We sing praise for treadmills,
For sweat-musk and fresh towels,
For supple sinews and solid bones,
For flexing cords of muscle,
For T-shirts redolent of last night's
Herbed chicken and sundrop cake.
We sing praise for rising blood,
For our sacred inner rhythm,
For easy-breathing lungs,
For sweat pooling on bald heads,
For the mysterious machinations
That keep us warm and spirit-filled.
We sing praise for clumsy joggers,
For bellies jiggling with each step,
For sudden, violent, wind-breakings,
For horrified stares from treadmill-neighbors,
For all the things that make us smile
Throughout our holy, wholly holey lives.
Noises From the Machine
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
Showing posts with label running. Show all posts
10 October 2014
28 October 2012
Capitol Craze 5k Obstacle Run
This weekend, I ran* in the Capitol Craze 5k Obstacle Run. It was amazingly muddy, wet, and cold. I can't remember having a better time running. If waterslides, mud pits, and ridiculously steep hills in 30-degree weather are your idea of fun, you should have been there.
I loved it.
Here's a picture that does a pretty good job of capturing how it felt. The granola bar was delicious, but a little muddy-tasting.
I loved it.
Here's a picture that does a pretty good job of capturing how it felt. The granola bar was delicious, but a little muddy-tasting.
*By "ran," I mean "jogged as quickly as a fat, out-of-shape IT guy can."
29 September 2012
My Big Run, Part II: Speed, Banana Cannibals, and World War I
Note from the Blogger: This is the second -- and EXTREMELY LATE -- edition in a potentially interminable series on my first half marathon. To see my previous post, go here.
Everything I'd ever heard about preparing for a long run told me to pace myself. I knew that if I didn't limit myself early in the race, I'd have nothing left to give later on. In short, the end would be miserable. So I did what any reasonable, forward-looking person would do: I ran too fast anyway.
Sure, it's stupid, but think about it. What would you do if, in 90 days, you'd gone from an out-of-shape couch potato to an out-of-shape couch potato who can run a half marathon? You'd be tempted to think of yourself as an exception, wouldn't you? You might even harbor delusions of invincibility. Not making excuses; just telling you why it happened.
The good news is that my first 5k, and even my first 10k, were the best I'd run in years. Not fast, mind you, but faster than I was used to. And with good reason. I was in a huge pack of runners, most of them much better than me, running through some of my favorite parts of Kansas City. What's not to motivate?
For example, my very favorite part of the city (maybe of the state - it IS Missouri, after all) is the Liberty Memorial, which houses an excellent World War I museum. Just being near it always energizes me.
However, not all was sweetness and light. It just so happens that the memorial is situated on a hill. A very steep hill. Which, for those of you who are keeping score, is a difficult thing for a runner. Not impossible or anything, but definitely a cause for breathing hard.
What a hill it was! It seemed like it kept going. And going. And going. Just when I thought I'd reached the top, I'd run around the corner, and lo! Another bit of hill. It was probably the most exhausting thing I'd experienced in months.
And so I was glad to be overtaken by the Banana Man. He handed me what he said was his last banana, mentioned something about potassium and muscle cramps, and sprinted on by, shouting over his shoulder that he had to catch up with his "bunch."
The question you're probably asking yourself is: "When he gave that last banana away, did he stop being the Banana Man?" The answer is no. Because he was still wearing an enormous banana suit. Yes, that's right: a man in a cumbersome banana suit was able to run up to me, give me a banana, carry on half of a conversation, and SPRINT PAST ME. Stupid hill.
Shortly thereafter, I learned why the Banana Man was running so fast: I saw a gorilla, intent on chasing him down, sprint by me as well. Or maybe it was a man in a gorilla suit; he, too, was running MUCH faster than me. The one good part about the hill was that I caught up with a friend who was going even slower than me. This gave me a good excuse to slow down EVEN MORE while chatting with her.
As I (FINALLY) crested the hill and approached the checkpoint near Liberty Memorial, I wondered about that Banana Man. How many bananas did he start with? Did he eat any of them himself? And if so, would that make him a cannibal? If it did, would he be subjected to trial by a jury of his peers? And wouldn't that make a great cartoon?
