A Cure for my Runner's Blues

I’ve discovered a cure for my runner’s blues, when I really don’t want to lace up and hit the pavement.

It’s found on Keith and Kristin Getty’s album, Facing a Task Unfinished, and the title of the number is “Beyond These Shores.” 

Now, I’m not a music critic, being quite challenged to play the footnotes on a shoe horn. Notes are things I leave on my bathroom mirror, half-measures are how I approach running, and rests are what I do when done running. Movements are what I do to get from my chair to the cookie jar. I cannot make heads or tails out of a musical score.

But I love music—it moves me, frequently transforming my mood. And it often cures my runner’s blues (the wimpy pity-party I indulge in when I really don’t want to run—which is most of the time). Music takes my imagination on flights of fancy, transporting me to far-away places.

Now, for those poor benighted souls reading this, for whom imagination is a superfluous luxury you left behind in grade school, you might as well stop reading now, because you really won’t get what follows.

Here we go: in the first movement of Beyond these Shores, I imagine someone giving me a pointed, sarcastic rebuke. He’s playing a violin, and saying something like, “Aw, poor little Chris. Feeling sorry for ourself this morning, are we? Don’t want to lace up the running shoes?” At this point I’m usually slogging along, wondering why I ever started running to begin with.

But the music makes a sharp (but smooth) transition into the second movement. The self-pity violins morph into a fast-paced Italian sort of celebration, something you might hear in Momma Mia’s Pizzeria. Before long, in my imagination, I can see Snoopy dancing for joy on top of his doghouse—self-pity transformed into jubilation. My running pace picks up, I can’t help it.

The third movement is like a free-wheeling jam session with strings, banjo, bass, keyboard, and percussion—almost a jazz feel to it. Not only am I running faster, but I’m smiling while I run.

And by the time you get to the fourth movement the violins are more accurately described as fiddles, and it’s a high-energy Nashville hoedown. I am running with a big grin on my face, sometimes clapping in time with the music, woes forgotten, enjoying the blue sky, the clouds, the sunshine, the farmers’ fields, and just celebrating life as I run, thanking my Creator and Redeemer for such a beautiful day.

Try it. If you enjoy music and have an active imagination, you’ll probably love it. You can listen to it on youtube here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S3jaurZNvZw

Running Commentary, Part Two

Ran 3 miles today. Bluetooth headphones worked great this time. I identified my problem from before - it was a BUOD (pronounced Boo odd), also known as a one dee ten tee (a 1D10T). Might take some of you a bit to translate, but maybe if I unwind BUOD it will help: Bad User On Device.

In any case, Strava did not do much better today. I disabled the auto-pause function and was able to get rid of the running pause/running resumed problem. But the User Interface is not very intuitive. I have a feeling much of the problem is my phone: a Samsung Galaxy Proclaim. You know how the Android operating systems are designated by a cute little confectionary, like Gingerbread, Jelly Bean, or Lollipop? Well, mine is Okra. Or Eggplant. Early, early days. It's so bad that if you want to make a phone call at 11, you need to start dialing at 10:30.

So Strava is getting a bad rap on my DumbPhone. But I will say this: for all its problems, RunKeeper actually works on my DumbPhone. Strava seems to be really struggling.

Running Commentary

Okay, I ran today. It was an experience. I’m the only person you know who can turn a simple thirty minute jog into a ninety minute technological nightmare. Wanna shake my hand?

Anyway, let’s get to the good news first. I ran.

Now, on to the bad news . . .

Okay, there was more good news. I successfully carried my Christmas snacks, all of ‘em, around my three-mile course, without dying of a heart attack. That’s really good news. On the other hand, I was sufficiently apoplectic over my technology problems that it was far more likely a stroke would take me than an exercise-induced heart-attack. So I suppose I can add that to the good-news side of the ledger: I died neither of stroke nor heart attack, and at the moment of this writing remain in the land of the living.

I did, however, lose my sanctification. If anyone sees it laying beside the road, would you please catch it and drop it by the house?

That was the beginning of the bad news. Pray, continue.

Today I got to use my new Bluetooth headphones for the first time. Maybe the last time. I am seriously considering uninstalling them and reinstalling the tin cans and string that preceded them. Using these headphones requires an intelligence quotient I haven’t seen since college.

The right earpiece comes with five controls allowing me to control my music and to use the telephone—which I am bound and determined to never do. In my opinion, telephones are designed to be seen and not heard, but that’s another story: back to the music.

No one told me two essential pieces of information: first, it requires the fingers of a concert pianist to hit “volume up” rather than “dial the telephone,” especially when you are simultaneously lugging your Christmas cookies around the block.

