Mission Log 2

Mission log, day 47

I believe there is a higher predator on this planet. Very advanced, and possibly undetectable. The primary bipedal species seem to be aware of it, but I am not sure whether it is a conscious awareness, or merely a general sense of imminent mortal danger. Until recently, I had believed the bipeds were dominant, because their works are the most common, but I have since concluded that many of their efforts--especially the tall buildings of metal and artificial aggregate stone, and the blockier metal conveyances--are in fact defensive efforts against this higher predator. Is it possible that the pressure of predation has elevated a minor species to relative dominance through forced technological development and social bonding?

Naturally, with a creature imperceptible to the naked eye and which remains undetected by any of my devices scanning across all known frequencies of the electromagnetic, visual, and auditory spectra, it is extremely difficult to collect any information on this terrifying new species. I felt that I might have to forego efforts to catalog this beast until I remembered how I first detected it, and remembered the words of one of our own great thinkers: If you wish to know the size of the stone, watch the ripples. After all, I did not learn of the predator by finding any direct evidence of the creature itself, but by observing its impact upon the environment.

Throughout my visit, I have watched the bipeds engage in a variety of activities, and have carefully documented and analyzed many of them. One of these activities continued to baffle me. Individually, in pairs, or in larger groups, I had seen them running, without any discernable reason. They were not hunting prey, or pursuing potential mates, and until recently, I could not fathom why they would so frequently be in such a rush. The only conclusion that made sense was that they were attempting to evade some unknown attacker. I had seen them engage in this behavior in a variety of costumes and weather conditions, and in many cases there could be no other rational explanation. These attacks must have come at random times, without opportunity to prepare, for I frequently saw them running with their pair-bonded quadrupeds, or with their own spawn in wheeled carts; surely, no responsible being would willingly subject their young to the danger of a higher predator which they seem unable to even detect. The likelihood that they would endanger their quadruped, prized for its organic deposits, is even more remote.

As I considered this hypothesis, several previous observations began to make more sense. The thick walls on their largest buildings, high fences in apparently peaceful residential areas, and the unusually large vehicles used by many individuals for even the shortest trips (often, but not always, the bipeds traveling in this manner appear to be physically ill-equipped to survive a chase on foot). Bipeds who travel mainly by the curious open-air two-wheeled carts, powered by their own bodies, have a distinct mechanical advantage over the runners. They may not be able to traverse the same variety of terrain, but the speed potential is certainly higher. However, they also sacrifice maneuverability in tight quarters.

I have not determined why only some of the bipeds are hunted, though I suspect that they carry a protein or other factor critical to the health of the higher predator, and whose presence is immediately detectable to that predator, so that it only needs to chase those bipeds which would provide this rare benefit. The bipeds themselves seem as incapable as I am of detecting the predators directly, at least on a conscious level. Clearly, some instinct drives them to evade capture, and they will occasionally glance behind them, as if they know that something is there, even if they cannot perceive it. I have seen many, though not all, of the running bipeds checking devices on their arms or wrists, and some wear devices with aural outputs plugged directly into their auditory organs; these may be part of some sort of warning system, but if that is the case, then why wouldn’t all of the threatened bipeds be so equipped?

Whatever this predator is, one thing is clear: it completely devours all of its prey. I have yet to find any remains of these kills, which I had hoped would at least provide tooth or claw marks so that I might begin to develop a better hypothesis on the size and nature of this invisible threat.

She is the champion

We've had a busy couple of weeks.

Last week, I started my AT thru-hike; something I've been building toward for over a year.  Three days before we left for Georgia, we returned from California, where temperatures were nice enough for shirt sleeves and everyone wore coats and complained about the bitter cold of 60F weather.  That trip helped schedule my trip; while I was hiking the Shenandoah last fall, The Girl became restless and signed up for a marathon (she heard they had nice bags for this one).  Later, when it came time for me to pick a departure date, I had to work around the schedule she had set, which helped give a more defined structure to my original plan of "some time in March."

We set course for the left coast early enough to give us some time to be touristy and poke around San Francisco (I'll save that for a later post) before the run and Napa Valley (at least one more post) afterward.  The theme for the trip turned out to be Serendipity: we kept doing things on a whim and later finding out that they were the sort of thing most people set out to do intentionally, or local secrets upon which we unwittingly stumbled.

