Resistence is futile

I'm supposed to be enjoying a little downtime right now. I'm supposed to be enjoying the offseason. I'm supposed to be allowing my body to heal from the running injuries that hampered me throughout the past six months.

I'm not doing so well.

Sometimes I simply can't resist doing just a little more. Maybe it's running a little farther than I should right now. Or running a little harder. Or running an extra time or two a week.

Or, like today, running more than twice as far as I typically do during an offseason run and following my run with a reasonably intense bike ride.

I'm an endurance idiot. What can I say?

I can't say no when, in the past week or two, I haven't experienced any of the stiffness in my ankle or tenderness in my Achilles tendon that plagued me during my marathon training.

I can't say no when the weather is unseasonably warm. Fifty-plus degrees here today.

I just had to get out and make the most of the day. So my four-mile run turned into nine miles, the farthest I've run since Twin Cities Marathon on Oct. 2. That's no way to ensure I heal completely. Not smart, I know. But it gets worse.

I wasn't done.

I had to -- just had to -- hop on my bike for what likely was the last ride of the year. Eleven miles of two-wheeled bliss, despite the heavy rain that drenched me in the final four miles. I would've gone farther, even in the cold rain, but daylight escaped me. I biked beyond sunset as it was, and, having already taken the chance of aggravating my running injuries, I wasn't going to roll the dice against rush-hour traffic on the slick, dark streets.

I might be crazy enough to bike in the rain or the dark, but I try not to bike in conditions in which the two are combined. That's just too dangerous. Especially at this time of year.

Even for an endurance idiot like me.

Muscle memories

Funny the difference a little snowfall can make in a run. I had forgotten the added difficulty a few inches of fresh snow can bring. I had forgotten how much more your body's stabilizing muscles are incorporated into your stride when the terrain is something less than stable.

It didn't take me long to be reminded. Less than a half mile into my run today I knew it wasn't going to be easy. My heart rate was elevated several beats above where it normally is. And it wasn't because I was running faster. My time through that first half mile was at almost 30 seconds off my average pace.

It must've been the snow. My running trail doesn't get plowed and it hadn't received sufficient foot traffic to effectively trample the three inches of fluffy snow that blanketed my neighborhood overnight. So I had to make my own path through it.

I was amazed by how much more challenging running is when the footing isn't solid. I shouldn't have been. I've been running in snow for years. I know how it affects my runs, how it diminishes whatever running efficiency I might have. It's akin to running in sand.

I've run through deeper snow and slicker surfaces than I encountered today. This was, by Minnesota standards, nothing, really. But the first time your body is exposed to it after several months of favorable footing conditions is a wake-up call of sorts.

My hips, quads and calves were screaming long before I neared the end of my four miles. My body was spent. My time was abyssmal.

But my memory was working fine. I remember how strenuous winter running can be. I'm not looking forward to the next four months of running.

It's time

With Thanksgiving safely in our rear-view mirror, the time has come for me to give in. Time to resign myself to winter and all it entails.

The calendar insists it's only November 25. It says we're still almost a month short of the official start of winter.

We don't wait that long in Minnesota. The three inches of snow I discovered on the lawn this morning proved as much.

I'll accept it now. Thanksgiving marks my threshold for winter tolerance. Anything resembling that wretched season that happens before Thanksgiving is depressing. After Thanksgiving? Well, that's just our destiny here.

The day after Thanksgiving, with or without snow, also marks the official beginning of the Christmas season. At least in my mind.

The season began a month ago for retailers and certain radio stations that are intent on extending the front part of the season by as much as they think their audience can stomach.

Not me. I maintain a moratorium on the Christmas season that begins with the new year and continues until the day after Thanksgiving, much to some people's chagrin. I know, I'm a scrooge. Greatest Girlfriend Ever tells me as much when I bristle at anything Christmas before Thanksgiving.

It's not that I don't enjoy the Christmas season. I really do. So much so that it ranks as one of my favorite times of the year, despite the weather. But, as with just about everything else, I preach moderation. A month and a half of Christmas this and Christmas that is plenty.

And now, it's time.

So, to make it official for GGE: 'Tis the season. Knock yourself out.

Another day. Or, ANOTHER DAY!!!

It's Thanksgiving. That one day a year that we formally set aside to acknowledge all for which we're thankful.

