Fifteen Thoughts While Riding to Work

1.       Why do people complain about traffic safety and drive dangerously at the same time?

2.       If you wave to other active commuters a couple of times, they become your friends.

3.       An 86 year old woman killed in a crosswalk? Really?

4.       Sometimes I wonder why I read these things before I get on my bike.

5.       I’ll say it again (and probably again): Roads are only safe when the users make them that way.

6.       The prickly pears on the beaver tail cacti I pass on the way to work are ripening.

7.       Urban orchards are a cool idea.

8.       Daily watering leads to shallow roots leads to weak grass.

9.       Even without bike lanes and traffic, I bet I win on short trips.

10.   There seems to be more chatter about helmets or no helmets lately.

11.   I wear a helmet for the same reason I wear a seatbelt.

12.   Arguing about helmets seems to avoid the greater issue of safe biking facilities.

13.   I wonder what it would be like to go for a run with Robert Frost.

14.   What kind of running shoes would Wallace Stevens wear? Firecats, of course.

15.   I run far. Other people run farther. This will not change.

Undisguised and naked

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
                                                Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

Right now in our fair ville, spring blooms are blowing up all over the place. Since January with the yellow Carolina jessamine, we have had a constant blur of color. In my neighborhood, rows of pink and white dogwood trees line the streets, piles of pink, white and various shades of red azaleas front the houses, and the noble trees are shedding flowers, leaving the allergy afflicted whining and oozing. It’s the type of shocking gaudiness that had TS Eliot thinking that April was the cruelest month, perhaps because of his own allergies.

Like Walt Whitman, I like the perfumes, but I will not let them intoxicate me. I prefer the blooming in the woods, where wild dogwoods are scattered about, white blooms floating among the greening forest. Wild forsythia fronds splay nearer the ground. The forest blooms more subtly, more naturally, perhaps, and you have to broaden your gaze to catch glimpses of flowers. 

Redbuds peak through the trees; closer to the ground purple and white flowers tint the mosses, but you have to look closely. To run in the spring woods reminds me of my intentions, to be a part of something much larger than myself, a nature that in many cases excludes us, sometimes harsh and forbidding. I give my attention to the small things, and begin to feel a pull, becoming not as one but as a piece of the whole, where the feeling of oneness depends exactly on our separateness. Each tree, each bloom, each rocky footstep, each breath, each pounding heartbeat, each rotting limb. As the detritus of the forest decays into life-giving soil, so too do the parts of my immediate surroundings coalesce into life-affirming epiphany.

But only for the moment, and then the return. Back into a design not of nature but of human beings, our division of gossip and toil and worry, fueled by a need for wealth and recognition and extraction.

Until the next run, and the attempted fulfillment of my deepest hope to become undisguised and naked.

There's running, and there's talking about running

I have long contended that the reason I am generally so happy is that I’m good at telling stories.

The stories we tell are not life, but only the means we have of arranging the chaos of life into manageable, comprehensible clips.  If we tried to narrate our lives as they happened, the stories would be full of digressions, non sequiturs, accidents, and tedium. 

So we tell stories.  We choose and arrange the random pieces of our lives in ways that create more cogent narratives, where actions lead to actions, where motivations are more or less clear, where characters can be introduced and developed in ways that the folks who populate our lives cannot be.  We can cut out what doesn’t matter, or what is embarrassing or not, we expand, highlight, contract, all in an effort to make sense out of what is otherwise and arguably non-sense.  We can create suspense, humor, gloom, or joy, all by how we arrange the words, the sentences, the paragraphs. 

As with all art, story-telling seeks to create (or recreate) particular feelings of a particular event or set of events.  We want readers and listeners to feel what we felt, to understand the physical and psychic boundaries crossed or approached, to laugh at the humor and cry at the sadness, to follow the process of falling in love, or to experience the beauty we experienced. We use to tricks to get our message across—metaphors, similes, analogies; we note and highlight irony, juxtaposition, and all sorts of other devices that scholars identify.  

But the actions we describe do not happen the way we describe them.  Life is not metaphor—we make metaphors out of the telling of it.  The fog rising from the lake in the early morning does not come on little cat feet, but that vision helps convey one I felt that morning, setting off on a 24-mile run, crossing the spillway as we started our way around the lake. 

The end of a bad stretch of the 2010 Smoky Mountain Relay.  I'm looking for a joke in there somewhere.

I seek in running the moment, the feeling of the air on my skin, the strength in my legs at the meeting of shoe and dirt, thoughts of nothing but where I am, how I feel, at one with the surroundings and the day.  Not that that always happens—often I think of work, or family, or the way I’ll tell the story of the run I’m on.

When I ran in road races, every other week or so, lowering my times and finishing in the top 5 of most of the local races I ran, I found the effortless gliding of a PR run one of the prime moments I sought.  And I over-ran that limit some, and feeling crappy I‘d often start into the story of the race—where I lost it, where the proverbial wheels came off.  Then I knew I was shattered, out of the moment, doomed to just hold on for whatever distance I had left.     