On Sunday morning, I drove us from the hotel, dropped her off at the starting line, and parked the car.  Then I realized I had nothing to do for four and a half hours.  I'm accustomed to that; it was not my first marathon.

At 5:15 that morning, I stood at the end of a dead-end street, a local high school's athletic fields to my right.  The sky was still black and starless, but the Alta Heights mountains to the east were crowned with a thin band of murky pink light.  Far across the field in front of me, a group of coyotes sang to each other, answered by a pair of roosters to the north.  When the coyotes calmed down, I could hear frogs trilling in the shallow stream that led almost to my feet.

When I wandered back to the high finish line area, I saw a group of young volunteers wrestling valiantly but ineffectively with the crowd-control fences they were trying to align.  I watched for a couple minutes before approaching the guy who was clearly in charge and offering my assistance.  He was surprised by the offer, but thrilled to have the help, and I spent the next four hours setting up tents, teaching the fence-wrestlers to set up tents, hanging signs, mending fences, building banners, erecting the large inflatable arch at the finish line, and running other small errands.  I did it on a whim, expecting at most that I'd get to stay near the finish line and get a good picture of The Girl crossing, but by the end of the morning I was a full-fledged staff member, recognized by the people officially in charge of the event and other volunteers who were more officially-sanctioned, but arrived after I did and sometimes looked to me for direction.  At one point I told the harried Finish Line Coordinator (the man I had first approached offering to help) that he needed a few assistant managers.  He laughed, then offered me the job.  "Will you buy my plane ticket?" I asked him.  He gave it enough thought that I half expect to hear from him next year.

I did get to stand at the finish line, right behind an official photographer.  I also received one of the official runner bags (a pretty nice duffel for a morning's work) and a volunteer T-shirt, both far beyond what I had expected.  I just did it to fill the time, but I was glad I did for all that I learned about the running of a marathon on the other side of the finishers' tape.

The Girl, for her part, beat her own PR by over three minutes.  I must have a thing for fast women.  The next afternoon, in another of our random, serendipitous encounters, she was congratulated on her performance by Gary Erickson, the creator of Clif Bar.  That alone was a highlight for both of us (he and his wife also wished me well on my hike.  They're great people.)

Rock And Roll

Yesterday we ran the DC Rock and Roll Half Marathon with a college friend of mine.  When we went to collect my friend form the airport, The Girl asked me what my target finish time was.  "Saturday."  Thinking I had asked a question, she said, "Yes, Saturday is tomorrow.  What's your expected finish time?"  "I know," I told her.  "I want to finish on Saturday."

Generally, I figure I can run a half in two hours.  If I were a real runner, I could train hard and set goals and probably get a better time, but I'm much bigger than "real runners," even though I don't think I'm carrying any extra weight.  I don't set goal times (beyond the intentionally vague "around two hours")  Yesterday, running past a high school I didn't recognize, I realized there was a sweet spot: I could have pushed harder, but if I reached a point where I was pushing so hard that it wasn't fun anymore, I would have gone too far.  Instead, I maintained my usual pace.  I went a little faster up hills, because no matter what the sport or terrain, I consider climbing a personal specialty.

At seven miles, I still felt pretty good, and that was at the end of a very long climb.  At ten, I realized I was hungry.  Really hungry.  When my friend and I crossed the finish line ( a solid half hour behind The Girl), I dove happily into the buffet of post-run food offered by the sponsors.  We stopped at a grocery on the way back to our place and bought an excellent loaf of bread so we could have grilled cheese for lunch.  Then, somehow, except for a brief nap break the girls took (during which I read for a while and did dishes), we ate for the rest of the day.  We got frozen custard, played two games of Settlers of Catan over snacks, went out for pizza and beer, and couldn't finish our dinners.  I know I ate way too much.  I regret only the grocery store bagel I grabbed at the finish line.  I'll hike off the rest.

the trot zone

There is a perfect temperature for running.  I was first aware of it over a year ago, when my dad came to visit while I was training for a half-marathon.  I can't tell you the actual number of degrees, because it varies according to other weather conditions, terrain, and honestly, your clothing.

Which makes a certain kind of sense.