I think somewhere in the Blogland bylaws there's a requirement that you rattle off the things you're grateful for on this day. I won't buck the system. I'll do the same. But I'll keep it relatively simple. I'll limit it to a single sentence.

I'm thankful for today.

This is where things get complicated. The above sentence carries double meaning.

First, it means that I'm thankful to have a day set aside in which we can take a break from our routines, get together with loved ones and declare thanks. I like that. The cranberries and Thursday football aren't bad either.

I have so many things to be thankful for -- my mother, my girlfriend (Greatest Girlfriend Ever), her family, my dogs, my friends, my health and that of loved ones, my talents and abilities, my financial situation, my house, my....

There are way too many things for me to mention. I am obscenely blessed. I'm thankful for that. But not just today. I'm thankful for these things each day and I try to acknowledge as much.

Secondly, I'm thankful just to have another day. To be able to rise and, um, shine and enjoy or endure all that God has in store for me.

That's the thing that might be easiest to take for granted. It's so simple. Happens everyday. Every day. Without fail to this point. So it's easy to forget that another day isn't promised to us.

I try not to forget that. I don't mean to sound self-righteous in saying that. But I learned long ago not to expect anything from this life, not to take anything for granted. Maybe having your father die when you're 4 does that to you.

That's not to say that I'm immune from falling into the same trappings that trip us all. That days or events or people don't intersect my life without me appreciating them in the moment. I try not to. Hence the title of this blog.

Remember the gift. At a later time I'll delve into why I chose the blog title I did. But the abridged version goes something like this: Everything we have is a gift. It's our responsibility to make the most of it.

And be thankful for it.

I am.

Everyday.

It's all good

All was right with the world today. In the eyes of my dogs, anyway.

Let's see. Their fortune began inconspicuously enough. Just as it always does.

They woke from their toasty bed -- ahem, that would be my bed -- sometime well after sunrise. They went outside shortly thereafter. Did their business, came back inside and returned to warm beds -- this time their own resting places -- to nap for a couple additional hours.

Their routine was altered slightly when they sensed something fortuitous might be afoot. The event that caught their attention and ignited their hopes? I put on my jacket.

Yep, an act as simple as that gets their canine imaginations racing with hope -- hope that if they look disappointed enough upon my imminent departure that I might allow them to join me for my trip.

Today they could've saved the long faces and hopeful tail wags. Today I planned to take them with me.

It was Bank Day.

Make that BANK DAY!!!

The boyz made their semi-regular ride to the bank. Unlike last time, however, today they were blessed with treats at the drive-thru. Loved 'em, as usual. I'm not sure why. It can't be the taste. They inhale them so quickly I'm sure the biscuits bypass their tastebuds altogether.

That would've been enough to constitute a good day for them. But it got better. It turned out, to their surprise, that today was also Run Day. For them, too.

I think they've become accustomed to not running with me. They don't run at all with me throughout the summer. It's too hot then for Buster's cooling system. Can't handle anything resembling heat.

So when they see me getting ready to go for a run -- and they unfailingly can tell when I'm going for a run as opposed to doing anything else outside -- they put on their same hopeful routine.

They block my exit in hope I might open the door adjacent to the door outside. That's the door behind which great things reside. Things like food, treats and leashes.

When I opened that door today, well, it was on. It was like they suddenly bounced around eagerly, much like popcorn popping. They wouldn't have to race to the windows to watch me run down the driveway. They wouldn't have to wait at those windows for me to return. Not today. Today they were going with me.

About a half-hour and four-plus miles later, they were spent. As usual. But I'm not sure that it's the actual running that tires them so. I think it's as much the energy they expend in their excitement prior to the run and whenever we encounter another person on the trail. Or a dog. Or a squirrel. Or a deer. Or a fox. Or a pheasant. Or a....

So what awaited these dogs after their runs? The requisite rehydration first. Then, it's more unbridled bliss.

Naptime. Again.

Their naps were abbreviated this time. I opened the Door Of Good Things again. That rouses them from even the soundest of slumbers. Can't sneak anything past their senses. I'm not sure which one I triggered this time -- sound or smell -- but when I opened that door this evening, there they were. Seated behind me. Tails awagging.

Food time.

What a day. They hit the trifecta. Did three of the favorite things. Rode, ran and ate.

Oh, and they napped. At least three times. Did it again after eating.

Does life get any better than this?

