But your bike is at home.
What do you do?
You're jonesing for exercise!
What do you do?
You run
Poppa Don't Like Running
My 9-year old says it best: "Daddy, I just can't picture you running."
Neither can I.
Running hurts. At least it does for me. When I see runners—real runners—I marvel at their effortless glide across the tarmac.
When I run, I plod. And my heels hurt. And my back hurts. And my neck hurts.
 |
| OUCH! |
Post-run I am Indiana Jones:
Indy: "Ouch!"
Marion: "Well god-damnit Indy, Where doesn't it hurt?"
Indy: "Here!" (points to his eyebrow)
I admire runners, but I never desired to run.
Until now.
I Am an Accidental Runner
I run because I must—but not in the same way that I must ride (driven by a deep, abiding passion). I must run because I aspire.
I aspire to be a triathlete. I want to dive into the multisport waters and thrive—not drown. So, I must run.
Regarding running, I have one strength—my cardio capacity. Years of cycling has tuned my engine, so that "short" efforts of less than three hours are (dare I write this?) easy. Yes, they're still work, but I am certainly capable of staying in zone 3 for a looooong time.
Which makes running even more frustrating.
Imagine having a Mustang engine in a 1992 Hyundai's body. You wanna go-go-go, but you can only creak-creak-squeak along.
Sigh
Revelation
I work four blocks away from the White House. For runners, DC doesn't suck. You have the Mall and the monuments, and at lunchtime there are hundreds of runners out getting their mid-day sweat on.
This spring I went out for one of these lunchtime jaunts with two lads from my gym—Bassline Scott and Rob the Sadist.
Scott is a pleasant fellow—all bonhomie and pleasant wit. He's an experienced triathlete, a new father, and an accomplished bassist. He's steady, ready, and able.
 |
| Rob expects—no, demands!—that you suffer during his classes. |
You can see where this is going.
I had mentioned to Rob some of my frustrations with swimming. I (actually) asked him for some coaching! And as we started our lunchtime run we chatted about it.
Then he hit me with a smackdown that still has me reeling.
As we ran, he looked me down-and-up. And in the a most devastatingly dismissive manner said: "I see we need to talk about your running technique as well."
Zing!
So, he turned the firehose on me and hit me with a ton of information.
- Heel strike - OUT!
- Long, forward stride - OUT!
- Weak abs - OUT! OUT! OUT!
- Rolled shoulders - OUT!
- Floppy feet!
- Relaxed arms!
- Posture, posture, posture!
Crikey!
Analysis, Paralysis
I drank from the firehose...and nearly drowned.
I had to stop running. So much unassimilated information ran through my head that I forgot how to move...literally.
I had been tumbling along, and when I looked at my feet, they were alien. They were someone else's. I had no idea how they had gotten there or what they were doing.
I froze.
I took a minute. I re-set my head. I focused on my breathing. I started again.
And something clicked. It worked!
Balanced, comfortable, painless, gliding....pleasant!
It wasn't perfect, but it was a whole lot better!
I was running!
Carrying it Forward
So there I was, northern Long Island, summertime, and no bike.
I ran.
And I ran some more.
My first run? Eleven miles. 11 miles!
Whip me and call me names! I'd never done that before! With hills! Like real, steep, 18% grade hills!
My second run? Thirteen and a half miles. 13.5 miles!
Smack me and promise me a rose garden!
It works!
Where Will This Take Me?
I did a little too much, too close together. That mileage made me sore and broke me down. But I recovered, and I have new frontiers before me.
I am competing in a 70-mile triathlon in October. Its final leg is a half-marathon. Sights set.
But after that?
Is there a marathon in my future? Might I go for it?
There's a lot of work to be done. I need to refine technique. I need to build up mileage.
Regardless of the destination, I've strode away from fear. Will I run a marathon? Become an Ironman? Or simply enjoy the movement—without pain?
Only time will tell.
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