Defying the Polar Vortex gods

According to the National Weather Service, today is the last day in our area that we have to deal with the air mass they're calling “the Polar Vortex.” During the last five days a cold as bitter as Antarctica has descended on the Midwest forcing schools to close and people to crawl deeper into their dens and stay there. Or, if they cannot, put on layers and layers of clothing as they venture out into the arctic air. In conditions like these, frostbite can occur in minutes and exposure can cause death. It's the perfect setting for an epic lay, say, about a man battling the frost gods, like something out of Tolkien's Second Age.

To my parents' chagrin (if they knew about it) and my wife's amusement (she's long since stopped asking, “Why?”), I chose to run through these sub-zero days if only to defy the furies behind this polar cyclone with its hoary blast. I haven't been totally stupid. I've modified my regular routine to meet the conditions, run in the early afternoon when the sun is at its zenith and gone for short distances limiting my time outside to less than 30 minutes. But when my run is complete and I come in from the cold there is something akin to victory that swells in my heart. I braved the elements. I defied the polar vortex gods. I headed into the wind and was careful not to spit into it.

A friend of mine on Facebook yesterday posted this to my wall:

“Thought i saw Pastor Martin and son Edward running by my house this afternoon! Am i going crazy? Its 20 below!”

Well, it may have been 20 below but on the bright side it's 150 below on Mars. No, I refuse to yield and huddle by a heat vent in our home. Polar vortex or no, there be giants to defy and overcome – gigantic slugs of laziness and gargantuan titans of malaise. What's more, when I'm not active all the calories I ingest go right to my waist. Like Gandalf before the balrog on the Bridge of Khazadum, I run into the maw of the Polar Vortex denying it to gloat over this slow-moving object and in my mind at least shouting, “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”

Like that but with less fire

Hope I don't slow her down too much

Tomorrow I'll drive downstate to attend the Wisconsin Cross Country Coaches Association annual clinic which means I'll have my annual running-date with my niece, Hannah, tomorrow afternoon. It's supposed to be in the mid-20s (as in above). I'm wondering right now if I should even bother packing my wind breaker. Compared to my run on Monday, it'll be at least 40 degrees warmer. It should be a piece of cake to this cold weather warrior.

The few, the foolish and the frozen

“Frostbite is a cold injury in which an area of the body is frozen.

-  The Merck Manual of Medical Information Second Home Edition

A little while ago I just got back from a run. It was a beautiful, sunny winter afternoon that just beckoned to me come out and be in it for awhile. Oh yeah, according to the source I checked it was -17° out. Compared to the -24° that it was early this morning, however, this was the warm part of the day. So, I layered appropriately, through on my wind suit, donned the balaclava, put on my Gortex-insulated trail shoes, broke open a couple of hand warmers and slipped them into my gloves, put on a pair of sunglasses and headed out the door. 

Running in the bitter cold is sorta like this

Ed after a run last week

 I didn't plan to go far, just a short two and a half mile out-and-back course I do when I want something light and easy. The wind was to the west and given I was running north naturally caused my balaclava to fold over my exposed nose. For the bit where I was running due east on Schofield Street I actually felt rather warm-ish - until I reached the long bridge. With no trees to block those piercing gusts, running the quarter mile across the point where Lake Chetek meets Prairie Lake was challenging enough. But compared to what it felt like on the way back it was a cakewalk. Everything after the turn-around point was brutal. It was like getting stung by some angry hornets all the way home.

There really is such a race

Within twenty-five minutes I was back inside none the worse for wear. My nose was a little tender but a few hours later I have no telling frostbite blister to report (which is good as it would be a little difficult to cover up.) To those who ask why on such a dangerously cold day I chose to head out the door anyway, I've been thinking of a reasonably cogent response ever since I headed down the road a few hours ago. Would it make any sense if I simply said that the road called to me and I simply responded? Or if I mentioned that one of the items on my bucket list is to one day run the Antarctica Marathon? When I saw on the news this morning that presently our area was only three degrees warmer than it was at the moment at the South Pole how could I not go for a run? If I can't run in this cold, how can I ever run in Antarctica? And what if I said that the looks I got from most if not all of the drivers of the vehicles who passed me this afternoon was worth the price of admission? In every case, their head would turn my way as they saw me, their eyebrows would rise or their lower jar would fall a bit and I could clearly hear what each of them was thinking: “What the heck is this fool doing out here on a day like today?”

Exactly. Why run on a day like today where it's so cold outside exposed skin will freeze in minutes? Just to answer that question: What fool is running outside today? This one -the only fool running outside in Chetek today and I think that counts for something. 