Small victory

I used to be in awe of those guys who can fix anything. You know the ones. You describe a problem with your car, TV, air conditioner or kitchen faucet and immediately they’re able to tell you what’s likely the underlying issue and how to resolve it.

Well, I’m still in awe of those guys. Savants, I think. But, day by day, the divide between their knowledge and mine is narrowing.

Not by much, I’ll admit. But I’m gaining ground nevertheless.

Today was another day. I achieved another small victory in my seemingly endless battle against all things automotive, industrial, electronic, mechanical or similar.

I successfully removed and replaced an electric receptacle. And I’m here alive and well to tell about it. Not so much as a single, suddenly curly hair on my head as a result.

That I did so, by myself, is a bit of a shock to me. (No pun intended. Honestly.)

I’m not particularly skilled in such matters. I’m also easily intimidated by the thought of undertaking these types of tasks.

Especially when they potentially involve electricity coursing through my body.

Yet I attempted it anyway. I needed to. For my house’s sake after an outlet crumbled two weeks ago when I removed its cover while deconstructing my basement, causing several other outlets to short out upstairs and down. For my sake, just to challenge myself in a new and different way.

I would say it was a remarkably simple task, but to do so would detract from my sense of accomplishment, and this is my blog after all, so I’ll say it was painstakingly difficult. A job for an entire crew of electricians, I tell you. There were sparks flying everywhere and a crowd of onlookers watched in amazement as I braved the danger. I was spared only by my guile, intelligence and rubber underwear.

OK, maybe it wasn’t that special. Not to most people. But it was noteworthy for me.

I did it by myself. I conquered another home task. I conquered my healthy fear of electricity. (Funny what one or two negative experiences with electricity will do for a guy’s fear of the stuff.)

And I added another thing to a rapidly growing list of things I’ve successful done on my own lately – along with replacing the thermostat at my mother’s house, splicing landscape wiring in the back yard and disconnecting plumbing in my basement’s bathroom -- that, frankly, surprise even me.

Last hurrah?

I hate to admit this. As a lifelong Minnesota Vikings fan, I really shouldn't admit this. But I will. Because it's time.

I'm a closet Brett Favre fan.

I have been for years. That doesn't make me any less of a Vikings fan. At least it shouldn't.

So what if he's the catalyst for the Vikings most-hated rival? So what if he has a Super Bowl ring when Fran Tarkenton, the first of my sports idols, does not? Or that he had a much-publicized addiction to painkillers?

He's a throwback kind of a player. The kind I grew up watching. The kind I most certainly would want to be if I had his athletic tools and moxie.

Skilled. Gritty. Determined.

A winner.

That's why it pains me to see him endure the sort of season his Packers are providing him with this year. Sure, he hasn't been at his best. Hasn't been for several years now. But he can still bring it.

Unfortunately, the team around him has disintegrated, largely because of a plethora of injuries to key offensive players. Seems like he's playing on an island now, alone, trying vainly to make something positive happen.

That's not the way it should be. Not now. Not in what is widely believed to be the twilight of his career. (How disturbing is this -- He's younger than me and people are practically eulogizing him?)

Now nobody takes more pleasure in the Packers' struggles than me. But I also know that the best rivalries are just that because both sides provide and maintain a certain degree of formidable competition. Clearly, the Packers aren't what they once were. They're on their way to their first losing season since 1990, two years before a young, virtually unknown Brett Favre arrived in Green Bay.

That this happening as Favre's career winds down bothers me. Kind of like it did when Michael Jordan came back to basketball. The second time, in a Wizards uniform, of all things.

We want to preserve our memories of the great ones as they were at their finest, not as they were when they maybe stayed at it a little too long. Like Unitas in San Diego. Or Namath in Los Angeles with the Rams.

That doesn't mean I don't want to see Favre play the rest of this season, as whispers grow louder that maybe this is the time to see what highly touted rookie quarterback Aaron Rodgers can do. Or that I don't want to see him come back for another season. And another. And maybe another after that.

Favre has provided fans, cheeseheads especially, with so many great moments. The great plays. The comeback victories. The Super Bowl appearances. The performance against the Raiders following the death of his father.

Through it all, he has been human. Not perfect, by any means. The Vicodin addiction proved as much, even if his interceptions didn't.