My inability to hit the proper button perturbed me significantly until I landed upon yet another insight—the second piece of information about which I was not informed: these headphones randomly reassign the buttons to different functions as you run. Ha! Two minutes ago that WAS the volume-up button. Now it’s the “skip this song” button!

This was not a pleasant discovery. You see, part of the fun of running—wait, no, let me phrase that more accurately—part of that which makes running slightly more tolerable than a root canal is listening to music as I haul my cookies over the landscape. And because I am mostly deaf, I need a slightly elevated volume when I run. You know, sort of like the teenager who pulls up next to you at the light, music blaring so loud the vibrations readjust your mirrors? Yeah, that’s me when I’m running.

So the first mile I’m running with my fingers in my ear, punching buttons, frantically trying to get my music to a rock-concert decibel level where I can hear it. No dice. Very faint, barely audible. I found the “skip this song” button, the “dial this phone” button, the “volume down” button, but no “volume up” button.

Due solely to the fact that it is very wearisome (not to speak of embarrassing) to run with your finger in your ear, I gave up and slogged the next mile with nothing more than the faintest whisper of music.

Somewhere in mile two I decided to try again. Wouldn’t you know it, the button randomizer had assigned the volume-up function to the “volume up” button. Oh, thank you, thank you! I adjusted the volume to where it was setting off car alarms as I ran past, and I was happy as a clam.

Until mile three. When [running paused] Strava, my running program on my smartphone [running resumed] decided to flake out. Every ten [running paused] seconds it [running resumed] was telling me that the [running paused] pause function had [running resumed] kicked in. Honestly, I was not going [running paused] that slow. [running resumed]! The only advantage [running paused] was that [running resumed] it made your favorite songs [running paused] last longer be-[running resumed]cause it paused the song with each announcement.

It did this little pause/resume thing for the rest of my run. Very tiresome. To add insult to injury, I couldn’t get Strava to exit when I finished my run. Finally just turned off the stupid phone. Rock concert was over, anyway.

Next time I run, I’m leaving the headphones and telephone home. Wish I could leave the cookies home, too.

[Editorial note: this is a true story, only slightly embellished He’s still looking for his sanctification.]

Coldwater Jingle Bell 5K

On a frosty morning this past Saturday, Doris and I bundled up in multiple layers (I am surprised I could bend a single joint--I don't like to be cold--so I was wearing lots of layers!), and headed North. It felt like we were going to the North Pole, but we stopped just short--at Coldwater. Appropriately named, as far as I was concerned. And I was concerned, it was like, twenty degrees! Lions and tigers and bears (frozen ones), oh, my!

I like my snow, yes, but I prefer it when I'm inside and it's outside. In any case, I struggled out of the car (remember, I'm wearing layers and can hardly bend), and waddled into the registration area. Getting that far was the first success.

If it wasn't for the fact that there were folks there who know me (starting with my wife), I think I'd have declared victory, waddled back to the car, and driven home. But I do have my pride, so with a smile frozen on my face (literally), I pinned on my number and began dreading going outside again in earnest.

Amidst all those other loons, however, I did feel strangely at home. We're all nuts, together.

Then we bumped in to Katie and Joelle. Now I really can't quit. I'd never hear the end of it. Both ladies were very positive, taking the weather in stride, ready to go. So, I manned up (no choice), and waddled outside to the starting line.

A horn goes off, and the whole mass starts forward. Must have been a false alarm, for ten seconds later the whole mass puts it in reverse. I didn't even have to move my feet; you know how it is being in the middle of a tightly packed crazy bunch of runners on race day. You just kind of get swept along like so much flotsam and jetsam, until the mob loses critical mass and you actually have to start ambulating under your own steam.

The horn sounds off again, and this time the tide flows in only one direction. After a block or two I'm no longer being carried along by the surge, so I begin to run, looking for an appropriate pace. After getting nearly run over by a couple of ten-year-olds, I decide maybe that pace was not appropriate, and pick it up a tad. No sign of Doris, Katie, or Joelle.

Within the first mile, my breathing is ragged enough that a couple folks around me begin to wonder if perhaps someone ought to call 911. The smile is still frozen on my face, so I just look over their way and shake my head, 'no, I always breathe this way.'

Numbskulls! Of course they ought to call 911! I'm just too proud to say that.

Anyway, whoever laid out the course was an expert in torture. The first two miles were all straight streets. You could see runners ahead of you, disappearing below the curve of the horizon. Okay, maybe it was just a hill. But at least you could see that the finish line was not in sight. But the last mile, it was 'run a block, turn, run a block, turn, run a block, turn'. Now perhaps that is meaningless to you, but for me, I imagined the finish line was just around each block. I got all my hopes up, only to have them dashed with each hard left or right.