But at least I kept a shirt on

 

Road rage on Pleasure Street

In the fourteen years I have been running, I have been chased by all manner of dogs and once by a small passel of sheep south of Chetek who had managed to get out of their pen. Numerous times as I have run by a field a horse in amusement will trot alongside me as will cows who are curious as to what this slow moving object is. But early this morning on (of all places) Pleasure Street in Chetek I got stopped by a guy in a truck who flew into a profanity-laced tirade because I wouldn't get off the road. As he hurled “f-bombs” at me he then got into my face and asked if I wanted to “go”. When I didn't accommodate him, he proceeded to insult my manhood further and then got in to his truck and drove off. As for me, I started my route again and angled for home.

For those of us who run we know we have to run defensively. As pedestrians, so long as we're not in the way of traffic, we have the right of way. Early morning runner that I am, even though I wear reflective gear, I never assume drivers see me. For all I know they are fiddling with their radio, texting their friend, sipping their coffee, lighting their cigarette – and for some of them – maybe doing all these tasks at once while driving 55 mph down the road. I can't count how many dark mornings drivers have blasted me with their brights rendering me temporarily blind as I lose all visual acuity. Having said that, as a rule I have found that most drivers are courteous. Once they see me they move to their left a bit putting a comfortable 3-5 feet between us. But from time to time I have to wave my arms if only to catch their attention in case they do not see me or do and don't care to move over. That's what happened this morning.Pleasure hadn't been plowed yet but a few vehicles had already drove down that road. I was running west on the left tire track when I saw a truck with a plow attached heading east at a high rate of speed. Seeing that he wasn't veering to his left I held up my two arms and gestured for him to move over. That's apparently what did it. He slammed on the brake and our encounter ensued.

At first, I actually thought he was jumping out to apologize for driving so close to me until I heard the first of many “f”-words that followed. I did point out to him that he had the whole road to drive around me but that wasn't helpful at all. “Oh, I see...you want to go...?” and then he put his finger in my chest. My response was a quiet, “Settle down.” I remember reading about how when the original running craze began in the 70s, many guy runners had stories of people shouting epithets at them as they drove by and especially enjoyed calling them “faggots.” I always found that curious until this morning when this big burly guy was doing the same to me. Somehow or other a guy in running tights must evoke that kind of response in some guys – or at least, this guy. He threw some more “colorful metaphors” at me, told me (again) that I was an idiot for being out there and then drove off. I resumed my run thinking, “I can't believe that just happened.” I'm still somewhat befuddled by it.

I was never really scared although for a moment I was trying to recall what wrestling skills I used to have in case I needed to defend myself. Really, there's only one other person in the world that I have that effect on – but she loves me anyway. I won't hesitate to gesture again if I need to. Drivers need to remember that if they hit one of us and put in their statement, “I was mad that the guy was out there and that he wouldn't move over” is probably not going to give him a pass with the judge. Of course, I don't want to get hit. I'd rather run and will continue to do so but remain on guard against that guy and any other fool who happens to be offended that I am out there.

On the road again

For the first time in two weeks I was running down the road again this morning. A couple of Saturdays ago I came up lame on a pedestrian five mile run. Around the two mile mark I developed a cramp in my right calf. I slowed a bit with the hopes of working through it. That was my first mistake. But when on the home stretch it felt like someone had given the screw another turn and I kept going, that was my second. I limped for a couple of days as penance for that display of maschismo. I spoke with our school's athletic trainer about it and after a quick examination she said it was in the area of the gastrocnemius and gave me a number of stretching exercises to try. "You know, at our age," she remarked, "we recover slower." Thanks for the reminder.

When I don't run at least two things happen: I feel discombobulated and I gain weight. Over the past 14 days both have happened. While you'd have to check with my wife, I think I've been okay around the house. But me living with me has not been pleasant. I generally like myself warts and all but not when I can't run. Then I feel like a slow, blob of fat moving down the street and as proof in the past two weeks I've added four pounds to my frame. So this morning when I put on the shoes and went for an easy 2.5 mile loop out to the old Breezy Bay resort and back without any pain whatsoever, I felt great. I wasn't even winded. Grey and overcast as the sky was suddenly the sun had broke through.