Maybe that's what I enjoy most about watching him play. That he's human. That he's endured myriad injuries throughout his career, only to start 230-plus consecutive games (including playoffs) and counting. That he isn't the cookie-cutter robot the NFL wants its players to be. That he still just loves the game. Smiles when he's knocked down. Gets in the faces of opposing players much bigger than him. Runs around the field with child-like jubilation when he orchestrates a touchdown.

I'm wise enough now to know when I'm seeing something or someone special. Whenever Favre steps on the field, I see just that. Maybe he isn't what he once was as a player. Maybe he can't elude oncoming defenders or successfully fire the ball into impossibly tight coverage like he once did. But he still represents something magical.

Packers fans will tell you that. No game ever seems out of reach with him at the helm. With him there, there is always hope.

As a Vikings fan, I can't tell you the number of times I've watched him lead his team back against my beloved Purple. After a while, it almost becomes sickening.

Twice this year, in fact, he has led the Packers to game-tying drives late in the fourth quarter against the Vikings. Twice, it wasn't enough. Both times he left too much time on the clock for the opposition to score. Just as teams so often have done for him.

So as Paul Edinger kicked another last-second game-winning field goal to dismiss the Packers on Monday night -- his 27-yarder gave the Vikings a 20-17 victory at Green Bay -- I had mixed feelings. Of course I was pleased with my team's win. At the same time, however, I wondered if this might be the last time my team has to worry about Brett Favre. I hope not.

Hating the Packers won't be the same without him.

Hurtin' for certain

I’m still not anywhere near 100 percent healthy. Not my Achilles tendon. Not my lungs. Not even close.

I’ve been battling these two things – an oft-inflamed right Achilles tendon and some sort of respiratory crud – since mid-to-late September. Seems longer than that though.

The respiratory issue isn’t serious. Just nagging. I have this dead-sexy wheeze that Darth Vader would envy, and I’m able to produce voluminous amounts of phlegm as a result of this ailment. Nothing serious. Certainly nothing that should cause me to consult a physician.

Same with the Achilles. Right? Right?

Um, I’m beginning to wonder. And I am Mr. I’mNOTGoingToSeeA[insert profane adjective(s) of your choice here]DoctorForThis.

My aversion to physicians isn’t because I simply don’t care for them, their personalities, their affirmations of my self-diagnoses, their co-pays or antiseptic-smelling offices. OK, maybe it is.

So when I even begin to think about beginning to think about consulting a medical professional you know I’m starting to get concerned about something.

This time it’s this Achilles. The good news is that now, on my very limited running schedule – one four-mile run a week at this point in the offseason – I’m not experiencing the warm sensations in the back of my foot like I previously did. Of course, that might be the result of the weather; maybe it’s too cold for anything to feel warm. On a similarly positive note, the tendon isn’t tightening up after only a mile or two.

It now takes three miles before that happens. Sign of progress? I’m hopeful.

But the stiffness and tenderness I feel behind my ankle after my runs and in subsequent days leads me to believe that I’m nowhere near healed.

I was hoping to be able to log another 50-plus miles this year. I was hoping to be able to maintain a nominal weekly mileage total throughout the remainder of this year and the first couple weeks of 2006. I don’t think that’s going to happen now. I’m afraid I’m going to have to shut myself down completely for at least a few weeks and then reassess my injury. To do anything more than that would be pure folly.

I know this. I know this. The question is, Can I follow through with what I know is the best thing for my body? I’m not so sure. If you’ve ever run, ever experienced the countless positive effects it can have on a person’s entire being, you have an idea how difficult it will be for me to refrain from running. Even in Minnesota in December and January. Even on a bum Achilles.

Wish me luck with this. And please don’t tell my mother that I might – just maybe, possibly – have a running-related injury. Let’s keep this our little secret. I’ll try not to limp in her presence. You don’t mention anything about my injury. Deal? Please. Otherwise I’ll never – NEVER – hear the end of how “I wish you wouldn’t run so much,” “All that running isn’t good for you,” “I wish you would take a year or so off from running,” You should go see a doctor,” and, of course, “I told you something like this would happen someday because of all that running you do.”

Shorts

Today marked another victory of shorts, er, sorts for me.

I was able to raise my fist at Mother Nature, shake it madly in the air and let Her know She hasn’t broken me yet.

I ran in shorts.

Yep. November 20, Minnesota, 30-degree windchill. And I wore shorts.

Darn near filled 'em, too.

