This Porridge is Too Boring

Please, sir. I'd like NO more.

If variety is the spice of life, then monotony is the gloppy porridge of the mundane.

Last Saturday, my breakfast club mates and I sat across from one another eagerly gulping at our fresh cups of coffee (our second “warm up” in less than 10 minutes). When the mugs hit the table again, we cast a long stare at one another, the road-worn and weathered faithful we’d become.

Finally someone spoke up. “I can’t do it again?”
“Do what?”
“I can’t do another out and back on the Mt. Vernon trail. Where else can we run next weekend?”

And so the plotting began.

I started experiencing what I’ve come to coin as “route fatigue,” and I define it as the point at which I can no longer mentally wrap my head around covering the same loop, path, or trail without thoughts of leaping in front of a car or throwing myself into the river popping into my head. It is the running equivalent of “Groundhog Day,”(Bing!), only instead of being trapped in Punxsutawney, I am locked in some strange purgatory that stretches from mile post 16 to mile post 5 on the Mt. Vernon Trail.

I think the first symptoms came way back in November after I completed my final 20-miler and headed into taper town. The euphoria of that "good time" faded and left me with this lingering hangover.

That same Saturday, I tried heading north on the trail toward D.C. and cutting over into the city for a few miles. The city miles helped some, but the dread of running past the airport in this interminable stretch of trail that climbs but never really seems to drop, coupled with the throngs of other runners, who for some reason think it’s ok to run four across the trail (can Team in Training work trail etiquette into their training plans, please?), flew around my head like the mosquito you continue to swat at but can’t ever make go away.

Whew. Ok, better now.

I hit this point a couple years ago, when the sidewalks and roads became impassable because the blizzards rolled in one after another like wave sets. I had one four mile loop that I could safely do without slipping or getting swiped by traffic. So whether the calendar called for six miles or 18 miles, I ran it over and over and over and over again, until my nerves frayed…

Anyway.

With my Saturday distance creeping back up again (14 mile cut down run tomorrow), I’m thrilled – and even a little giddy – at the thought of a “new” trail tomorrow. As we hatched our plan, one of the most important factors of course became that the route be near a breakfast place. So, we settled on the W&OD Trail, a 45 mile stretch that features long steady climbs and equal descents from Alexandria, VA to Purcellville, VA.

In the somewhat edited words of Goldilocks, “This porridge is too boring.” Time to spice things up.

Flexibility

Something didn't seem right. It had all the makings of a regular run, though. I flicked on my headlamp and followed the spotlight cast in front of me. Mattie turned her head as if sharing the same sentiment, "This isn't the usual routine," she seemed to say. And who doesn't appreciate a good routine more than a dog and a runner. Nevertheless, the ever adaptable creature, she quickened her steps and broke into a slow trot with me as we climbed out of the neighborhood together. 

A bright, white moon began to set into the trees and the chill started to disappear from my chest. The road leveled out and we fell into an easy rhythm that coaxed my legs awake. Once we hit the main road, the garbage truck convoy whooshed by and left a sour smelling wake for us to run through. That hammered home what was really going on here: the early morning run.

I'm an afternoon run kind of a guy. I cherish my sleep in the morning and the clarity and decompression that a good run can levy after a long day of work. But I'm also a little OCD about following my training plan. So, when faced with an evening conflict, I will sacrifice that precious hour of sleep to grope my way through the quiet halls of the house, pull on my shoes, get heckled by kids waiting for the school bus, and run through the world as it comes alive.

The transition is a tad confusing, though. I'd liken it to a minor case of jet lag. Up is down. Down is up. I'm tired when I should be awake. I'm hungry when I'm usually full. And, on the road, it gets lighter when I finish my runs instead of darker. It gets warmer instead of colder. I can't kick back after my shower. I have to *gasp* go to work. But such is life when you've got to "get your run in."

And it's uttering phrases like that that make the recent videos making their way around the internet hit a little too close to home. I'm of course referring to the "Shit Runners Say" series. There's this one that was on Runner's World and this one posted by the Brooks Hansons team.

Last night, I walked through the concourse at Verizon Center toward my seat when my cousin asked the normally rhetorical question: "Do you want a beer?"

"Nah. I think I just want a bottle of water."
She laughed. "No, seriously. What do you want?"
"Seriously, I just want water."
She looked at me like I just kicked her cat. "I have to run in the morning." Blank stare.
"How about a Bud Light, then? That's just as good as water."

Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't be an issue. I'd have already run and would have nearly 24 hours to "recover" (I'm a cheap date). But with a hill workout in less than nine hours staring in me in the face, I muttered, "I've got to get my run in. Sorry."

And so goes the compulsion.

The disruption in the routine takes its effect on me as well. Morning workouts stress me out. I worry that they will take longer than I think and will press me for time. So, I spend the night before making my lunch, my breakfast, getting the coffee ready, and laying out my clothes so that the process runs (so to speak) smoothly. Automatic. Step by step by step all the way out to the car.