I can tell you how to determine this temperature, and it's an easy test.  There are only two qualifications.  If you are running during the Perfect Temperature for running, your vision will be impeded by two things:

1. Sweat in your eyes
2. A pulsating cloud of your own breath hanging in front of you.

There doesn't have to be much of either, but both have to happen.  I guess it's more accurate to say that there is a Perfect Range of Temperatures for running, but that lacks a certain flair.

The downside, of course, is that you don't hit that perfect range very often.  It's usually in the fall or spring, or on the occasional warm winter afternoon or unusually cold summer morning.  If you find the opportunity to run during that range, take it.  The air is crisp, but not so cold that your throat burns with coughing fits for hours afterward.  It's still warm enough that you can feel the sheen of sweat on your skin, but you can comfortably wear long sleeves, which makes wiping that sweat out of your eyes a little easier.  Hat and gloves are optional, but I'm usually ok without either after just a few minutes.

To be honest, I think the best reason for running during this ideal temperature range is that it makes me laugh every time I realize I've found it.  In my mind, most runners--especially marathon runners--are a little bit crazy.  And they're proud of that particular brand of crazy.  I may not be a real runner, but I can do crazy.  I can tell, because I love it when I have to wipe the sweat out of my eyes to see my foggy breath as I chug up a long hill early in the spring time.

shiver me limber

The plan was to get my week's long run in this morning, so I can have the rest of the day to run errands and bake things for this weekend's outing.  This plan started to test me at 3 AM, when I awoke for no particular reason and stayed that way.  At 4, I succumbed to my growling stomach and the knowledge that the longer I was awake before my run, the more I would regret not eating before it.  I had a piece of the sausage-mushroom quiche left in the fridge and burnt the roof of my mouth on the first bite.  These things happen.

When I went back to bed, I still couldn't sleep, so I finished reading a book, then started reading a new book.  The alarm went off at 6; Wunderground forecast a 100% chance of rain (math is not my strong suit, but that is a near certainty) for the next 15 hours.  It was 34 degrees.  I dressed in a single layer, knowing I'd warm up as I ran, and still trying to convince myself that it was a good idea to go at all.

It wasn't easy.

I even had a long hesitation outside the front door when I confronted the rain and cold and nearly turned back to the door, but I'm stubborn, and sometimes that works in my favor.

It still took me a couple miles to warm to the idea.  Pun intended.

The thing is--and I always forget this, or have to forcefully remind myself of it--I like cold runs.  I even like rainy runs.  And, if really pressed, I kind of like cold, rainy runs, too.  I'm not sure why, but there's a list of hypotheses.  The crappy weather distracts me from how I feel, and how terrible I generally am at running.  I don't overheat; sweat hardly ever stings my eyes when it's that close to freezing.  I'm not as hesitant to plow through puddles because my lovely (new!) shoes are already soaked, so it can't make much difference, and puddles--as every three-year-old knows--are fun.  I like watching raindrops jet from my face when I pant through pursed lips.  I like the idea that every car who sees me thinks I am either nuts or a Real Runner (though in my mind, there is very little difference between the two), even though I usually see very few other runners when things get that nasty outside.

I like the feeling that I've made the challenge just a little bit greater by going up against bad weather, especially when I find that the bad weather actually helps me.

Sure, when I got back and iced my shins, I had goosebumps all the way down my legs, my fingers were tingly and numb (though they were fine during the run), and even with a blanket, my shoulders still felt cold, but during the run, I was great.  During the run, the weather didn't matter at all.

I need to remember that.

distance

There was a time when my running goal was "run for an hour straight."  Despite having already completed two half-marathons by then, I felt that it was a good fitness goal because I hadn't run in a long time.

I felt it was an achievable goal because I had already finished two half-marathons, so it was easier to keep going.  There was no "there's no way I can do this" moment.  This was while I still lived in Bend, and I remember being excite the day I went for 45 minutes and still felt good enough to keep going.  I knew I was close.  Before leaving Bend, I ran two 5ks, a 10k, and my third half-marathon, in no particular order.  Most of those were in the course of a year.  I know for a real runner, that's an unimpressive pile of very small potatoes, but I'm not a real runner--I'm just some shlub who runs.

This morning, without even realizing I was doing it until I finished and looked at my stopwatch, I ran for just over an hour with no trouble at all, and remembered when I considered that a lofty goal.  It felt good.