Questions, questions, questions. But they shall have to wait for another time, dear reader, for we are out of blogspace for today.
Until next time...
Everything I'd ever heard about preparing for a long run told me to pace myself. I knew that if I didn't limit myself early in the race, I'd have nothing left to give later on. In short, the end would be miserable. So I did what any reasonable, forward-looking person would do: I ran too fast anyway.
Sure, it's stupid, but think about it. What would you do if, in 90 days, you'd gone from an out-of-shape couch potato to an out-of-shape couch potato who can run a half marathon? You'd be tempted to think of yourself as an exception, wouldn't you? You might even harbor delusions of invincibility. Not making excuses; just telling you why it happened.
The good news is that my first 5k, and even my first 10k, were the best I'd run in years. Not fast, mind you, but faster than I was used to. And with good reason. I was in a huge pack of runners, most of them much better than me, running through some of my favorite parts of Kansas City. What's not to motivate?
For example, my very favorite part of the city (maybe of the state - it IS Missouri, after all) is the Liberty Memorial, which houses an excellent World War I museum. Just being near it always energizes me.
However, not all was sweetness and light. It just so happens that the memorial is situated on a hill. A very steep hill. Which, for those of you who are keeping score, is a difficult thing for a runner. Not impossible or anything, but definitely a cause for breathing hard.
What a hill it was! It seemed like it kept going. And going. And going. Just when I thought I'd reached the top, I'd run around the corner, and lo! Another bit of hill. It was probably the most exhausting thing I'd experienced in months.
And so I was glad to be overtaken by the Banana Man. He handed me what he said was his last banana, mentioned something about potassium and muscle cramps, and sprinted on by, shouting over his shoulder that he had to catch up with his "bunch."
The question you're probably asking yourself is: "When he gave that last banana away, did he stop being the Banana Man?" The answer is no. Because he was still wearing an enormous banana suit. Yes, that's right: a man in a cumbersome banana suit was able to run up to me, give me a banana, carry on half of a conversation, and SPRINT PAST ME. Stupid hill.
Shortly thereafter, I learned why the Banana Man was running so fast: I saw a gorilla, intent on chasing him down, sprint by me as well. Or maybe it was a man in a gorilla suit; he, too, was running MUCH faster than me. The one good part about the hill was that I caught up with a friend who was going even slower than me. This gave me a good excuse to slow down EVEN MORE while chatting with her.
As I (FINALLY) crested the hill and approached the checkpoint near Liberty Memorial, I wondered about that Banana Man. How many bananas did he start with? Did he eat any of them himself? And if so, would that make him a cannibal? If it did, would he be subjected to trial by a jury of his peers? And wouldn't that make a great cartoon?
Questions, questions, questions. But they shall have to wait for another time, dear reader, for we are out of blogspace for today.
Until next time...
18 October 2011
My Big Run, Part I: A (Slow) Part of the Faceless Mass
I ran a half marathon on Saturday.
Why?
The race started at 7:05 a.m., so by 6:30, the starting area was already getting pretty crowded. After a quick stop in a very filthy mobile intestinal relief facility, I joined 5501 of my newest friends behind the starting line. Despite the October chill, most of us weren't wearing much more than shorts, T-shirts, and maybe sweatshirts. Some were wearing substantially less (e.g., the man dressed in a cape, briefs, and a lucha libre mask). We expected to get very warm very quickly.
A funny thing happens when you are in a tight-packed bunch of live bodies on a cold morning: you get to share their body heat. I knew somewhere in the back of my head that humans are finely tuned heat machines, generally running temperatures between 96 and 98 degrees. Nonetheless, I'm not sure I ever really felt this truth the way I did in that chilly pre-dawn moment when I realized that I was standing outside in 40-degree weather and wasn't even a little bit cold. It was comforting to know that, even in a massive, faceless crowd, we could provide each other with a little bit of comfort on a cold day. It almost made me feel like one with those around me. And then the race started.
After the starting pistol sounded, the crowd surged slowly forward like a fell dragon flexing his wings. I started about a quarter mile back from the line. Following thousands of others, I went from a slow walk to a leisurely jog to a full-on run as I hit the sensor strip at the starting line. Once we had crossed that fateful line, we were no longer partners against the cold -- it was every man for himself, and Devil take the hindmost.