And yet, I marvel at my "flexibility," convincing myself that I'm not so rigid to alter my plans to get this run in. Instead, I'm Mr. Go-With-the-Flow and will simply fit the run in elsewhere, morning, noon, night? It doesn't matter. When in fact, as I write this, I think it causes my compulsiveness to flare up even more. If I could make a color-coded spreadsheet or checklist, you can believe there would be one. Actually....

When I do get into the workout, though, that stress leaves me, much the same way the afternoon run puts distance between me and the rigors of the office. And I discover the peacefulness that comes with the cold, still morning when the roads are relatively silent and there's satisfaction in striding by dark houses when the rest of the world is still asleep or the pot of coffee is just starting to brew.

At the moment, I'm not ready to give up my afternoon runs. But, I'm willing to change up the routine to "get my run in."

Spice it Up

About two weeks ago, I sat across the booth from my friend Paul at a Glory Days Grill, working on a beer and eagerly waiting on the waitress to bring us our baskets of wings. The plural in “baskets” is not an error. I followed the food runners with my eyes, trying to get a beat on what table they might

head toward, and if indeed those greasy baskets were ours.

It was a rare night for a couple reasons, the least being that I’d already eaten dinner and was in fact having wings and beer for dessert (It’s great to be training again):

1. I was out on a “school night”

2. The Caps had scored five goals (which makes your ticket worth six free wings at Glory Days)

3. I’d actually bothered to redeem the ticket

Finally, I got a good read and used my eyes like a tractor beam to draw those baskets in. When she slid them in front of me, my nose twitched at the heat and my eyes went glassy. Jalapeno coins swam in the pools of orange sauce and my mouth filled with saliva.

About three wings in, when that orange sauce drizzled down my fingers and I’d long since lost feeling in my lips, the following thought entered my head: Could there be more to the holiday weight gain than I first thought? Dear, God…am I pregnant?

Let me explain.

First off, I realize this is not the first time I’ll compare training to being pregnant. But sometimes the similarities are just as much a reality as the food baby living in my stomach after a tempo run and two dinners.

It used to be brownie sundaes at Silver Diner -- hold the whipped cream (it only got in the way) and heavy on the hot fudge. That was for Boston. For New York, it was pickles.

Half the fun of starting a new training program is to find out what the craving du jour will be.

This time, you need to bring the heat.

These days, the spicy tuna isn’t spicy enough. I continue glopping wasabi into my soy sauce until it’s a murky and thick swamp that brings instant clarity to my sinuses. Chili and cayenne pepper are cooking staples. Spicy mustard is a good friend, while pepperoncini is a best friend, especially when it’s on my pizza.

Little known fact: you can put sriracha sauce on anything.

I poach my wife’s discarded jalapenos from her Thai food. Tabasco for the eggs, and why not sprinkle some on the sausage links…and the pancakes…and the toast that’s in the vicinity. Does it have carbs in it? Hot sauce it.

I stood for a good 90 seconds in front of the pepper section at Whole Foods trying to discern between the palette of colors, shapes, and temperatures. Decisions, decisions.

Is my life going to turn into that one Cosby show episode where all the men get pregnant and they give birth to things like sailboats, sports cars, two liter bottles of soda, and hoagies (ah, the cocaine 80s)? Does anyone have a remote clue what episode I’m talking about? I wonder what would I give birth to? Probably running shoes…so, twins. Ouch.
Anyway, back to the bar. I licked the wing sauce off my fingers (always a classy move), and used my palms to grasp my pint glass and polish off the remaining sips of Yuengling (though it could have been Bud Light at that point since I'd burned away my taste buds), the second half disappearing much quicker than the first. Then I wiped my nose and sucked air in hard through my mouth to cool off my tongue. Sometimes it just burns so good.

What are your training cravings?

Finding the Flow

Finding the flow.

I have a confession: tempo runs worry me. When I see them on my training plan, my palms get a little sweaty and I keep that run in the back of my head all week.

The planned tempo run is of course different than the actual tempo run. You know, the ones where the schedule calls for an easy run but there's something magic about the day and your pace drops naturally to tempo?

My dad called yesterday during his odyssey up 95 from Florida to D.C. The conversation, as it tends to do with us, turned to running.

“What’s the run for today?” he asked.

I inhaled sharply. “Six miles with four at tempo. Makes me nervous.”

"Just let it flow," he said.

I went on to explain that my anxiety lay in the sustained speed of a tempo run. I love my interval workouts. Whether it’s ripping off 200s on a track or 2Ks on the road, I can feel the life pumping through me and ratcheting up the adrenaline. The “torture” is generally short-lived. And if you're RunDanRun, so are the contents of your stomach. At tempo pace, it is indeed all about finding that flow, where the needle is just past comfortable but the rhythm – the tempo – carries you easily like a river's current over the rocks.

