in it. Last winter I passed a couple of youths, and I felt for sure, this was the perfect set-up. Two young teen lads, in their NBA hats and over-sized jerseys are the very group that usually drop that "vicious burn" and when I passed, almost like clock-work, one of them said… actually he surprised me. Instead of using the ol’ Forrest Gump trope, he coughed the word “a**hole”. I’m not exactly sure what leads people to assign such labels to strangers, but I’m pretty sure, someone who calls a stranger that, is probably the very thing they are accusing. I stopped and thought, I’ll be super polite and over-charm this guy. When I turned, I said ever so sweetly, “I’m sorry, did you say something to me?” As I was saying this I realized just how young these two were and they couldn’t really hide their age under the brims of their hats and I suddenly felt like a terrible bully. The one who said the obscenity meekly, nearly whispered, “No, sir.” “Okay, well have a good night, guys.” I chirped back, now fully feeling like a principal of a high school admonishing students for slouching.
I thought about the incident for days afterwards. Was I being a jerk? Would that stop a jerky kid from being a jerk next time only because he worried he would be caught? What if I’d been wrong and turned to find someone much older and bolder who would’ve suddenly escalated the encounter? I have no answers for the strange kind of inverted classism I bump up against all the time in Toronto. Maybe I am a hipster-liberal-elitist only here to gentrify and ruin your neighbourhood, but I don’t harass people in the street? What would that be like? “Hey, check out this massive property tax bill I just paid that I drove up by paying too much for my tiny but well situated house!” “Where’s the organic milk section of this crappy grocery store anyway?” “Yo, buddy! Can’t you vape that weed so I don’t have to smell it?!”
More than anything, it is a class thing. I get it, if I’m riding through Moss Park on a $2000 bike dressed like a peloton groupie but when I run, it’s just a t-shirt and shorts and Nikes. I mean, it doesn’t cost anything to run. Sure, my shoes cost a little more, but you don’t have to wear expensive shoes to run. It is the cheapest form of exercise you can imagine. No memberships or equipment required. I’ve heard strange stories of how runners used to be treated; from being stopped by the police to having rubbish thrown at them from moving cars, but the even stranger thing is, the refrain “Run Forrest, run!” is proof people still think you are an oddball if you run for exercise. Not just an oddball, but an affluent entitled jerk to boot. That’s the part I really don’t get. I really do not wear particularly fancy running apparel. You definitely could kit yourself out like an idiot but I wear pretty cheap stuff because I don’t feel expensive stuff helps.
I don’t really have a solution to this problem except that when someone thinks they are making a good joke at my expense, I have the smug thought that it is actually a crap joke. Yet what can I retort? Well, when you die from choking on a Cheetos or whatever, I’ll show up at your funeral wearing inappropriately short running shorts and say “Hey, lay perfectly still, Forrest, lay perfectly still!” and no one but me will laugh, and they’ll all wonder who this weirdo is.
Lately I’ve resumed running. Not from anything in particular. Well, that’s not true. I suppose I’m running from myself - my future self. A future self who can’t take the stairs without groaning or can’t walk a block without suffering. For the last few months through a combination of numerous minor medical procedures, injuries, illness, travel and the absence of caring, I have let myself slowly slip back in time to when there was decidedly more of me. Now I want there to be less of me, so I’m running again. I’ve discovered that the motivation to slip on running shoes has to be greater than the fear of my future self’s health or my current self’s weight. I’ve discovered the need to escape from the clamour of streetcars and garbage trucks, the confines of my street and my house. Luckily, about 2 Km from my place is a most necessary green space.
