Said Before, Said Again

Alan Jacobs has a post wishing people would use his blog as he does. I get it, but I'm not all that thoughtful about how people read or use my blog. I like people reading it. I'd really like more people reading it, though not too many (too many readers costs money). Jacobs' blog is more scholarly than mine (every blog is more scholarly than mine) and it's scholarly use I think he's after. That's a fine enough idea, but I don't subscribe to it. I do subscribe to his blog, however, and if you like reading someone smart with whom you'll often disagree, I recommend it. Remember what Aaron Sorkin says:

"If you're dumb, surround yourself with smart people. If you're smart, surround yourself with smart people who disagree with you." (Sports Night, "The Hungry And the Hunted")

The part from Jacobs I like most is his idea that a blog "allows you to revisit themes and topics." I was reminded of that this morning writing of listening to an album before work as I used to listen before high school. That felt familiar, like I was repeating myself. I kind of was. That feeling nagged me through the writing, but I hit publish without searching for the older post and felt no remorse. Why not revisit ideas?

Years ago, I stopped subscribing to Runner's World because of their repetition (and their whorish devotion to Nike et al). The annual "How To Run Your First 5K" or "This Is Your Marathon Year" articles recycled not just an idea or two but what felt like whole issues. That kind of repetition is deadly dull.

Jacobs' repetition is a returning to ideas in order to more fully think them through. That's good repetition. Mine is a half-assed version of that and hopefully nothing like Runner's World. My two posts have only a passing connections: the song, wondering what I did as a kid while the song played, comparing an awful teaching job with my exciting new job. The biggest repetition is in the tone of the ending. That repetition I regret.

If that's as bad as it gets, I'll keep repeating, though I hope I'll think of something different to say tomorrow, something new, preferably with an ending that sounds like nothing else I've written recently.

Thoughts From An Occasional Runner

1. Running seems impossible until I do it. 

When I say I like to run, I get looks of confusion. It's not believable. But I like to run. I like running five or six miles (sometimes longer, sometimes shorter) by myself or with friends. Last night, lying in bed, I wanted almost nothing more than to go run. I slept instead but can't wait to run after school today. 

Running seems impossible until I do it. Then it's not just possible but is the thing I want to do. When I run regularly, it's almost easy. If I haven't run in a while, the idea feels like too much, but once I get out there everything comes back. 

2. Distance seems impossible until I do it. 

I don't know that I've ever felt I couldn't eventually go a distance. I might not be up for a half marathon right now (though maybe), but I've always felt I could get to whatever distance I want. There was a time when five miles felt like too much. Now, five to six miles feels just right. The change came when I did the distance.

Distance only seems impossible. A few years ago I wanted to run a 50K. I started running longer but didn't train well. I'm terrible about obligations. Still, I felt great for sixteen miles, had trouble the next ten, but got through the last five with help from a friend. 31 miles was impossible until I did it. 

3. If all I read was Runner's World, I do marathons. 

When I started running, I subscribed to Runners World. Back then, the editors had the marathon on a pedestal. I had the feeling that I had to run a marathon to be a real runner, but I've never wanted to run one. 

At first the distance kept me away. Then I found I could easily do the half marathon. Still, I wasn't much interested. There were too many strict training plans filled with obligations. I wasn't into it. I started reading other things. 

4. Reading Born To Run, I just want to go long and longer. 

I'm reading Christopher McDougall's Born To Run (again) and just want to go, go, and go. Running is absolutely natural. We were literally born to run. Going long is natural too. It's just that we have been talked out of it. And the marathon isn't even some magical distance. The shortest ultra is the 50K, five miles longer than the marathon. 

This afternoon's weather might be nice or might rain. It doesn't matter. I'm wearing running sandals already and will change into shorts and a shirt once I'm home. Then I'm off. I don't look like a natural born runner, but we all are. Getting out on the roads and trails isn't some obligation. I want it. How long will I go today? I don't know. 

5. The proof is in the pudding, er, running.

After I wrote this, I went out for a hard five miles. I was tired. My heart rate was up. I kept going. Runs tend to work out. But things didn't work until mile 4.3 of five. So it goes.

Did this run disproved everything above? Probably not. I feel good now. There are two types of fun. Type One feels great in the moment. Type Two feels good later. Today's run was Type Two but still fun. 

And here's the thing: I'm already looking forward to tomorrow's run. 
 

Easy Running

A guy I used to know was what I'd call a serious runner except he wasn't often very serious. Frank ran as if there was nothing else in the world he would rather do but without seeming to love it. Running wasn't any big deal. He ran just because. I was just learning to run when I knew him. I read Runner's World and lots of running books. I picked shoes carefully and thought about hydration, caloric intake, pace, and whatever else I was told was important. Frank didn't talk much about running, never read about it, and shrugged when I talked about it. I remember asking if he thought I could run the 10-mile Mountain Goat race through Syracuse. 

"Sure, why not?" he asked. 

"I've never run ten miles." 

He shrugged. I asked about training for it. He shrugged again. He was blowing me off, but I learned later that Frank didn't train, he just ran. 

One time he described a vacation beach-run of about eight or ten miles. I asked how he knew the distance without a GPS watch. "I looked at the clock before I left and when I got back. I know my pace." Duh, he seemed to say. It seemed impossible he went by just the feel of it. I couldn't imagine such a laissez faire approach. 

One time at a retreat, he, a colleague, and I went out for a run. Our colleague dressed in cute, tight, color-coordinated running clothes. I was in running shorts, a tech shirt, and new Asics. Frank wore an old t-shirt, cargo shorts, and ancient running shoes or Teva's (I can't remember which). He loped off like a dog at a trot. My colleague kept up. I lagged behind panting like a dying dog. After three miles he had hardly sweat while I was drenched. He had miles and miles left in his tank. I was done.  

Since then I've traded running shoes for sandals or bare feet. I buy any inexpensive lined short. I like wool shirts but will wear any old thing. I wear a GPS/heart-rate watch but mostly out of habit. Though he's ten years older, I'm sure Frank still runs eight- or seven-minute miles while I haven't cracked ten-minutes over any distance in years. So it goes. He's fast and will likely always run easier than I do. 

As a novice, I wanted Frank's speed, endurance, and grace. I still think of myself as knowing only the tiniest bit about running, but have run far enough to know I most envied the ease with which Frank ran. The thing that matters is to just run, the easier the better. Such a simple lesson, but I'm still learning and doubt I'll ever finish the race for the understanding Frank just seemed to know without giving it a second thought or even a first.  I think too much. I'll keep at it until it all becomes just easy running.