For me, it’s about finding that rhythm.

In the past, I would run my warmup and then slam down on the accelerator and try to get right into tempo pace. But when I trained for New York last summer and fall, I decided to tackle my tempo runs with more patience. I kept repeating, Let the pace fall naturally. Then I'd try to believe it. And once I (sort of) believed it, I tried to execute it. I’d ease down on the accelerator until my legs and lungs synced up into that “comfortably hard” pace.

It worked.

My watch would beep to tick off another mile and I’d glance down at my wrist and see the pace getting faster with each mile, until I’d pushed it down far enough where I was right in that tempo zone or even a touch faster and just humming along the side of the highway feeling invincible.

Yesterday, when I let out from the house, I lurched into my warmup and had to pull the reins back and remind myself that it was only a warmup and there was plenty of time for fast running ahead.

I picked a hilly three mile out and back route to throw a little variety into my training. I’d tackled the same six mile loop all week and started feeling the mental fatigue. The trip up and down West Ox road rises and falls the entire way. I vowed not to look at my watch, and instead keep the effort even over the front and back of each hill even if the pace wasn't.

When my watch beeped one mile, I chanted, Find the flow. Find the flow. Find the flow. The pace surged and dropped back depending on the pitch of the road. I kept stealing glances at my watch then chastising myself for looking. Run by feel. Feel the road. Find the flow.

The watch chirped again and showed a 15 second faster pace. I raised my eyebrows and powered on. I hit the turn around and shot down the back stretch of the hill I’d just climbed. When I hit the valley, I peered up at the long, steady climb that waited for me. Strong legs, strong lungs burned behind my eyes like a movie theatre marquee. I said it over and over, using it to time my rhythm.

I reached the top of the hill and was feeling it now. That elusive flow. Only one mile stood between me and completing the workout. I surged ahead into the darkness creeping in ahead of me, just another headlight in the evening traffic. Everything worked hard: arms pumping, legs churning. The beep. And then I slowed to a jog. I’ve learned to fully embrace the slow 10-15 minute cool down at the end of a hard effort. In fact, there are few things more satisfying.

I got back to my front step and sat for a moment before unlacing my key. I’d left my worries and my demons out on the road. Will I continue to worry about these tempo runs when they crop up on the calendar? Probably. But in many ways, it helps me mentally prepare for the hard effort ahead and teach me to find that flow.

New Horses in the Stable

Highway robbery!

When I played hockey, I loved nothing more than getting new equipment. My favorite, my baby, was getting a new glove. I used to play goalie and I relished stretching out across the ice to snag shots out of the air and commit a robbery with every save. I honed my skills in our dark, unfinished basement where I’d relentlessly hit tennis balls against the wall and do my best impression of Patrick Roy. I won a lot of Stanley Cups down there. When I took a year off of school between high school and college to play up in Connecticut, my coach, who was not one to sugarcoat, told me, “You’re a lousy skater, but you do have a great glove hand.”

I still remember a Christmas morning when our family room had turned into a wasteland of opened presents and wrapping paper. I sat there exhausted, surveying my haul (I'm an only child). And just when I thought another Christmas morning had come and gone, my parents pulled out one last box. The old Red Rider BB Gun behind the cabinet act. I tore open the box so fast that I didn’t notice my parents staring eagerly at me. I pulled out a pristine, black Vaughn glove. It creaked like an old ship when I opened and shut it, still straining against its own tautness. It still smelled like leather and not the unmistakable cologne of sweat brewing in a zipped up hockey bag. It was a thing of beauty.

The newest addition to the stable.

So, what, you may be asking, does this have to do with running? Well, I still channel that younger version of myself whenever there's a package on our door step. The anticipation grows the moment I hit "submit." I track it online and race home from work. I head straight for the kitchen and a pair of scissors to slice open the box...and pull out a brand new pair of running shoes. Miles of possibilities are etched into those pristine treads, and oh, that new shoe smell.

This time, it's the Asics Gel DS Sky 2. Oh, how I've coveted these shoes. Finally, distance running shoes with some color, with some swagger!

I hesitated to pull the trigger on this model because I continued to make my way through the various incarnations of the Asics DS Trainer family. But my last pair, well, they just seemed incredibly wide. I remember taking them out for the first time and thinking that I had a pair of bright red clown shoes on. I wear a size 14, so it's not a stretch.

But the DS Skies, according to Running Warehouse, are the ancestors of the DS Trainer 15s, a much narrower shoe. Don't you love that shoes have genealogy now? And the thing is, they were right. I don't have to cinch up the laces on these babies like I'm starting a lawn mower every time.

And after slipping them on, I was like Cinderella headed for the ball...or out for a run. Everything just felt right. That planned easy pace suddenly slipped into a tempo run. No matter how much I tried to hold back, I just wanted to run fast in my new shoes.

In fact, I love them so much that I already bought a second pair. In orange. Don't want my horses to be lonely in the stable.