Though my running has changed, I still seek that gliding feeling, not necessarily for speed, but for distance and terrain.  Sometimes now the telling of the story gives me energy and laughs.  During that 24-mile run, I started rolling back and forth between feeling good and feeling bad.  Nineteen miles in, I got a little out of the moment, and thinking about the next 5 or so miles, I got ahead of me.  But I kept it in, and suddenly I thought that every other step was a good one.  I told Seth, “That was a good step.”  He was in the same state, replying, “That was a good 120 seconds.”  Saying it brought me back to it, and the chuckles helped.

I set new goals these days for races.  The varied terrain of trail races doesn’t really allow for PRs the way road races do; in my upcoming third 50k, I’ll climb more than the two previous races combined. But I have the same goals: love the day, love the woods, and say something funny at every aid station.  The last one keeps me occupied; I think of a lot of funny things, and then I have to pick the right one.  Of course, I can use two at one station. 

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Night Running

In the more than 25 years I’ve been running for exercise, I’ve run in about every situation I can think of.  But lately, I’ve been running at night, on trails, with a headlamp.

I’ve run through the streets of Beijing, New York, Anchorage, and many other cities large and small; run in northern New Hampshire when it was 25 degrees below zero, and in Tucson, Arizona when it was 108.  I’ve run alone, with regular partners, with random strangers, and in large groups.  I’ve run in a couple hundred races or more, from 400 meters to 50 kilometers. 

This winter my two main training partners and I started running at night on trails, at first out of necessity (early dark) and then out of interest and desire.  As daylight hours extend, I sometimes start a run in the light, then finish in the dark by headlamp.  I’ve done some runs by myself with my dog, and some with my friends. 

Some folks think we’re crazy, asking for turned ankles and skinned hands and knees.  But the running style changes, slows slightly, we pick up our feet and plant them more firmly to assure good footing.  We run on familiar trails, but they are made unfamiliar by darkness.  It’s not always easy to know where we are, and trail surface becomes much more of a factor as we shine lights ahead of our steps.

Often, in the descending light, focusing without turning on the headlamp makes it easier to see the roots and rocks of the trail.  I feel Bristol hesitate just a bit as we approach major turns we both know well enough to anticipate.  When I turn the light on for good, he accelerates slightly to get just off the front of my light, the better to use his canine sight. With the light illuminating the trail just a few steps ahead of my feet, I have to let myself push on, trusting my light and feet.  The process takes getting used to.

Dark descends quickly at the end, leaving me with that eerie feeling of being watched, though I am comforted knowing we don’t have bears or big cats in this area, and by Bristol’s keen dog-awareness.  Trust my dog, I tell myself.  He’ll let me know if there’s anything out there.

The start line of this year's Rocky Raccoon 100-miler

These runs last about an hour or so, sometimes all of it in the dark.  Many 50-milers start in the dark, and if I ever run a 100-miler, I’ll have to run overnight, most likely.  

And this is definitely something to practice—it’s not easy to be alone, with nothing but a light, which makes a kind of bubble around my eyes.  I strain to see beyond the light, and remember Edward Abbey’s dictum to get rid of the light because it limits your sight. 

Now, with the time change, I likely won’t get in any more dark evening runs; perhaps I’ll get out early some mornings to get that start-in-the-dark practice. 

Falls Creek Falls and Hospital Rock at Jones Gap, 2/26/2011

Three qualities characterize trails at Jones Gap: very steep, rocky, almost violent ascents and descents; old road beds that follow contours, climbing and descending into the many draws that feed the Middle Saluda River; and rolling ridgeline singletrack.  Falls Creek and Hospital Rock trails provide all three, draped in a variety of flora. 

Mine was the only car in the parking area when I left the trailhead off Falls Creek Road.  Steep blocky trails climbed quickly to Falls Creek Falls, for me a real surprise, falling some 100 feet in two steps.

The trail crossed the bottom of the second step, and changed names to Hospital Rock Trail for no apparent reason. 

 The trail climbed sharply, and by the sound of things, parallel to the falls, then worked its way upstream.  This is Falls Creek just before the falls, rhododendron hanging thick above the stream and trail.

 The trail continued to climb, sometimes very steeply, traversing the base of granite cliffs left exposed by a variety of geological events in roiling turmoil that marks the area. 

Having reached the ridge about 50 minutes in, I crossed over the peak of whatever ridge I was on, with filtered views that will disappear come summer.  I was just on the edge of cold in a t-shirt. 

The trail bears the scars of the violent geology of the Blue Ridge escarpment; cliffs loom overhead, trees grow into and around rock outcrops, blocks fall down steep draws.

The view up Jones Gap, viewable because of the wide electric utility right of way scar.  Below me were digging machines and fresh damage.

 The trail crosses the top of and then descends beside Cleveland Cliffs, passing below this waterfall whose name I don’t know.  I remember at this point that I’m running back up there on the way back.

 This portion was runnable, climbing and descending slightly both ways, fun rolling terrain.  In summer, the many briars on the sides of the trail are probably out of control.  Somewhere through here a turkey lifted off, a cacophony of beating wings.

 I stop often for small things.

