Woke this morning feeling like a sunken ship, like some invisible weight was pinning me in bed, rolling around my crumpled sheets. But I fought back, pushed off the early morning ennui, and headed out for 7:30am fun time sweat-a-thon along the Town Lake trail.
Of course, now it's called Lady Bird Lake, named after Lyndon Johnson's famed spouse and protector of all things wild and beautiful. She came up with the idea to make Town Lake a sort of central feature of Austin's urban landscape, and it seems the city owed her at least the name.
Just this past weekend I ventured out to East Texas, paddling along Caddo Lake, and passed through Lady Bird's hometown of Karnack. Not much to speak of there. I suppose that town could've used a bit of her magic.
But anyhow back to my run. I felt a bit sore in the knees today and noticed a number of older runners with all manner of bandages wrapped around wrinkled kneecaps. Funny how I hadn't noticed that before. Outer reality lines up with our predispositions and whatever's occupying our mind, it seems. I wonder if folks with an incurable foot fetish might sit on a city bench and watch pedestrians from the knees down all day. I suppose that would be more of a shoe fetish.
I have my own shoe fetish, it seems. Not sure if I believe in the idea of the "subconscious mind," but if there's anything to that theory, I need to give my subconscious mind a firm talking-to. It seems I subconsciously desire to run in really really shiny shoes.
My first pair of running shoes, which I purchased from the half-price bin at Run-Tex a year or so ago, were a ridiculously ostentatious female pair, silver strips running the length of them, with such blinding reflective flash that they would've made a fine substitute for a mirror. Hell, I suppose they are mirrors. Perhaps these shoes were designed for those particularly vain female runners who enjoy monitoring their perfect stride.
I don't consider myself one of those. Besides the fact that I'm not female, I don't much like to look at myself, especially when I'm all red and sweating and huffing and puffing and straining against my body. I made the mistake of observing myself in that state once, and I didn't exactly see the svelte, smooth motions of the effortless athlete. I looked more like a commercial for emphysema.
Thus I never much liked the reflective quality of the shoes. I called them "Buck Rogers" running shoes. Or perhaps I'm thinking of "Flash Gordon?" Some future world where people wear Mylar blouses and drink martinis that smoke like dry ice.
But I knew all that when I bought the damn things. No, the real problem with those shoes was they were way way too small. After a hard run, I'd be limping around the rest of the day. Not because of sore muscles or anything even remotely commendable, but because of tourniquet footwear. I felt like one of those Chinese princesses forced to wear miniature shoes. Only instead of gracefully balancing a cup of ultra-fine tea and trying to figure how to quell a peasant uprising, I was doing my best to ignore snickers on the trail.
So I eventually broke down and bought some nice new shoes. Yes, they're more expensive. Yes, that whole shiny female shoes debacle haunts me to this day.
Only I didn't seem to learn my lesson. Without realizing it, the shoe salesman guided me towards another pair of ultra-reflective shoes. Oh well. At least now I'm not limping to the fridge for my post-run beer. And if I ever get lost in the wilderness alongside Lady Bird Lake, I can signal a rescue team with my extremely shiny shoes.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
July 29, 4.2 miles
Woke to a loud rapping on the door and Michael (my brother and running partner) stood with coffee in hand. But no coffee for me. Not even time to rub the sleep from my eyes. Laced up my ultra-shiny shoes (more on that later) and out the door.
Funny thng about sweating. It's like some strange distillation of whatever you've been ingesting. This morning, for example, I'm pretty sure if I"d licked my arm I would've gotten at least a mild beer buzz.
All along the pathway, folks I see have this strained grimace. Perhaps this is the true secret joy of running. You put your body through hell just so you can feel the intense relief of stopping.
I think my own face probably twists into a particularly gruesome grimace. I kind of grimace a lot anyways. Meaning if I'm even slightly uncomfortable, I look like a mime screaming.
Well, I hope that's not true. Perhaps I will try another approach -- a constant smile, unnaturally large, scary even, while running. This might work. I only need some Crest Whitening strips. As things presently stand, I think I might scare some folks. Just imagine a sweaty grunting man running down the street, grinning an unnaturally large grin, lips pulled back to expose mossy yellow teeth. Say hello to "Bill your creepy neighborhood runner."
And that smelly trail of sweating spraying out from behind him? He ate some pesto last night, so the sweat might be a little slick. I'd watch your step.
Funny thng about sweating. It's like some strange distillation of whatever you've been ingesting. This morning, for example, I'm pretty sure if I"d licked my arm I would've gotten at least a mild beer buzz.
All along the pathway, folks I see have this strained grimace. Perhaps this is the true secret joy of running. You put your body through hell just so you can feel the intense relief of stopping.
I think my own face probably twists into a particularly gruesome grimace. I kind of grimace a lot anyways. Meaning if I'm even slightly uncomfortable, I look like a mime screaming.
Well, I hope that's not true. Perhaps I will try another approach -- a constant smile, unnaturally large, scary even, while running. This might work. I only need some Crest Whitening strips. As things presently stand, I think I might scare some folks. Just imagine a sweaty grunting man running down the street, grinning an unnaturally large grin, lips pulled back to expose mossy yellow teeth. Say hello to "Bill your creepy neighborhood runner."