About two-and-a-half miles into my run I encountered a big buck. A stately creature with a sizable rack was he. Not sure exactly how many points he had on his rack – I wasn’t curious enough to ask him – but it’s safe to say his antlers branched in as many different directions as my hands’ fingers.

It’s not unusual for me to encounter deer. I often see does and fawns when I run. I’ve seen as many as 13 deer at a time. But encounters with bucks are rare.

Within the past year I nearly came nose to nose with a buck on the running trail. I bet I ran to within 20 feet of him before he left the trail and darted into the woods. But that was several months ago, at a time far different than now.

This is rutting season for deer. I’m not a wildlife expert, but I know enough about deer around here to know that their lives change significantly in October and November. It must be something hormonal. The bucks become very territorial. I’ve heard horror stories about them becoming aggressive toward humans. Heard a conversation about this on the radio about a week ago.

So you can imagine the thoughts going through my head as I spotted the buck 150 feet in front of me today. My thinking went a little something like this:

Hey, there’s a deer.

Wow, that’s a big one.

It’s a buck.

Holy crap, he’s enormous.

Um, he’s coming in my direction.

Dude, you so cannot outrun him.

Imagine the headlines – "Buck 1, Runner 0," "Deer bucks trend, hunts human" -- you’ll make when you’re mauled by this thing.

Maybe if I scream like a sissy he’ll have pity on me.

As I neared him, he veered off the trail and into a clearing alongside it. No longer were we on a collision course. He was still moving toward me in this Look-At-My-Majestic-Rack manner, only now he was 25 feet off the trail.

He continued to prance parallel to the trail and through the clearing until I passed him. I was booking. Funny, he slowed as I neared the passing point. Maybe he was sizing me up, thinking I might be a crazy man for wearing shorts, much like Greatest Girlfriend Ever does. Or maybe he was simply admiring my legs, also like GGE???

Whatever the case, I safely eluded the gallant creature as well as the portentous thoughts that filled my suddenly vivid imagination.

Another run done. Quite possibly my last bare-legged run until April.

And people think we're crazy

I rose before the sun again today. Not that it's much of a feat, especially this time of year when sunrise occurs after 7 a.m.

What I awoke to startled me a bit. Made me thankful for where I live. Also diminished any sense of accomplishment that might come with waking before sunrise.

See, I was reminded that doing so isn't much to brag about. Particularly if you're waking in Barrow, Alaska. Thankfully, I wasn't.

Among the first things I heard when I upon rising today was a brief blurb on TV about what November 18 means to those unfortunate people who live near the top of the globe. Apparently, today marks the first of 66 consecutive days without sunlight in Barrow, "the northernmost community in North America."

Sixty-six days? Consecutively? Those poor inhabitants of Barrow -- 4581 of them, according to the 2000 census -- won't get so much as a glimpse of the sun until 11:51 a.m. on January 24.

January 24?!!!

Oh, my. I can't fathom that. I don't even want to try. I simply can't imagine how dreary that must be. Downright depressing, really. Unless, of course, you're a psychiatrist or tanning salon owner.

Then, combine the lack of natural light with the less-than-glorious weather Barrow, um, enjoys. How funereal must that be?

I've seen a decent portion of our far-flung and beautiful country. I've visited approximately half of our 50 states. Touched down in or near all four corners of our contiguous 48. Been to both coasts and our international borders to the north and south. I've encountered some locales that I would describe as, in a word, alluring. There have been plenty of others that, um, well, let's just say I hope I never have to see again. (By the way, I pray for those of you who live in these places -- and you know who you are.)

I've never been to Barrow. Don't think I'll ever get there. That's fine with me, though. I'll just have to learn to live with the fact that the only polar bears I'll ever see will be behind a zoo's bars.

Just consider some of the facts I uncovered about the town.

The daily low temperature in Barrow is below freezing, 32 degrees Fahrenheit, 324 days a year. Do the math. That's almost 90 percent of the year.

The average high temp during the summer is a not-so-balmy 40 degrees. There probably isn't much demand for headbands or air conditioner repairmen in Barrow.

And temperatures throughout the year can range between -56 to 78 degrees.

Guess there's no such thing as moderation in Barrow. That, along with it's position on the globe, could explain why between May 10 and August 2 the sun never sets on the town. Never.

So much for beauty being only a lightswitch away.

I love the sunshine. As much as anyone, methinks. But, puh-leeze. Almost three months of 'round-the-clock sunshine? Even a crack addict needs a breather every now and then.