I was there. 

Run details:

distance: >13 miles

ascent: <3600 feet

total time: 3:40



Adventures with Bristol the Enduro-Dog, Part I

I originally presented this article at Talk20 Spartanburg, where presenters talk about 20 images for 20 seconds each.  It should take 6:40 to read.

Bristol Short Track Darlington Daytona Barrett.  Bristol's the best running partner I've ever had--he never complains, and never minds when I do, never drops me, can always go, never has to check with the wife, never wants to go for a bike ride instead.

  

We started out walking him when he was two months old, up to the end of the block and back.  The older and larger he got, the farther he went.  We started running at three and a half months.  He liked it from the start, and pushed forward except to pee.

  

Bristol took to trail running almost immediately. At four-and-a-half months old, he ran 10 miles with me in the rain. Now a year and a half later, at full-size, he mashes out miles with a swagger, rarely stopping unless I do. He marks his territory with his lungs and legs; we haven’t found the limit yet.

I was drawn to trails when I started running over 25 years ago.  I run for fitness for sure, but I run to connect with something bigger and older and wiser than I. But if I try, and if I let it, it can include me too.  There’s a rhythm I seek, running and breathing and being. 

Bristol and I run at Croft State Park, a former US military installation, training grounds for thousands of men who fought in WWI and WWII.  Before that it was farmland.  Walls and road beds remain, some now parts of the trail system.  We run through open hardwood forests, signs of a recovering ecosystem, the result of leaving things alone for 50 years.

Bristol has never chased the squirrels, nor the deer.  A turkey scared him one day, and he took passing interest in a fat black snake.  He’s learned to trust my pace for the various distances we run together.  I trust Bristol with trail finding, and watch him sway through S turns, graceful and strong.

Today’s run, a short shake-out after a busy week, led us back onto familiar trails. One skirts sharply around a wide hole, left, I imagine, by exploding ordinance. Bristol lifted off behind me, full body extended over the hole and hit the trail ahead running at full speed, an athlete reaching his prime.



We run in all weather, in all seasons.  This was another great run with the Enduro-Dog--25 degrees, brilliant sunshine, empty trails, big trees and varied terrain.  When a faint trail is obscured by leaves or snow, we trace the contours, not looking for the trail, but feeling where the trail ought to be.

 

Bristol has played a significant part in a new cycle in my running, extending distances and running almost exclusively on trails.  On trails, my run becomes elemental, exposed to heat and snow, rain and bitter cold, packed dirt and sand and mud, downed trees and rocks and lost trails.

On one run, Bristol stopped behind me.  I kept running, then looked back to see him sitting in the middle of the trail.  I kept running.  He watched me turning to look at him as I gained fifty or sixty yards on him.  Then I heard him coming, full speed along the trail. He passed me without a glance and shot ahead. 

I like to use these runs to explore new places.  There are a number of cemeteries at Croft, mostly old family grave sites in various states of upkeep.  History at Croft runs deep, and far; Bristol and I travel it on foot.

Like most good trail runners, Bristol will occasionally get into his own head.  We spend hours in the woods, and the conversations often last the entire run.  But at times, when feeling good, or bad, we drift into our own thoughts, content to let the birds and bugs take over the conversation.

I carry water for myself.  And  food.  Bristol takes neither.  He won’t drink from a squirt bottle, and food doesn’t interest him.  His metabolism never seems to fail.  In summer I plan runs to cross the many creeks at Croft as often as possible.

Bristol knows these trails as well as I do.  One day I got all turned around, and found myself in a place I didn’t expect to be.  Following a faint trail I knew died out, Bristol and I set out down the creek in the direction we wanted to go.  We traipsed through bamboo thickets, each of us searching for clear passage, for about five minutes. 

At last, after having squelched some panic myself, we found trail we knew.  Bristol bolted ahead, skipping in freedom.  I felt myself push the pace in relief.  You'll just have to imagine: two hour run in the woods with Bristol, sunshine, t-shirt, dense brush bushwhack, getting lost and finding myself again.

When Bristol and I run with others, he seems to like the inevitable competition as much as I do.  At the end of one run, we started running harder about a mile from the end. 

The pace picked up until we were rolling along at near full speed.  When we took off, Bristol sprinted to the front. He had a great run, playing as we went, but most definitely focusing on the finish as much as we were.

Bristol seems to understand how to preserve his energy.  Often, after he passes me at full tilt, he pulls off the trail to wait for me to pass, then falls in behind me.  I rarely if ever rein him in, and his focus is clear.  Christy points out that in so many pictures, he’s running straight in the middle of the trail.

Bristol is a very patient dog.  He understands “Wait” better than “Stay.”  He’s not bothered by horses, or people.  Sometimes, though, he’s just ready to go, and will start off down the trail on his own.  



There’s a peacefulness about Bristol.  When we run, we both seem to revel in the presence of all of it, to smell, breath, touch, move, in the same contours as the trails.  And it’s all a part of the greater whole, a snake, a turkey, two spike bucks running in the same lines, the trees, the creeks, the blood, the spit, the lungs.