For the first couple of miles, I felt more like an extra in a zombie film than a contestant in a road race. I glanced around at my competitors, looking for signs of infection and trying to remember if it was possible to crush the spinal columns of the brain-hungry undead with one's bare hands. After all, here we were: thousands of people, all running the same direction, a river of humanity flowing inexorably to a common sea. What else could explain this madness besides some brain ailment? Or the allure of cheesy medals, I guess.
It was a surreal experience to run with 5,000 other humans toward a single finish line. It emphasized everyone's common humanity: we all were flesh and bone, constructed of basically the same materials and on basically the same plan. However, it also highlighted our differences. I, a short, jiggly man with creaky knees, was not even in the same class with the tall, muscular demigods who dominated the race-course, finishing a full marathon in less time than it took me to run my measly half. (I am not joking. The winner of the full marathon lapped me about 1.5 miles from the finish line.)
I intend to get into more detail about the run itself in subsequent posts. For now, I will close with a few numbers.
5,502 people started the half marathon with me. Of those, 4,796 finished. And of those, I came in 3,955th. Not great. And my time of 2:33:43 was more than 20 minutes slower than the average finish time.
But, hey, at least I wasn't the pitiful sack of carbon-based life who came in last.
Why?
- Because it was there, I guess.
- Also because I was turning 30 the next day and wanted to feel like I wasn't an old man yet.
- And also because I am overweight and wanted a goal that would make me exercise regularly.
The race started at 7:05 a.m., so by 6:30, the starting area was already getting pretty crowded. After a quick stop in a very filthy mobile intestinal relief facility, I joined 5501 of my newest friends behind the starting line. Despite the October chill, most of us weren't wearing much more than shorts, T-shirts, and maybe sweatshirts. Some were wearing substantially less (e.g., the man dressed in a cape, briefs, and a lucha libre mask). We expected to get very warm very quickly.
A funny thing happens when you are in a tight-packed bunch of live bodies on a cold morning: you get to share their body heat. I knew somewhere in the back of my head that humans are finely tuned heat machines, generally running temperatures between 96 and 98 degrees. Nonetheless, I'm not sure I ever really felt this truth the way I did in that chilly pre-dawn moment when I realized that I was standing outside in 40-degree weather and wasn't even a little bit cold. It was comforting to know that, even in a massive, faceless crowd, we could provide each other with a little bit of comfort on a cold day. It almost made me feel like one with those around me. And then the race started.
After the starting pistol sounded, the crowd surged slowly forward like a fell dragon flexing his wings. I started about a quarter mile back from the line. Following thousands of others, I went from a slow walk to a leisurely jog to a full-on run as I hit the sensor strip at the starting line. Once we had crossed that fateful line, we were no longer partners against the cold -- it was every man for himself, and Devil take the hindmost.
For the first couple of miles, I felt more like an extra in a zombie film than a contestant in a road race. I glanced around at my competitors, looking for signs of infection and trying to remember if it was possible to crush the spinal columns of the brain-hungry undead with one's bare hands. After all, here we were: thousands of people, all running the same direction, a river of humanity flowing inexorably to a common sea. What else could explain this madness besides some brain ailment? Or the allure of cheesy medals, I guess.
It was a surreal experience to run with 5,000 other humans toward a single finish line. It emphasized everyone's common humanity: we all were flesh and bone, constructed of basically the same materials and on basically the same plan. However, it also highlighted our differences. I, a short, jiggly man with creaky knees, was not even in the same class with the tall, muscular demigods who dominated the race-course, finishing a full marathon in less time than it took me to run my measly half. (I am not joking. The winner of the full marathon lapped me about 1.5 miles from the finish line.)
I intend to get into more detail about the run itself in subsequent posts. For now, I will close with a few numbers.
5,502 people started the half marathon with me. Of those, 4,796 finished. And of those, I came in 3,955th. Not great. And my time of 2:33:43 was more than 20 minutes slower than the average finish time.
But, hey, at least I wasn't the pitiful sack of carbon-based life who came in last.
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