But the worst was yet to come. You see, for the last half of the race, I was slowly overtaking this person in front of me. Slowly, but surely. At about the two-and-a-half mile spot, I finally passed them. Her, I should say. It was a lady. Got out about twenty feet in front of her, but could not lose her. Heard those feet slappin' down, right behind me. Always right behind me. Drove me nuts. So, I turned it up a crank. (By now I sounded like Darth Vader without his cool mask - you know the scene in the final movie: 'Dad, I'll save you.' [awful breathing sound] 'S-son, you already have, you already have. . .')

And I began to run out of steam. Actually, that's not true. I had run out of steam shortly after the mob stopped carrying me at the [second] starting horn.

Not sixty feet from the finish line that lady cruised right past me. Couldn't even hear her breathing. How humiliating. And then I heard her tell the race administrators when they were putting her in the proper age bracket, that she was 61. That's really embarrassing, hope nobody saw that.

All in all, it was a cold day. But I'm glad I did it. All four of us (Doris, Joelle, Katie) finished the race - that's what's important. Nobody needs to know that I was waxed by a sixty-one year old lady.

[Certain details of this post have been, ah, edited for the sake of humor, as what actually happened was far less interesting. . . unfortunately, the details about the 61 year old lady are not among them.]

Back from Girly-man land. . .

I'm back from girly-man land. Did my 3.2 miles today in 27:12.

No offense girls, but a six-foot two skinny galoot ought to move faster than a spry member of an ant colony. Today's time is nothing worth posting on a blog or anything [would have said, 'nothing to write home about' but that's sooo seventies], but at least I won't have to wear a wig and sunglasses when I run the next 5K.

Running Report

Perhaps I should say, walking report. First, an admission. I have fallen off the exercise bandwagon big-time. Second, an empty promise: I am climbing back on the exercise bandwagon.

Today Dor and I got out and ran again. Sort of. For me, it was the first time in at least three weeks. Whoever said, Use it or lose it knew whereof they spake. I lost it.

Did my 3.2 miles in just shy of 33 minutes. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. . .

Somehow since this summer when I gained the lower body of Jesse Owens and the upper body of Ahnold (there might be a slight exaggeration here), I've lost a little ground (there might be some understatement there).

For example, yesterday at church I had to get the decoration ladies to help me lift a Christmas tree. How embarrasing! But it did convince me to get back to work with my exercise regime.

Doris and I are running (or more accurately, participating) in the Coldwater Jingle Bell 5K, so I really do need to get my act together. Hope to see all the BFC runners there!

Baby Duck conquers the Flying Pig

There is, of course, sufficient reason to question the sanity of one who runs 26.2 miles without being chased. Especially when you run in a big loop, ending in more or less the same place from which you started. Really now! I'd rather walk the 100 yards from the starting line to the finish line, rather than run the 42 kilometers the loopy way. The really loopy way.

Be that as it may, my youngest daughter completed her first marathon today!

That's her in the black and red. Not sure who the michelin men in the pink pig suits are. The sign above the line said "FINISH SWINE". Cute.

The day began pre-dawn; which is, of course, in-keeping with the general lunacy. These wonderful pix, by the way, are complements of my wife. She shot pictures while I was very busy complaining about the rain. It did rain.

We were quite a way from the starting line, still on the walkway on the bridge over the river, when things got started. It was actually a great vantage point from which to watch the surging mass of thousands of runners.

Doris and I hoofed it over to the five-mile marker, and found an overhang where we could escape from the dreary drizzle. After a few minutes, the first runner sprinted by; he was really booking it. Within another 10 minutes there was a steady flow of runners jogging by. Thousands of dollars of tennis shoes going by, every sixty seconds. Amazing.

Some of the running costumes were very interesting. Many were in keeping with the pig theme; some women had on pink tutu's and pink pig hats. Saw a tube of Crest toothpaste run by, and something that I think must have been a shark. Not sure what he was advertising. One guy ran past in his birthday suit. All he was wearing was shoes. Definitely don't want to know what he was advertising.

Got to run next to Lauri for a few minutes to encourage her, at the 22 mile mark. Had to wait until the 22 mile mark so she was tired enough so I could keep up with her.

Lauri and her roomate and running partner Rachel, posing next to the Flying Pig.

Now, I don't know if going lala is contagious, but I have found myself wondering if I could ever do this. . . .

Congratulations to Lauri and Rachel for running a great race, and achieving such a great accomplishment!