I run because I have one last great race left in me...

It has been nearly two years since I laid it on the line. It has been nearly two years since I fell short. It was not the finish I envisioned.

Two years have passed.The bones groan more. Joints creak more.

My muscles complain more vociferously. Recovery requires more. Fatigue comes more quickly.

I can't stand toe to toe quite the same way. I don't have as many haymakers in me as I once did. I rarely feel spry.

I could let it go. Maybe I should. Maybe all of my bests are behind me.

I could live with that. But, I would also have to live with the knowledge that I didn't end things on my terms. I don't know if I can live with that.

Maybe something is left. The wheels can still turn. Sometimes I can coax them to fly.

Creaks and groans are abundant, but I can ignore them. I can filter them. They are just an annoyance.

I can still endure. I can still suffer. I can still fight. I can still fly.

Maybe there is something left. It may take everything I have. It may require things I have never done before.

Doing things you've never done before is part of what defines a runner. I am well acquainted with this territory. It's familiar.

There is at least a vague possibility that I have one last great race in me. This vague, faint, remote, half baked possibility keeps me on board. It keeps me coming back.

I run because I have one last great race in me.....

I run because it all starts with a mile...

Running is too tough. It is painful. There is no way I can possibly do it. But, somehow, I run a mile.

There's no way I can run ten miles. It's an absurd distance. I will die. Screw it, I ran a mile once, I'll give this a shot. I pull off ten.

It's absurd to think I can leave my job. I can't do this on my own. I did knock off ten once long ago. I suppose I can at least consider brainstorming an exit plan. 

I'm too old to get back into running. Whatever gift I had left me long ago. I can't get back into that kind of shape again. The muscles will remember. I lace up. I find the me who still has the gift.

Make this decision and you will regret it. You will fail. Maybe, but I've conquered ten miles. I've won races. Most importantly, if I do not try, I will regret it for the rest of my life. I take a shot.

I can never catch him. He's too fast. I'm too old and too slow. I've come this far. I am not done yet. I catch him.

I get knocked down. I am bruised. I am battered. I can't take this any farther than I have.

Then I remember the time I ran a mile. I also remember the time I ran ten miles. I vaguely recall conquering 26.2.

I have a faint memory of qualifying for Boston. If memory serves, I also broke 3 hours for the marathon multiple times. It's a bit fuzzy, but I think I might have also run 50 miles at one point in time.

All of these journeys started with just a mile. I run because it all starts with a mile....

Saturday Recovery Run @ PSOAS (01/02/16)

Saturday's recovery run launches from outside 333 3rd Street between Folsom/Harrison.

If you need to use the restroom, change, and/or store some personal items, head up to PSOAS in Suite 205.

Here's a link to the course map-

Saturday's Recovery Run Course Map.

Here is a brief description of the course:

We will cross Folsom from 3rd Street onto the sidewalk and take a right. We will run along Folsom all the way to the Embarcadero. We will cross the street and take a left onto the Embarcadero.

Run along the Embarcadero past the Ferry Building. Look for the street sign for ‘GREEN’. This is a hair over 1.5 miles. Beginner runners turn around here and head back for 3 miles!

Continue running along the Embarcadero. Look for the Hillstone Restaurant on the LEFT side of the Embarcadero at Embarcadero/Bay. This is 2 miles. Intermediate runners turn around here and head back for 4 miles!

Continue running along the Embarcadero until it turns into ‘Jefferson’. Run along Jefferson to the intersection of Jefferson/Powell. Look for the CVS drugstore on the left. This is 2.5 miles. Advanced runners turn around here and head back for 5 miles!

Run through Fisherman’s Wharf right to the edge of Aquatic Park. Once you reach the cul-de-sac at the edge of Fisherman’s Wharf/Aquatic Park, you’ve logged 3 miles. Race level runners turn around and head back to PSOAS for 6 MILES!

I run because life changes....

Change is good. It's important to remind yourself of this because change is a constant companion in life. It's not going anywhere.

This knowledge doesn't necessarily make change any easier.  Change often arrives without an invitation. Change is usually an unwelcome guest.

Its arrival usually means discomfort. Sometimes it entails pain. Change can even bring heartbreak.

Survive the discomfort and pain associated with said change and you'll be stronger. You'll be more resilient. You'll be tougher.

But, discomfort and pain generally isn't fun, even if there is presumably something positive on the other side. Change can sting. Change can suck.

When change does suck, I seek a salve. Sometimes, it's a drink. Other times, it might be a massage.

However, the salve I find most effective for dealing with change is running. Running shares some common ground with change. There are more than a few parallels.

Running is often uncomfortable and painful at first. Only by enduring and adapting does this discomfort and pain wane. You have to change to get get better at running.

Running never gets easy, but it does get easier to manage. Each mile is a catalyst for change. The next run is almost inevitably easier to manage than the previous one.

Your heart gets stronger. Bones get tougher. Muscles become more resilient.

You are not the same runner you were yesterday. While the change from yesterday to today might be imperceptible, you are changed nevertheless.

It is only through embracing these changes and the work involved with them that you can move forward. Change enables you to run faster. Change enables you to run farther.

As the miles roll by, the scenery changes. My breathing changes. My heart rate changes. My sweat rate changes.

Running is an exercise in the constancy of change. I will never master it, but I can always get better at it.

I run because life changes....

I run because I feel like death warmed over...

Most experienced runners are pretty dialed into the messages their body sends them. This helps you manage your level of effort, pacing, and gives you an idea of when you can make a move on race day. But, sometimes your body sends you messages you really don't want to hear.

