Fame fades. Glory diminishes. It probably wasn’t more than 20 minutes after I finished running Boston before I was asked the inevitable question, “What’s next?”
[Amusing side note: Runner friends ask, “What’s your next race?” Everyone else asks, “So are you finally going to take a break?”]
What’s next for me is the biggest challenge I have faced to date. Over Memorial Weekend I will attempt to—literally—run across Georgia
For the past 8 years since I've been running, I've always considered myself a cold-weather runner. While I'm not crazy about the layers of clothes involved in 40 degree runs, there's no denying these runs are in some ways much easier then the oppressive, thick, humid runs of summer.
In cold weather, the lungs fling themselves wide and take in great gulps of crisp air that propel you forward. Sweat evaporates into the atmosphere instead of smothering you like a second skin. And you feel crisp, and faster.
I've never understood runners who said they prefer 90 degree temps for running. I assumed there was some sort of family lineage of mental illness and went out of my way to be kind to them. And yet...
When I've stepped outside the last few mornings (at 4:45 am to go to the gym so who's calling who crazy?) it's been on the brisk side. Not even close to cold, but just... not warm. And my reaction has been nothing short of horror. I don't want the cold weather to come back where it takes a mile of running before my toes begin to thaw. I don't want to haul out hats and scarves and arm warmers and hand warmers and gloves. I don't want to sit in my car until the very last few seconds before a group run starts in order to prevent frostbite.
All of this from 60 degree temperatures.
It's going to get ugly around here come wintertime.
Cheers,
Dena
I ran today. Thirteen miles. I was excited about the run. Only thirteen. In these marathon training days of 17, 18 and 20 mile runs, thirteen is a gift. An easy day. A run-and-done given.
Except today. The humidity was brutal and I hit the wall just past mile ten. Drenched and exhausted, I paused my watch and walked for a bit. I'm a slave to the plan though, so I kept pushing, walk/running the final miles back to the car. At mile twelve, chills set in. Not the reaction you expect or want from your body in 90% humidity. Finishing up in Country Park, I found myself shivering and breaking out in goose bumps even as my skin was scorching to the touch. Diagnosis? Dehydration.
I wasn't alone. There was lots of chatter on Facebook today about the brutal running conditions. It's one of those things runners just accept. It's August in North Carolina and we're running in it. It's going to suck.
I was running with a business colleague the other day and we were discussing bowel movements. That's right, bowel movements. What's more, it was a perfectly natural and easy conversation with no awkwardness or nervous laughter. Regular bowel movements hold a level of importance in a runner's life that's difficult to explain to non-runners. Discussing when you have them and what you do to encourage them is not an atypical conversation for a group of distance runners.
But it struck me as funny, later, imagining this conversation in terms of two business colleagues who aren't runners.
"So, Tom, did you have a chance to look over that brief?"
"I meant to Bill, but I'm having stomach issues this morning. Usually I'm as regular as a German train but for some reason this morning, nothing. I can't figure out what's causing it. I ate a ton of roughage last night for dinner. I even drank an extra cup of coffee to get things moving. Guess I'll just have to tough it out in today's meeting."
"I feel ya. I went three days last week with no action. I felt so bloated. It was awful. When things finally started moving I was like, 'Hallelujah!'"
Snot rockets are another purview of runners. I think nothing of a friend, associate or new acquaintance pressing a finger to the side of their nose and pressure-shooting out a wad of snot in my presence. In fact, I consider it a personal failure that I've never mastered the art of the snot rocket.
Add into the mix the fact that the endorphins associated with running encourage the sharing of deeply personal information (I know more about the job, marriages and failings of casual acquaintances then is probably healthy) and you've got an addictive sport.
Whether it's talking about snot, bowel movements or the highs and lows of everyday life, I love the bond that forms between runners.
I wouldn't trade it for a world of high-class conversations.
Cheers,
Dena
Author. Humorist. Fitness fanatic. Control freak (working on it). Mentor. Klutz. All-around decent human being.
Or receive an e-mail when
I publish a new blog post.
Delivered by FeedBurner
Copyright © 2004-2019, Dena Harris. All rights reserved.
Dena's Squarespace website design by Melody Watson