Pass the blindfolds, please.

So the light residents in Barrow finally see at the end of the proverbial tunnel in January is the relentless sunlight that awaits them during the summer months? Somehow that doesn't seem so comforting to me.

Yet so many people think Minnesotans are crazy for living where we do. Hey, the weather here throughout much of the year might be something much less than ideal -- not to mention occasionally similar to Barrow's -- but at least we maintain hope, no matter how faint and how consistently dashed it might be at this time of year, that we can see the sun every day.

And I still can carry a certain degree of achievement from waking before sunrise.

Stiffed!

Few things -- errant squirrels aside -- get my dogs riled the way a trip to the bank does. They become positively giddy with excitement. Can't get in the vehicle fast enough. All for the promise of a Milkbone treat or two that usually arrives at the vehicle in some mysterious tube.

As soon as I pull up to the drive-thru and reach for the canister, there's at least one wet nose peering over my shoulder. I deposit my transaction materials into the canister and return it to the same location from which I grabbed it.


Let the salivating begin.

My dogs do Pavlov proud. They would be world-class in his eyes.

The wait is on.

Oh, the wait. They can't sit still. Maybe if I jump in the front seat the teller will see me, they think. Maybe if I press my nose up against the window she'll see me. Maybe if I whine enough in anticipation she'll notice me. Maybe....

All of that was to no avail today. No treats today. They were stiffed.

I opened the canister upon its return to me, only to glimpse it's minimal contents. One single, measly deposit receipt.

Both dogs inserted their noses -- one at a time -- to verify as much.

The restless anticipation that had previously filled the back of my vehicle suddenly dissipated.

Poof!

The vehicle was heavy with disappointment as we drove home. I can only imagine what might be running through my dogs' minds, if indeed they thought as well as I wish they would.

I'm not sure why they didn't get their normal Milkbone rewards. Cutting costs at the bank? My deposit wasn't big enough? Teller was too busy? Teller wasn't a dog lover? Teller is some sort of Milkbone Nazi? Teller didn't see the dogs?

Couldn't be that she didn't see the dogs. How could you miss their considerable craniums -- crania, if you're a true stickler for diction -- poking out the window?

Just another lesson in life for my dogs. This one is about disappointment. For me, just as it is every time I take them to the bank, it's a reminder of how I might derive some sort of excitement out of what, on the surface, is among the most mundane of life's tasks. Just like my dogs do -- minus the salivating, of course.

Ah, the offseason

I love the offseason.

Almost.

I sort of enjoy the break from training. Not having to run so often, so far, so fast is a welcomed respite for me. It's as much emotional and mental as it is physical.

But after awhile of not running so much, it's a struggle to be idle. Part of me wants to run like I do in May or August. I love how I feel then, what the consistency and longer distances do for my body and psyche.

Then again, part of me wants the down time I'm having now.

My body needs an offseason more this year than ever. I battled injuries -- nagging injuries mostly -- more in 2005 than ever before. An ankle tweaked prior to Grandma's Marathon -- an injury sustained while on my bike, at an almost complete stop while trying unsuccessfully to get my cycling shoe out of my pedal -- remained swollen for more than a month. Little pain, but plenty of swelling that resulted in altered strides. I can't even begin to tell you how many times I went on to roll that ankle during my runs. Still, I ran.

Ran through the blisters that the ankle swelling unexpectedly caused at Grandma's. They formed somewhere around Mile 7. It was Mile 15 before I found aid on the course so I could put some Vaseline on the hotspots. Finished the marathon without stopping, but my pace was significantly slowed as a result of the blisters. I hobbled my way to the finish. Missed a PR by five minutes, which I found disappointing, even considering the circumstances. More frustrating was that I finished on the wrong side of 3:30.

Ran through the Achilles problems in the same foot prior to and at Twin Cities Marathon. At Mile 15 in the marathon, I felt a strange, warm sensation in my right Achilles tendon. The warmth, almost like some sort of friction along the back of my foot, didn't go away. Instead, the tendon tightened. Finished the marathon anyway. I was slowed considerably -- the PR pace I was on for the first 15 miles vanished quickly with the tendon issues -- but somehow my legs carried me to the finish line. There, again on the slow side of 3:30, I immediately discovered a new pain. My right hip, which had tightened in the final 10 miles of the race, no doubt because of the Achilles issues, hurt. Hurt badly. Excruciatingly so. I had never experienced such running-related pain. It nearly drove me to tears. At least the pain was considerate enough to wait until I finished running.