I received a few such messages from my body. An inexplicable fatigue washed over me. A tickle in the back of my throat appeared. I have been compromised.

An unwelcome visitor has taken up residence. I could blame my compromised immune system, but it's likely that I am the one who compromised it. I am the one to blame.

Running bolsters your immune system. But, that doesn't make you invincible. You can't burn the candle at both ends (and the middle) in perpetuity.

It's something I know, but sometimes I forget. Fortunately, the body is all too willing to remind me that it's time to dial it down. It's time to give it a rest.

Getting off the bed feels like a chore. Lucid thoughts are a bit more challenging than usual. I just want some coffee, but the steps required to make it suddenly seem complex and daunting.

The unwelcome visitor is making himself far too comfortable. I recognize there's little I can do to get rid of him aside from just riding this out. But, there are things I can do to encourage an abbreviated visit.

I seek out whatever I can to bolster my now feeble immune system. Chicken soup, ginger ale, vitamin C, and Nyquil are but a few items on the list. But, it's not enough.

I still feel like crap. I still feel like death warmed over. It's time to do the one thing that will make me feel vaguely human.

It's an act that is completely counter intuitive. It's an act that most would balk at given the circumstances. I go for a run.

I recognize this will temporarily compromise my already enfeebled immune system, but I don't care. The first few miles feel hellacious.

But, then something miraculous happens. The rhinovirus induced fog lifts a bit. The blanket of fatigue I was covered in grows threadbare.

I visualize my unwelcome visitor writhing in pain and agony. He's not staying in the Four Seasons. He's checked into Motel Hell.

His host is hot, sweaty, and uncomfortable. No one in their right mind would want to linger long. So, I keep running.

It's a short jaunt, but the fresh air, sweat, and elevated heart rate has served as a tonic of sorts. I don't have illusions I am now healthy, but I feel at least vaguely human again.

The unwelcome visitor hasn't left, but a message has been fired across his bow. You can slow me down. You can contain me. But, you can't stop me.

I run because I feel like death warmed over....





 

I run because I am a caveman...

I pay my taxes. I hardly ever get a ticket. I generally abide by the law.

I do my best to not offend. I bathe most of the time. I'm generally pretty civilized. 

I appreciate the comforts and conveniences that modern, civilized life affords. Getting a chilled beverage anytime I want never gets old. I love streaming videos on my laptop.

But, after a day filled with conveniences, climate controlled spaces, and innumerable comforts, I sometimes get uneasy. I get a bit antsy. It wasn't that long ago that I did without all of these things.

I was once a wild man. I was once a knuckle dragger who roamed far and wide for all I needed. Everything was a struggle.

Every meal was hard fought. Every drop of water I drank was possibly my last. There were no chilled beverages to be found.

The caveman life was devoid of the comforts and conveniences I have today. It was a tough, hard life. I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

The caveman was mangy, smelly, and not very eloquent, but he had other things going for him. The caveman was tough. He was the personification of grit.

He had to be tough. He had to have grit in order to survive. Without the aforementioned, the caveman likely never would have knuckledragged his way into a climate controlled condominium.

When I run, I honor the caveman. I pay homage to the tough troglodyte I once was who endured, who weathered the countless inconveniences and discomforts life presented every day. He never quit because death was likely the result if he did.

As wonderful as my civilized life may be, chilled beverages and streaming videos can never take the place of fresh air, the smell of eucalyptus, and the thrill of adventure the outdoors provides.

The caveman knows this. He craves this. Me running a few miles each day is the least I can do to honor the mangy, smelly, grunting barely human beast that kept hope for humans alive.

I head out without headphones, watches, or any real knowledge of how far I'm going or exactly where I am going. It's how the caveman runs. I run because I am a caveman.

I run because it is where I find the warrior...

There are many versions of me. There's the me that my family and a few close friends know. Then there's the me that the general public might know.

There's also the me behind closed doors that most never see. The armor comes off. The guard comes down.

The me most people don't see is not always a bastion of confidence. This me can be vulnerable, scared, or anxious. Sometimes, this me has no idea know what to do.

There's a reason why this me only comes out behind closed doors. The soft underbelly is exposed. I don't want anyone to see it.

I'm not a fan of this version of me. This me rarely does any favors. It often just derails.

This me gives voice to the innumerable half baked, irrational fears one can imagine. Left to its own devices, it runs amok. It sees little but shortcomings and failures.

Not surprisingly, I don't like spending a lot of time with this version of me. It's critically important to keep this me regulated and controlled. This me needs to be on a short leash at all times.

When this me is running roughshod, I do the only thing I know how to. I head outside. I leave it behind.

The insidious voices of doubt and fear become faint. The behind closed doors me has a hard time telling me I am weak when I am running more than ten miles per hour. So, I push the pace.

The anxiety drains away. The chinks in the armor are filled. Another version of me emerges.

This me is strong. It is confident. It does not back down.

This me balks at doubt, fear, and anxiety. It knows that all of these things can be overcome. This me is a warrior.

The warrior knows that setbacks and failure may happen again, but as long as you keep moving forward, you can never truly be defeated.

Armor is polished. Spears are sharpened. The battle is rejoined.

The warrior knows actions speak louder than words. It is easy to cower behind closed doors, give voice to irrational fears, and do nothing.

The warrior knows it is through action that things get done. It is through the act of moving forward, that one conquers.

The behind closed doors me cowers before the warrior who stares fear in the face. 

I run because it is where I find the best version of me....