Between a new huddle of modest height condos and the stagnant Don River is Corktown Common, which is essentially a berm disguised as a 17 acre park built as flood mitigation against the possibility of an overflowing Don River. In some respects it almost feels like a mini-putt theme park with a tiny wetland here, exposed rock there, a small pasture and a playground over there. Heading south through the park you run on a bridge over a marsh while to your right, the city flickers in the dusk light. As you round the southern end of the common you pass the not-so-secret raspberry patch at the base of a contemporary sculpture and find yourself facing another future Toronto neighbourhood, a former Unilever industrial site which is part of larger area called the Port Lands. Another part of the flood mitigation strategy for the area will be to correct a historical wrong by re-straightening the mouth of the Don River as it empties into Lake Ontario. As part of the industrialization of the past the river was diverted to a hard right turn which has led to problems ever since. From here I can either continue north back through the residential streets of Corktown or duck under a rail line to run along the Don River. This year the path has been wet and the bushes and plants have been pushing to overtake everything. The ground on either side of the path is muddy and the fecund undergrowth is alive with bugs like mosquitos and midges. This is what a wetland looks like and this is what Governor Simcoe found when he was stationed here in the 18th century. Toronto is as mushy as any marshland because, at the southern part near the Lake that’s what it was. Read more »
Scrape, snap, crack… dink. That’s the reverie of the outdoor rink on a -15°C night. Each sound chased by an echo, which in turn throws its shadow against the neighbouring houses. That’s something I’ve missed from my winter runs; the crisp sounds of the streets which seem to travel faster and louder in cold air (does sound travel faster in cold air? Nope, but maybe further.) This was the second of my subzero runs of the season. The first was terrible. I was both over-dressed and under-dressed. Too many of the wrong layers left me sweating and freezing as a knife-edge wind cut through the fabric like sharp shears. This run was much better. The correct items of clothing placed in the correct order let me wick away the wet and block out the breeze just like the advertising promises. Gore-tex is at its best in cold weather when you layer properly underneath and are working up a horsey sweat that beads on your coat.
I also gave my lungs the time to acclimatize a little before sucking down the frigid air. Previously I stepped from the warm house and started running, immediately putting the chill in my chest which was enough to trigger some asthmatic wheezing. That didn’t happen this time which allowed me to go further for a little longer, loping in a bit of a lazy stride acquired from being utterly unfit due to my current station – meaning: being entirely stationary.
Winter in the city is neither kind nor pretty but exudes a dull cruelness that is hard to avoid. Sometimes it can be hidden beneath a dusting of snow but at the moment the dirt and grime are frozen to the pavement and bare trees look windswept and dead. I noticed how the Don River looked violently frozen as though it had been fighting to the end, its serpentine current full of heaving cracks and crusted ice. It’s odd how in the summer, running at night, the sulphurous security lights found throughout laneways cast an amber, nostalgic hue but in the winter the same light feels harsh and ugly. I guess that’s my imagination. Heading out for a winter run is also like running in the rain in the summer, in that you really do not want to step into it but once you’re going it feels better than fine. There’s that two sided nature of how your skin can be so cold against the air and so hot against your blood. There’s nothing quite like a hot shower after a cold run. Afterwards you feel like you do after a swim or a massage or maybe like a sauna. It’s almost like your limbs have been annealed by heat, hammer strikes and dunks in water the way Japanese swords are made.
What really makes running in the winter possible is the dryness. Here in Toronto we had a wet dump of snow quickly freeze but then followed by a couple of days of rain that ate away the snow. Then the wind came up, blowing the streets dry and the temperature dropped making the sidewalks bare and clear for the most part. The ice that is left is diamond hard and would easily take off your bumper if your car hit it. Unfortunately, another round of snow, rain and slush is happening right now, so my brief flirtation with running outside may be again delayed leaving me no choice but to languish on the treadmill indoors looking out.
A little known fact to those who don’t know Toronto is that the small collection of islands that shelter the harbour on Lake Ontario are inhabited and collectively, the islands are one of the best places to be on a hot summer day. As more and more Torontonians live in condos and apartments, more and more of them need a backyard. One thing Toronto has failed to do is maintain adequate green space for its citizens (which is why the idea of the so-called Rail Deck Park is so intriguing). A popular option for a lot of people living in the city who don’t have cottage-country-getaways is heading to the islands. A lot of people trying to get to the same place by limited means results in line-ups, and long line-ups for the city operated ferries are common. The water taxis on the waterfront are running constantly on the weekends and during the week, summer camps fill the islands with an almost midway like bustle.