A friend (the same one who convinced me to run the first two) got me to sign up for a half-marathon in the spring.  I think I'll be ready.

joy of discovery

It doesn't matter which day of the week or what time of day I go for a run--morning, afternoon, after dark, weekday, weekend, national holiday, Wednesday around lunch--I always see other runners.

Well.

Almost always.

Last Tuesday it was raining when I woke, and just over forty degrees.  I had intended to go for a run, and I don't mind running in the cold, or in the rain, but it's hard to convince yourself to run in cold rain when you're not that motivated in the first place.  I got ready anyway, telling myself that any chump could run in good weather--it took a heartier soul to run when it was miserable.  I sometimes like bad weather, anyway.  Several years ago I had a great time wandering around Boston one morning in driving cold rain.  I was waiting for a marathon to start--you may have heard of it--but that's another story.  After I finished my usual pre-run regimen I went downstairs and opened the door to discover that in the time it had taken me to psych myself up to running in the light but steady drizzle, it had strengthened to real rain.  For the next half hour, I didn't see a single other moron running in the rain (but The Girl ran the day before Sandy made landfall and saw several runners.  Go figure.).

Planning on a shorter run, I set out with only one goal: find the secret park.  On an earlier run the week before, I had gone very near a local park and didn't realize it until I returned and mapped the run to find out how far I had gone.  There, tucked in neatly where I should have seen it, was a decent-sized park, just a green blob on Google maps.  For the next week I walked and ran through the area, but despite knowing exactly where it was, I never managed to find the park.  This time, I was armed with the knowledge of exactly where the entrance should be.

When I arrived at the designated coordinates, I still didn't see it.  I stopped running when I realized I had passed it and looked around, carefully seeking any break in the residential scenery that might offer egress from the street.

If I hadn't known it was there, I never would have found it.

A few years ago I read a book which described an entire house that couldn't be seen when you were looking at it--if you saw it at all, it was only through the corner of your eye.  Douglas Adams describes a similar concept with the Somebody Else's Problem Field.  This felt similar, except that I did have to look directly at the entrance to find it.  It was narrow, unmarked, and could easily have been the gap between two properties, overlooked during the land surveys.  If I hadn't seen the steps, well on their way to becoming invisible under the gathering leaves, I might not have noticed it at all.

The park itself was narrow, just a gap between two streets of houses, but it had a path and a stream, and I have to admit I was pretty excited to find it, though that may have been borne of triumph over challenge.  Now I refer to it as the Secret Park, and I've gone through it on every run since.

The Agony of De Feet

This Monday, while thousands of runners staggered their way through a sweltering Boston Marathon, I stood on the sidelines and watched.  I like to think I'm in reasonable shape, but marathoners make me feel fat.  I might weigh more than the first place man and woman combined.

The Girl ran, and performed admirably.  I stood very still, shoulder to shoulder with other race fans, for over six hours, and managed to not fall down or punch anyone.  I'm sure hers was a greater effort, but I don't know how wide the margin is.

My one disappointment was that I never actually saw The Girl during the race--had it not been for a friend who called me with updates on her progress (which she received via text message), I wouldn't even have known she had crossed the finish line.  However, it's hard to be truly disappointed while watching the Boston Marathon.  It is a spectacle of the grandest scale, and I got many glimpses into the very best of humanity.

Several troops ran, in uniform, with full packs.  I think some of them may have been ROTC, but whenever any of them passed, the crowd roared.  Many people yelled their thanks.  I hope they heard us.

Some runners would wave their arms at the crowd, encouraging us to cheer louder.  I surmised that if they had the energy to coax louder cheers from us, they probably didn't need the support, but that didn't stop anyone.

Occasionally, we had other reason to cheer.  A few times, a runner would shudder to a stop right in front of us, less than a tenth of a mile from the finish line.  The crowd would urge him to continue, and remind him "you can do it!!"  Once, I even saw two runners turn back and take the arms of a man who might not have made it on his own.  The three of them walked the rest of the way.  After 26.1 miles of hills and heat, they still had enough left to help someone else finish.

I'm proud of all the runners that day.  I'm proud of the crowd around me for supporting the runners.  Most of all, I'm proud of The Girl, who ran an outstanding race in really tough conditions.  Kudos to everyone.