The last few years running has become such a spurty-thing with me. Case in point in 2011 I ran a total of 726 miles, in 2012 I ran just over 1,300 miles (my largest total in thirteen years of running) and at the time of this latest injury I have accumulated only 475 miles for 2013. This year I had talked about at least doing a marathon (I haven't run one of those since 2008) and maybe an ultra (I did the Chippewa Moraine 50K just last year). Now I'm just hoping to finish the year strong and weighing under 200 pounds. I started the year slow because of an injury I got on a run in December of last year and then have had struggled with recurring bouts of life interruptus. My mechanic tells me its a chronic-thing.

But not this morning. It was a brisk 33 degrees. I had to dig the tights out for the first time since last spring as well as my winter running hat. But with the theme song from Pirates playing on a soundtrack in my mind as I recrossed the long bridge and headed for home, I was feeling absolutely marvelous and happy to be out there once again.

The running of the fish (a personal recap of the 2013 Fishy Four)

A pose before the race

Last Saturday nearly a 1,000 runners and walkers showed up to do “the Fishy Four”, a Chetek tradition now for twenty-five years. For me, it was one of my better “4s”, at least, in recent years. I crossed the line at 34:45, nearly two minutes faster than last year's “4” and just shy of three minutes faster than my 2011 showing. But I won't crow about progress – in 2010, I ran a faster “4” than Saturday's – but you enjoy the moment you're in and try not to fret about earlier times when you were faster (but not too sleeker).

If I have any beef with this race it's that the directors do not do more to encourage walkers to head to the back at the starting line. Once again, at the retort of the gun a gaggle of walkers were in front of runners - well, in front of me - which just added to the brief traffic jam that is par for the course for the first 100 yards of this race. But after that, it's a matter of weaving in and out of traffic until you pass Camp Chetek and start the loop around the island. I knew after Ed, Christine, and a few others and I circled up for a prayer before the race I wouldn't see Ed until race's end. And just as I expected, he ran a strong “4” - his strongest yet – finishing in personal record time of 23:06 and 4^th overall. His two main goals were to PR (he did) and best former teammate and current C-W running phenom Brandon Books (ditto). So, he, too, had a good “4”.

Before...

 

and still smiling after...

My daughter, Christine, had a good “4” as well. Since high school days, the only race Christine really trains for is the Fishy Four and every year she searches for someone to run it with. This year she and one of her best buds, Amy, entered together (but trained separately). They ran together most of the way and enjoyed the camaraderie of working toward a common goal (mainly., to finish). The smile as she crossed the line said it all. Which in a nutshell is what this race is really all about. A truly “fun” run that brings runners and non-runners alike together for a good cause and a shared community experience.

Christine with her little brother afterward

I felt strong out there even though it was fairly warmish and my breathing was a bit labored during the last mile. I finished ahead of some runners this year that usually have my number – specifically Joan Koslofsky and Joan Turner – and I bested a few of the kids who presently run for me. That being said, Coach Tim Borstad from nearby Cameron High School walloped my tail with an impressive 31:30 finish. So, at the end of the day I guess I broke even.

But that's not really true. I had a good race and I enjoyed seeing a bunch of people I care about who share my love of the race – a few of my kids, a few of the kids who used to run for me and some of them who currently do as well as others who I have connected with over the years. Guys like 70-something Ray Coyer who has bested me at a Grandma's Marathon a time or two. I hope I'm still motoring forward when I get to be his age. Or how 'bout Mrs. J who in the 60-64 age category finished first in her age group on one artificial knee? (I really hope her doctor isn't blog savvy). It's people like them that this blog is all about. Not the champions as our society is prone to measure them but the brave and cheerful “also rans” who have fun (more or less) as they put one foot down in front of the other in a forward direction. 

The spoils of war

 

Another July 4, another Fishy Four

Cue Chariots of Fire music here

This weekend is the Fishy Four, the annual 4-mile race ran on the Saturday closest to July 4 that for many years running has brought out several hundred area runners. If you are a runner in Chetek or, like myself, the coach of the C-WHS Cross Country team, it's a given that you will run. And with the exception of 2007 and 2009 when I had to sit out due to injury, since 1999 I've run every one. To date, my fastest one was 2001, the year I ran my first marathon, when I finished in 31:02 (7:45 pace). My slowest one was in 2011 when I ran it in 37:42 (9:25 pace). I was 39 in 2001. I am now 51 and so you would expect a little downturn in times if only because the law of aging. If I go just on how I've been running lately in my training runs I'm not expecting a PR-kinda day this Saturday. I will most definitely be one of the “also-rans”. I'll run it, be cheered by my son and Coach Knicker, the “godfather” of local runners, when I cross the line, get the t-shirt and my complimentary water and then head for home.