View of Lake Ontario and the Toronto Islands from Corus Quay
In sixteen years I think I have been to the Toronto Islands three times. When I started biking for exercise, my main route to get out of the core was along the Lakeshore. When I lived in Parkdale, I knew multiple landmarks for doing 5, 7, 8, 10 km runs along the water. Running from Liberty Village I would experience the double sunset - run eastward and you’ll see the setting sun reflected off the downtown towers; run westward and you’ll see the actual setting sun falling behind Etobicoke and shimmering on the water. Unfortunately, my desk on the 26th floor looks north towards other taller towers, but reflected in the glazing of a new tower across from my office, I see the waterfront, Billy Bishop Airport, the Toronto Islands and the Lake beyond. I’ve come to realize how much of my happiness was dependent on the view of Lake Ontario. I also realized how close I live to the water but never experience it. Read more »
To make conversation at a get together where I knew only one other person, I said I had tweaked my knee running. The other person, listening politely, inquired, “Oh, you’re a runner?” I took a moment to take in both their surprise and question. I mean, I’m surprised I run. Look at me. I’ve almost run 1000 km* in the past twelve months and yet I don’t look like a guy who ran thousands of steps burning thousands of calories. My answer then was, “Well, I have two legs and I regularly lift them up and down in a running motion… but I wouldn’t say I was a ‘runner’ per se.” Read more »
I'm not sure why I kept going when it felt like there was a shard of glass in my foot but I did. I guess I thought if I stopped running then I'm a quitter and I would still have to walk back the rest of the way anyway. It was the first blister on my foot from running I'd had in almost a year. I figured this blister was probably from running over every possible kind of surface you can imagine in a single run (paving stone, concrete, asphalt, tramped earth, wet grass, wooden boardwalk). By the third run of the week, I was sure it was really that the shoes and/or insoles were done. Kaput. After less than 800 km by a rough estimate. Considering I'd only owned these shoes for 9 months, I was impressed I had done that kind of mileage. I think my previous best yearly total was only about 550 km so I've easily eclipsed that number. This fact did not however ease the hot pain from my throbbing foot. Read more »
Generations of kids grew up seeing this ad on the back of every comic book. Image via Comics Alliance
Sunday was day 100. Since August 1, I wanted to see how many workouts I could do in a one hundred day period. I’ve already explained why I started this before, but basically since the days of Charles Atlas ads on the back page of comics, advertisers have promised to make you a new man, in only 15 minutes a day, in just 90 days! That’s not that different from what Bowflex says now, or what researchers claim about interval training (I mean it is eerily similar).
Did I become a new man? Was my life transformed forever? Do I sleep better? Did I get all the gals? Well, not really but I did see some changes. Read more »
I’m starting to feel that way about my running. I pad around the city on little cat feet. When I’m running on the sidewalk and I’m approaching someone from behind I’m very conscientious not to spook them. I assume they won’t hear me because my step is so quiet. A couple of years ago I read about something that became kind of a trend; running on your toes. The basic idea was we were all heel smashers and our tricked out running shoes with super spongy heels allowed it. This was generally seen as detrimental, so the theory went, to our feet, joints and muscles. After reading the list of problems of landing on your heel during running, I realized I was a prime offender. I did some more reading, I watched some videos and set out to try changing how I ran.
It’s so elemental to how you’re constructed, to who you are, that it’s counter intuitive to change how you run. I run the way I run because that’s how I run. Like breathing. Yet that very logic made me consider the change. You breathe differently when exercising (definitely when you swim or run or bike) so why not run differently? Read more »
“My left leg became paralyzed by the sensation of nerve endings coruscating from my hip to my toes”
Tonight for the first time since January 18, I recorded a run. Before that, my previous run was on October 6, 2013. Following this pattern my next run will be sometime in June. Why the lapse of laps? Well, a few days after that run in October my back went into painful, movement stopping spasms. The kind of spasms you see people being shocked by a Taser having. This back pain was followed by a new weird thing whereby my left leg became paralyzed by the sensation of nerve endings coruscating from my hip to my toes. That’s right. Somewhere, the muscle inflammation in my back had compressed a rather useful nerve. Several massage sessions, countless muscle relaxants and heat & ice compressions later, my leg was useful again. About six weeks had passed. In that time the atrophy of the thigh of my left leg seemed only anecdotal. Following climbing up a set of stairs I’d think, “That’s odd, one leg feels fine while the other feels as though I’ve climbed Kilimanjaro.” Eventually that leg strengthened. Then again, strengthened for stuff like walking a few hundred metres or for sitting at a desk. Occasional attempts at exercise seemed frivolous at best. As an estimation of exactly what I was dealing with, I could measure the diameter of one thigh as about 3 inches smaller than the other. Still, time heals all wounds, I thought – except for the big open puss-filled ones that kill you from infection. Time doesn’t help those at all. As I’ve discovered and really should’ve known, given my history, time does not strengthen atrophied muscles. All time does is atrophy them some more. Time is a bit of a bugger if you ask me. The only way to un-atrophy an atrophied muscle is to exercise it.