So hear I sit -- and I mean "sit" -- in November. Not running. Not often anyway. The prudent thing to do is not run. Give my body a few months to recover. Allow my right ankle, likely the source of all of the physical ailments I endured, time to fully heal. Mother Nature, with her single-digit temperatures, below-zero wind chills and hazardous ice, make that easier to accomplish.

But, at the same time, part of me misses training. I'm not sure which part that is, however. Is it mental? Is it emotional? Is it physiological? I can't put my finger on it exactly. Chances are, it's a combination of the three that creates the void I feel.

Lethargy creeps in. It builds on itself. It can become almost overwhelming. I know it's in my best interest, physically anyway, not to run right now. I'm not going to gain anything. I'm not going to fully recover from this past season of training by running now.

I need the down time. I have to have it.

But I don't have to enjoy it. Not completely, anyway.

Technical difficulties

Just my luck. Just as the weather officially becomes inclement, I discover my indoor alternative to outdoor training is out of commission.

The stationary recumbent bike I purchased late last winter isn't functioning properly.

It began innocently enough as I rode while watching the Ironman telecast. A small noise. Another similar noise a little later. Finally, at the completion of my workout, the pedalling was completely uneven. It was like there was resistance during one part of the rotation and then none at another part. Even though I was seated, it felt like I was wobbling as I pedalled.

At first I thought it might simply be something in the flywheel. Now, I think it has more to do with the crank.

In any case, I'm at an impasse. After removing countless screws, I still can't fully remove the casing and I can't otherwise identify the problem.

Nice problem to have, huh? Spend hundreds of dollars on something, put a modest amount of miles on it late last winter and then have it malfunction on the first ride this offseason.

I don't want to deal with any warranties or repairman. And I'm not at all mechanically inclined. (Is it possible to be mechanically declined?) But I'm going to attempt to tear the bloody thing apart. I don't like to feel like I'm incapable of indentifying technical problems and then correcting them. And I hate to be defeated by an inanimate object.

Wish me luck.

Anything is possible

The Ironman motto is indeed correct. But I didn't need to watch a replay of yesterday's telecast to remind me of the world's limitless possibilities. I only needed to watch today's Vikings-Giants game.

My beloved Vikings actually won. Against a solid, respectable team. On the road. Largely because of their beleaguered defense and special teams.

Wow!

Anything is possible.

Wait a few minutes

Here it comes. Winter is just around the corner. The 28-degree wind chill I felt when I woke this morning verified as much.

The past couple of days of unseasonably moderate conditions are now in Minnesota's rear-view mirror. That sunshine, those temps in the upper-50s and low-60s and those light, refreshing breezes are gone. Long gone. Literally overnight.

But that's the way it goes here. There's a saying around these parts that goes a little something like this: Don't like the weather around here? Just wait a few minutes.

That's how quickly it can change. Sixty-degree temperature swings over the course of a couple of days aren't uncommon, particularly between Octber and May.

So it wasn't surprising that we should be blasted with 30-50 mph winds from the northwest like we were overnight. Or that the five-day forecast includes rain, snow and a 29-degree high temperature.

I'm resigned to our fate for the next several months. Today is just a harbinger of what awaits us. A comparatively mild one at that.

For me, it's a little depressing. But at least I can go into it knowing that I squeezed in one more bike ride, as I did on Friday evening.

Inspiration

I am not an Ironman. Probably never will be, especially if don't improve my swimming. But I am fascinated with the concept of the Ironman triathlon.

It seems so incomprehensible to me. Just consider it: 140.6 miles of heart-pounding, glycogen-depleting human locomotion.

Swim 2.4 miles. Heck, the 24 feet I swim across my pool is still a feat to me. Then bike 112 miles. I once did a century ride -- on a mountain bike, no less -- but I haven't biked anything near that distance in almost a decade. And then, just to laugh at the word moderation, run a full marathon. I've run 18 marathons in the last 10 years, but I've always started fresh. I can't imagine beginning -- beginning -- a marathon after having swum 2.4 miles and biked 112 miles.