And that smelly trail of sweating spraying out from behind him? He ate some pesto last night, so the sweat might be a little slick. I'd watch your step.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
July 28, the start of training
Today begins the training for 26.2 miles of foot-numbing, face-cringing, sweat-pouring punishment. Well, perhaps not punishment, but something similar.
Not sure why I've embarked on this. I've never been much a fan of testing my limits. My tattered blue La-Z-Boy chair is permanently reclined.
I think back to a few years ago, when I wrote down my list of "life goals." Basically a list of thing I never really planned on doing. I'm pretty sure I only made this list because it was on another to-do list I had. Seems half my to-do lists are usually dedicated to either writing or organizing other to-do lists. Sort of like one of those Russian dolls, or perhaps having to buy containers to store all my containers. What can I say, I get suckered in by The Container Store.
Anyhow, my "life goals." I'm pretty sure one was running naked in Antarctica. Further down the list, and only a little less likely, we see "run a marathon," an unsure scribble pretty far down on this list.
Not to say that it's an unachievable goal. I ran the half-marathon last year and have been on plenty of long-distance hiking trips. I guess the problem is one of day-to-day lifestyle. I enjoy two or three beers before bed, coffee in the morning, crouching in front of computer monitors (ahem) -- basically I'm a severely un-hydrated dude with bad posture. You buy those running magazines and see the fellows with those short shorts seemingly made out of tissue paper, they have abs that practically leap off the page and this easygoing smirk that coolly intones, "You'll never get here. But buy the magazine anyway, sucker." Not to mention this magazine runner cover star hotshot never seems to be breaking a sweat.
Well, I'm gonna prove something to myself and everybody else like me. Some runners aren't smirking Adonis wannabes with blinding white teeth. Some are coughing back last night's excess -- spliffs, wine, beer, french fries -- and are sweating their tattered old t shirts a stinky yellow. I will stand up and represent for these under-represented folks. I will be your feet.
So I will here post my progress as I start on my 4-month training program towards the 26.2 mile Rock n' Roll Marathon in San Antonio.
Today I ran 3 miles and it breezed by. Early morning starts do tend to help. Afterward made it to Barton Springs during free hours for a nice frigid belly-flop. Wasn't sure how well I would do, considering I woke up surrounded by three beer bottles and smoked a cigarette while at the studio yesterday. But my body responded better than I thought it would, only in the last mile or so did I feel that acidic ball of nastiness bouncing around my gut. Me and that acidic ball of joy do a little dance sometimes. It's not really a slow dance - not a waltz or even a polka. More like some dude at a rave who took some bad X, now he's spazzing and smiling a little too big and twitching like a lizard tongue in fast-motion. Oh, me and my ball of acidic yuck. How we love to dance.
Not sure why I've embarked on this. I've never been much a fan of testing my limits. My tattered blue La-Z-Boy chair is permanently reclined.
I think back to a few years ago, when I wrote down my list of "life goals." Basically a list of thing I never really planned on doing. I'm pretty sure I only made this list because it was on another to-do list I had. Seems half my to-do lists are usually dedicated to either writing or organizing other to-do lists. Sort of like one of those Russian dolls, or perhaps having to buy containers to store all my containers. What can I say, I get suckered in by The Container Store.
Anyhow, my "life goals." I'm pretty sure one was running naked in Antarctica. Further down the list, and only a little less likely, we see "run a marathon," an unsure scribble pretty far down on this list.
Not to say that it's an unachievable goal. I ran the half-marathon last year and have been on plenty of long-distance hiking trips. I guess the problem is one of day-to-day lifestyle. I enjoy two or three beers before bed, coffee in the morning, crouching in front of computer monitors (ahem) -- basically I'm a severely un-hydrated dude with bad posture. You buy those running magazines and see the fellows with those short shorts seemingly made out of tissue paper, they have abs that practically leap off the page and this easygoing smirk that coolly intones, "You'll never get here. But buy the magazine anyway, sucker." Not to mention this magazine runner cover star hotshot never seems to be breaking a sweat.
Well, I'm gonna prove something to myself and everybody else like me. Some runners aren't smirking Adonis wannabes with blinding white teeth. Some are coughing back last night's excess -- spliffs, wine, beer, french fries -- and are sweating their tattered old t shirts a stinky yellow. I will stand up and represent for these under-represented folks. I will be your feet.
So I will here post my progress as I start on my 4-month training program towards the 26.2 mile Rock n' Roll Marathon in San Antonio.
Today I ran 3 miles and it breezed by. Early morning starts do tend to help. Afterward made it to Barton Springs during free hours for a nice frigid belly-flop. Wasn't sure how well I would do, considering I woke up surrounded by three beer bottles and smoked a cigarette while at the studio yesterday. But my body responded better than I thought it would, only in the last mile or so did I feel that acidic ball of nastiness bouncing around my gut. Me and that acidic ball of joy do a little dance sometimes. It's not really a slow dance - not a waltz or even a polka. More like some dude at a rave who took some bad X, now he's spazzing and smiling a little too big and twitching like a lizard tongue in fast-motion. Oh, me and my ball of acidic yuck. How we love to dance.
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