Which brings me to tonight. Tonight I donned my running gear and noticed in the dusty mirror (note to self: dust mirror), that I was fat. Not, you know, circus-fat nor even evening-news-program-story-about-obesity fat, but for me, fat. I won’t bore you with the numbers but I haven’t tipped the scales at this number since sometime in 2006 after months of recuperation and feeling sorry for myself when I broke my collar bone and had radial nerve damage in my forearm (which I presume is the only place you could have “radial nerve damage”). Not only am I fat, but I am in the worst physical condition in memory. With the daunting task of not only raising money for the Ride to Conquer Cancer on the horizon, but also having to ride in the Ride to Conquer Cancer, I figured it was about time I tried to conquer my waistline.
“Captain, my Captain and all that crap.”
I started a couple of nights ago. The first 20 minutes of the rest of my life. I got on the trainer (also dusty; I really should dust more often), and did an interval set of 2-2-1. I fully intended to ride again yesterday, but I fell back into my habit of knocking out a nap and waking so late as to make the whole idea ridiculous. Tonight, my feared rival, Couchie, beckoned again. I sat but did not succumb. Up I rose, up towards the challenge. Captain, my Captain and all that crap. Getting dressed was really depressing. I looked like I was wearing a down vest under my t-shirt. I decided to wear a jacket which helped a little (more likely, it offered little help). During some pre-run stretches I felt my back complain but I ignored it. I set out into the cold evening air and took the first tentative steps towards a full trot. So far so good. Except, you know, for my knees and feet (high arch pain which I’ve had for ages). Soon I was treading along, not easily mind you, but at least I was moving. My pace was slow by my standards but I was determined not to push myself so hard I wouldn’t survive the first short jaunt.
“I remembered what is so great about running: stopping.”
When it was done, my legs felt better and even though my breathing was laboured, I remembered what is so great about running and my favourite part: stopping. I’m only partly joking, because it’s when you stop that you get that feeling of all the bad stuff leaving your system, all the toxins course out of your skin, the lactic buildup floods out of your legs, the crud in your nose is loosened and ejected (by force if necessary) and all that stress in your shoulders and neck just evaporates up the chimney of your head. It felt good to shake off the cobwebs of a long unforgiving winter. The only thing that really bothers me is when you let yourself fall out of all of your good habits and exercise, the setback is immense. I’m not five weeks out of shape or three months behind in my exercise. It’s as if I had never been in good health to begin with. I’m back where I started years ago. Back at the very beginning. An absolute beginner.
Talking about running is boring. Reading about running is even more boring. By an obvious transitive relationship, it is clear that reading about someone talking about running is boring squared.
So this isn't about running too much. Okay, it is.
Since returning from my vacation biking in Adirondack Park, which by the way, is huge (the park that is), I feel, how to put this and not sound insane (new-agey kind of insane), I feel different. I feel I have changed. Not just on the surface physically and not so deep as to feel different like I had some kind of epiphany but I feel like I have changed on some fundamental physiological level. My heart, lungs and mind are different and have changed. One metric of this change is a simple one. Time. Read more »
Lately, there's been a lot of talk of doping around Lance Armstrong (check Twitter for #DopeStrong, #Livewrong) and all those implicated by the USADA's investigation into doping in pro cycling. Unfortunately, some much admired riders have been found to have cheated including Toronto's Michael Barry. The upside of this has been riders like Barry, who have admitted to doping in the past and now ride clean, sound genuinely contrite. At least three riders for Slipstream sports have admitted to using for the very fact that they want to clear the air and start again, riding clean. Slipstream's manager, Jonathan Vaughters, has been open about past indiscretions and the desire for his team to ride and win clean. The default position of Armstrong remains to deny, deny and deny. Which in itself may indicate a darker nature to his personality. Like George Constanza said Jerry, "It's not a lie, if you believe it."
There's more than one way to lie and many more ways to cheat. This weekend the second of Toronto's two annual marathons1 is being run and with that in mind, and Vice Presidential candidate Paul Ryan's recent exaggerated claim (lie?) of a sub-three-hour time (he actually ran 4:01:24) it seems a strange coincidence that I finally got around to reading the story of Kip Litton. Kip Litton is a Michigan based dentist who had set a lifetime goal of trying to run a sub-three-hour marathon in all 50 states. His motivation was apparently to raise funds for cystic fibrosis research as his son has the disease. The only problem is, Kip Litton appears to be a cheat and a near pathological liar. His unusual and compelling story is told in the New Yorker by Mark Singer . It begins fairly innocuously but by the end you're just fascinated with the "why" and the "how".