Ed running for UW-S

My son, on the other hand, is a different story. While he may not be favored to win it, he should be in the Top Ten and stands a good chance as any of winning his age category. Last year was his best “4” yet and given that he has a year of collegiate running under his belt I don't anticipate any downturn for him. Ed's a local fan favorite. Everyone knows Ed and he endears himself to a lot of other people both runners and non-runners alike. He finished 8^th overall last year in a time of 23:42 (5:55 pace). So he'll have to wait a good 12-15 minutes before his old man finally appears on that homeward stretch that begins at Airport Park. I know it doesn't bother him in the least. And truthfully, it really doesn't bother me, either, other than I wish I was a faster runner.

I have no idea...but I often feel this way

One look at me and you know I wasn't built for speed. I was built for the long run. Granted it would do me good to lose that 20 pounds I lost last year but which slowly but surely found their way back. But even if I could achieve that I don't think it would land me in the winner's bracket of my age division. I don't have the mentality of a racer. I have the mentality of a plodder. Racers are competitive by nature. They don't just want to win. They want to cream the opposition. But plodders are the people who carry on, who are out there for the “fun of it” all, who are the type to shout encouragement to their fellow runners even while they're trying to make it to the same goal. And while I could try and work on my mental game and visualize crossing the line ahead of whoever is the competition in my age bracket, truthfully it's just not in me. My only enemy is my waistline and the clock, both which continue to prove themselves intractable.

It's supposed to be partly cloudy and a bit more humid Saturday morning than it was this morning when I was running. Today was beautiful. I won't say I felt like I could run forever but I did actually enjoy myself while on the run. I'm hoping for that kinda vibe on Saturday morning. It's all for a good cause anyway – it helps send local Chetek kids to college and tech school – and when it's over I'll have a brand new shirt. So with that I'll close by chanting one of my favorite running mantras, “Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more...” (King Henry V, Act 3, Scene 1)

Posing at the end of last year's "4"

Even "also ran" runners are runners, too.

For my wife and the few others who as they read this are thinking, "What? Another blog?" let me explain. For several years I have steadily maintained my blog, "Pastor Martin's Myopia" which primarily concerns my life as the pastor of a small, local fellowship. A year or so ago I began "Ice Age Trail Sojourner" as an attempt to chronicle my "bucket-list" endeavor to be a Thru Hiker of the Ice Age Trail, the thousand-mile trail that meanders through Wisconsin. Admittedly, I don't post there much and need to get back at it but like a Yellow Blaze marker, at least I know where I left off. One of the passions of my life is running, however, and feeling a desire to write about this aspect of my life I've decided to mark out another spot. I may be as successful with this as Ice Age Sojourner but so be it.

For years, I have subscribed to three magazines  - Running Times, Runner's World and Silent Sports (which may be my favorite of the three) - as a way to glean race and training knowledge and be inspired to higher heights, which is to say, longer and faster runs. I don't read any of the issues cover to cover. I gloss through them, grazing on articles like a cow finds good pasture in a field. And frankly, there are many issues I never really get to. They sit next to my bed collecting dust, the stack getting imperceptively higher as the months go by until I decide to chuck the lot of them. But I have a beef with all of them, especially Running Times and Runner's World. When's the last time you picked up one of these magazines and found a slightly overweight, guy at mid-life gracing its cover? Or a woman of equal girth and age? Exactly. Never. They usually find some supermodel, put her in running shoes and have a shot of her running at the camera. Or they have some uber-athlete in his prime doing the same. I once emailed this very complaint and sent it off to Runner's World and never heard from them. Not even a computer generated courtesy reply. My point is that as a veteran runner of nearly 70 races including 8 marathons and 2 ultras, most of the people who are around me while I run toward the back of the pack do not look like the svelte athletes or models that adorn the covers of any running magazine that I am aware of. And believe me guys like me (and gals, too) who are out there for the challenge of it all even though they are a little round around the middle, a little bald at the top and a little heavy on the backside make up a lot of the running community out there. If Amby Burfoot, Editor Emeritus (or something like that) of Runner's World, were to pull up his chair across from me at some pre-race pasta feed I may just tell him that (before asking for his autograph).

My point exactly

So, I'm an "also ran." My name will never make the headlines for some heroic athletic feat. I'll just keep collecting Finisher medals and T-shirts until my wife tells me I have to clean out my shirt drawer and find a new place to hang my medals. This blog is dedicated to people like myself who are also "also-rans", who run because their heart tells them to and while they may look like a little overweight Shetland pony as they lumber down the road in our mind we are a stallion fleet upon the plain.

How I imagine myself...

How I really look...