Polar Bear Run

Saturday I ran the Polar Bear 10k, because I acted impulsively four weeks earlier.  I had been out for a walk one evening, taking pictures for a small project and wandering my side of town, when I saw a sign at my favorite running store and went in to investigate.  The entry fee was $15 and all adults got a long-sleeve tech tee.  You can't buy the shirt for that, so I signed the form and walked out with the realization that I needed to be able to run 6.2 miles the weekend after I returned to Oregon from the holidays.  Some training runs ensued.

The week of the run was a series of random weather.  When I left work Tuesday for a six-mile tune-up near the Old Mill, it was in the forties; comfortable running weather for me, even in shorts.  Twenty-four hours later it was nearly sixty degrees, and the mercury dropped to about thirty by the time I left work Thursday.  Friday evening, as I walked through downtown with relatives from California, they marveled at the thick, puffy flakes of snow drifting downward around us.  I had no idea what it would be like for my run.

It was 22 degrees as I drove to Redmond Saturday morning.  Invisible icy patches randomly spotted the blacktop trail of the running course, and I wondered how well I could run while cradling a shattered ulna.  As (ahem) luck would have it, the race started ten or fifteen minutes late, by which time it warmed up to 25, and the sun had converted most of the black ice to wet blacktop.  I got the time I expected, which was probably better than the time I deserved, and the shin splints which had been threatening all week to erupt with crippling agony gave me a pass.  Good enough for me.

drip

The girl flaked out on me, citing inclement weather.  One could hardly blame her, but I did, because it was funny to assume that high thirties and a steady, gray drizzle made great running conditions.  Had it been colder and snowing, as it had been two days earlier, she would have joined me, wearing several layers, two pairs of gloves, and a fleece vest.  I ran as I had in the snow: shorts with a bike-short-like liner, and a long-sleeve tech tee with the sleeves usually shoved to my elbows.  I had worn a light pair of gloves in the snow, but today I left them in my bag, working on the theory that the cold air and rain would be beneficial for my freshly-burned hand.  Florence and her indomitable Machine thrummed in my ears.

I can't help being self-conscious when I run with the girl.  I'm working on it, but the progress is slow.  She is a far better runner than I will ever be, and I always feel that I am holding her back.  To her credit, she insists that this is not true.  "This a good pace for me for a recovery run."  It is the sort of understated Germanic praise I have come to accept as a ringing endorsement of high regard.  Still, I over-think everything, end up focusing on how slow I think I'm going, and feel like I'm plodding heavily and clumsily along as she floats beside me, effortless.  This is not to say that I don't over-think everything when I run alone; over-thinking is my most operandi of modii.  However, alone I have no basis for comparison, and more importantly, no one I feel the need to impress.  Alone, it is only me, a trail, and an abusive, raw determination to run further and faster.  ("Pick it up, fatty!!  Finish the job!!")

Plus, with no basis for comparison, I can fool myself into thinking I'm running really well.  Truth be told, I am not a great runner... but I am a persistent runner, and that should count for something.

Today, I ran alone.  By mile two, my over-used cotton socks had grown noticeably damp, and water splashed from the tops of my shoes with each ungainly step.  My hair carried a thick coating of frigid droplets which warmed enough to feel like summer sweat by the time they had rolled past my eyes.  Trying to focus on an approaching car, I realized that either my eyes themselves had started to freeze, or the mist on my eyelashes had pulled the hairy flagella down into my field of view; I could easily see the truck a quarter mile ahead of me, but its edges could not be discerned.  This caused more fascination than alarm.

Mile three brought me into the park for a treacherously slippery boardwalk and a steep, muddy uphill slog that almost made me stop ("KEEP RUNNING, FATASS!!  DON'T QUIT NOW!  You can see the top!  It's RIGHT THERE!!") before a long, gradual downhill, the chance to startle a dog and his cell-obsessed person, and a couple long heel smears in what had been a grassy path, but was now a chilly bog.

Two more miles before I finished, and raining the whole time.  It was murky, gray, and ugly--typical Cleveland weather.  The air was cold, but five miles of steady loping kept me warm enough to be happy, even with icy water coating my eyes and clouding my vision.  The last run of the year was pretty great.