After 4 months of avoiding physical activity, I have started my running build-up. No, I am not starting to get up to 70 miles a week. Not even 7 miles a week. But, I have been increasing things 30 seconds here and there, and I just broke the elusive 5 minute barrier tonight. It was not an effortless 5 minutes, but comparing to 5 months and 3 months ago, I will take it as a happy midpoint for now. So, hopefully things are the upswing and I will be able to start doing runs that might actually show up on a GPS.
Now that summer is coming to a close (well, I still have another month) and most of you are back into training, hopefully we can get this blog going again. I'm curious to hear about the workouts you all are doing. Have people started thinking about races for the fall? Also, I feel like most of the posts on this blog have been just 3 people or so...so maybe we could try to get more people on here, and that would make it more exciting.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
If I'm Free...
I'm applying to grad school. They asked me for a "travel anecdote." I wrote about running...
The summer I spent in Wyoming was full of the kind of freedom that can only be afforded by flight. I had quit an internship and taken a job as a camping assistant for an active travel company. After my campsite duties in the morning the Grand Tetons were mine to explore. As a runner, I could cover a lot of ground.
The only problem was that Wyoming has famously unpredictable weather. I’ve heard it has something to do with the valleys—the same thing that makes national parks so beautiful to look at also makes them downright inhospitable at times. A peaceful mid-morning breeze can give way to a hailstorm without warning, and that’s exactly what happened on the day I drove myself out to the Elephant Back Loop for a run.
I had been later than usual breaking down tents at the campsite that morning, and I was anxious to get on the trail. I tied my shoes and started up the gradual incline, pleased to see that the trail’s name matched its terrain. As I bounded along, everything was wildflowers and fresh mountain air. I was in such high spirits that when the cold breeze turned to a gush, and the air carried the scent of rain, I didn't worry. Running has a way of engendering magical thinking, and I ran on, higher and higher up the elephant's back, two, three, four miles away from the road and my car.
Then the storm hit: it was a spectacular show of thunder and lightning that would have been fun to watch from the safety of a car with the heat turned up, but I was in a singlet and shorts, utterly exposed and starting to panic. How far along the loop was I? Did it make more sense to keep going, or should I turn back the way I'd come? The dirt had turned swampy in the rain, and I knew the trail would be slow going in either direction. I decided to cut through the trees and try to make it down to the road, where I would at least be on level ground.
I scurried down through sharp bushes and fallen branches, and made it to the road sooner than I'd expected. But now the rain had turned to hail, and there was no protection from the wind—so strong that it was a struggle to suck in air. But I pressed on in single-minded determination to move forward. My eyes stung and my cheeks burned. Can't be more than three miles from the car. My fingers were turning white. Keep going. I had no other options.
A pickup sped by me, slowed to a stop, and when I caught up with it, a young man called out to me through the window.
"You look like you need a lift."
"No, that's all right, thanks anyway." I watched his taillights disappear into the gray, not quite believing that I'd let him go. But when I finally made it to my car, shivering in cold and exhilaration, I felt an exquisite autonomy. Call me stupid or call me crazy, but in the words of Jimi Hendrix, "If I'm free, it's because I'm always running."
The summer I spent in Wyoming was full of the kind of freedom that can only be afforded by flight. I had quit an internship and taken a job as a camping assistant for an active travel company. After my campsite duties in the morning the Grand Tetons were mine to explore. As a runner, I could cover a lot of ground.
The only problem was that Wyoming has famously unpredictable weather. I’ve heard it has something to do with the valleys—the same thing that makes national parks so beautiful to look at also makes them downright inhospitable at times. A peaceful mid-morning breeze can give way to a hailstorm without warning, and that’s exactly what happened on the day I drove myself out to the Elephant Back Loop for a run.
I had been later than usual breaking down tents at the campsite that morning, and I was anxious to get on the trail. I tied my shoes and started up the gradual incline, pleased to see that the trail’s name matched its terrain. As I bounded along, everything was wildflowers and fresh mountain air. I was in such high spirits that when the cold breeze turned to a gush, and the air carried the scent of rain, I didn't worry. Running has a way of engendering magical thinking, and I ran on, higher and higher up the elephant's back, two, three, four miles away from the road and my car.
Then the storm hit: it was a spectacular show of thunder and lightning that would have been fun to watch from the safety of a car with the heat turned up, but I was in a singlet and shorts, utterly exposed and starting to panic. How far along the loop was I? Did it make more sense to keep going, or should I turn back the way I'd come? The dirt had turned swampy in the rain, and I knew the trail would be slow going in either direction. I decided to cut through the trees and try to make it down to the road, where I would at least be on level ground.
I scurried down through sharp bushes and fallen branches, and made it to the road sooner than I'd expected. But now the rain had turned to hail, and there was no protection from the wind—so strong that it was a struggle to suck in air. But I pressed on in single-minded determination to move forward. My eyes stung and my cheeks burned. Can't be more than three miles from the car. My fingers were turning white. Keep going. I had no other options.
A pickup sped by me, slowed to a stop, and when I caught up with it, a young man called out to me through the window.
"You look like you need a lift."
"No, that's all right, thanks anyway." I watched his taillights disappear into the gray, not quite believing that I'd let him go. But when I finally made it to my car, shivering in cold and exhilaration, I felt an exquisite autonomy. Call me stupid or call me crazy, but in the words of Jimi Hendrix, "If I'm free, it's because I'm always running."
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