Check out the story and ask yourself, "why?" I understand the bragging rights of lying about achievements. I'm sure I've exaggerated claims in the past, but when I started to exercise for my health and not my bravado, I realized the futility of stretching the truth. Why lie to yourself? What's the point? Whenever I'm entering my runs or rides into my log, I might be tempted to round up the distance and down the time, but it's more interesting to me to see my real improvement or deterioration. Lying about or cheating during amateur runs seems the same as writing in a private diary that you were a wealthy spy with a cavalcade of lovers left strewn around the globe. Why bother? Not to mention the effort involved in maintaining such a fiction. I can barely get around to legitimate web updates never mind inventing new ones.
FN1 - The course record for the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Marathon is 2:07:58 for men, Jerome Drayton's 37 year Canadian record is 2:10:09. I never plan on running a marathon but even at my best 10 km pace I might be able to break 3:30:00 (though not bloody likely).
It was the Best of Times, It was the Worst of Times
A weekend in which, a young triathlete named Paula Findlay finished dead last in her Olympic debut and taught me something.
The extraordinary photo finish of the Women's Olympic Triathlon
On Saturday, I experienced a personal triumph. I rode over a 100 km in under 5 hours in some punishing heat (30°C, though the "Feels like…" number was more like 38°C).
one hundred and eleven Kilometres
4:48:50 hr
2750 calories
3 bottles of water
1 bottle of Gatorade
1 can of Coke
1 can of Red Bull
2 cream cheese and jam sandwiches
1 energy bar
2 Hostess chocolate cup cakes
2 Advil Read more »
“I probably looked like a stroke victim at a physio session rather than a finely tuned athlete...”
Saturday was an absolutely gorgeous October day. The sort of days that we are running out of. If I was going to do it, this was my last chance. I'm talking about my semi-annual triumph of "umph" where I combine three activities into one protracted consumption of calories. The Tin Man. Not an Iron Man, but that's fine. I know The Tin Man as I call it, is a real event normally called a Sprint Triathlon but I still feel what I do isn't really the same. Swimming in a pool isn't the same as swimming in a crowd in open water. Stopping to change your shoes isn't the same as jumping off your bike and breaking into a sprint (which is painful I imagine). No, I swim 750 metres in my own lane in a comfy pool, then I bike 20 kilometres, then I change my kit and finish with a 5 kilometre run. This is the format of many charitable or introductory triathlons. The first time I tried it, it took me about 110 minutes. The second time I was closer to 105 minutes. The time I wanted to match or beat was 1 hour, 45 minutes. I haven't been swimming much lately so I thought it might be tough. Turns out, all of my times were bad individually, but it's not about individual times. Read more »
I listen to music when I run* and the last time I ran something funny happened. I checked my watch/Nike+ thingy (running computer?) and I was just hitting 7 KM when a song started ("Does Not Suffice" by Joanna Newsom). I happen to know this song is about 6 minutes. I also average about 5:30 to 6:00 mins/KM. I thought, "When this song finishes, you'll be at 8 KM." and like clockwork my personal odometer clicked over to 8.00 KM right on cue.
Looking at the playlist again I notice that a 5 KM run will usually land me between "Fields" and "California Stars" (Wilco) which is about 30 minutes from the start (my fastest 5 KM is about 27:30). I could almost tell you my distance by the song at this point. A longer run puts me into "The Wild Hunt" and I would have to guess a 10 KM run (which I have yet to do) would finish in the middle of "Go Do" by Jonsi.
Sometimes, because I don't always start the playlist in the same spot, I'll finish on "Move On Up" by Curtis Mayfield and no matter what state I'm in, I'll uncontrollably sprint to the end. It’s almost a 9 minute song. The drum break alone must be a minute. That is definitely a song for champions.
There’s no doubt that running is about rhythm and music can act as your running metronome and coach. You can create playlists based on BPM (beats per minute) so that you always have the right pace for a work out. I like it to be more organic and I’ve found some slower songs can have enough emotional weight to propel me forward. Another trick I’ve found is minding where you look. Watching your feet is sort of a good way to slow you down. You feel like you’re working but not getting anywhere, but looking at the horizon or skyward, makes you forget about your timing, or distance and you can just focus on your stride. Once you hit your stride, it’s almost like coasting in cruise control mode.
So that’s my running advice. Run with your head up and a song in your heart.
*there is no possible way these iPod ear buds could be louder than city traffic so it's not like I won't "hear" a car coming
UPDATE: Friday June 24, 2011, I completed a 10.6 KM run, completing 10 KM in 55:29. On schedule, Jonsi's "Go" started at around the 9.7 KM mark.