So when NBC broadcasts an hour-and-a-half recap of the Ironman Championship in Kona, Hawaii, I'm planted in front of my TV. The annual telecast represents my most cherished moments of TV viewing every year. Apparently I'm not alone in my appreciation of the program; it has been rewarded with 13 Emmys over the years.

Besides the requisite reviews of the the winners' performances, the telecast always includes profiles of less-celebrated, though no-less-remarkable, triathletes.

Word can't do justice to the feature stories of Jonathan Blais, Sarah Reinertsen and Robert McKeague. Especially my words. So I'll borrow the brief descriptions found at IronmanLive.com.

John Blais, who completed the Ford Ironman World Championship despite the
fact that he suffers from ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, better known
as Lou Gehrig's disease).

Sarah Reinertsen, whose story brought a tear to the eyes of everyone who watched last year when she missed the bike cut off in Kona. This year she finished the race in dramatic fashion.

Robert McKeague, the amazing 80-year-old who became the oldest man
to complete an Ironman race.

Theirs are stories that inspire. The trials and tribulations I face in my marathon training, not to mention my everyday life, seem inconsequential in comparison to the obstacles these people face to pursue their dreams.

The fatigue I feel throughout my training and during my races is nothing compared to the emotional fatigue Blais must feel as he prepares for his ruthless disease to systematically incapacitatee him in the not-so-distant future.

The ankle and hip injuries I've dealt with in the last several months are nothing compared to what Reinertsen, who was born with a severe leg deformity that resulted in the amputation of her left leg above the knee at age seven, had to overcome just to get to the starting line.

And the apprehension I feel when I think that maybe I'm too old to take swim lessons and possibly consider participating in triathlons in the future? That's just silly. I'm not too old. McKeague showed me so.

Almost like cheating

Minnesota was granted a stay of sentence today. But the governor can't take credit for this one. This was all Mother Nature.

She smiled on our state today, blessing us with weather more like mid-September than mid-November.

With temperatures reaching the mid-60s, the forthcoming winter was delayed at least one more day. I, for one, couldn't be more thankful.

I'm not much of a winter person. I enjoy the four seasons Minnesota has to offer, but I would be much happier if winter somehow was limited to a single month. Five, six months of winter is too much fo me.

So I viewed the day's unseasonable temperatures as an opportunity to do something I won't be able to do for several months. I hopped on my bike and, along with Greatest Girlfriend Ever, went for a short jaunt just after sunset.

We didn't ride our normal route. The pace, given the lack of natural light, was much slower than we're accustomed to riding. But it was nice.

Just to be on the bicycle one more time before the inevitable cold temperatures, ice and snow descend on Minnesota was priceless. It felt almost like we were cheating our climate, if only for one day.

Another reason to run

I'm guilty of taking my running too seriously -- when I run, that is.

I'm not of those gotta-run-everyday runners. Never have been, likely never will be. It's rare for me to run so many as six days in a row, even during the peak of marathon training. But when I run, I typically channel whatever energy I have at that time into my run.

Sure, I have my moments on auto-pilot, when my legs simply, almost effortlessly carry me while I soak in my surroundings. But sadly those days are more infrequent for me than seven consecutive days of running.

So today's run was strange for me because I was keenly aware of my running environment. I can't explain why. Maybe it's because I'm not currently in training. Instead, I'm on the front end of a much-needed offseason. Maybe it's because my dogs ran with me -- something that usually only happens between November and April because of overheating concerns.

Whatever the reason, I was able to spy a genetic anamoly in the animal kingdom. An albino squirrel.

I've seen albino squirrels before and looked at them curiously, wondering if perhaps what I was witnessing was a different breed. Today, when I saw that squirrel, I knew immediately what it was as its puffy white tail stood out against the woods' brown carpet of fallen leaves.

There was no time to study this beautiful creature. Not with the dogs leading my way. But that's OK. There might be more time for that in the future.

My brief glimpse of the white wonder had a pronounced impact. Besides causing me to consider how this squirrel's life, because of its lack of pigment, might be different from its peers, it opened my eyes to just one of the countless things I often neglect to notice during my training runs. It made me wonder what else I miss when run.

It left me wanting more. It changed my perspective on running, if only for my offseason maintenance runs.

I will try to absorb and appreciate nature's beauty around me -- the same beauty that always surrounds me during my treks through the nearest nature reserve -- this winter. I will try not to take my running environment for granted.

And I will look for that squirrel again.

Welcome to the Wonderful World of Blog

Day 1

So this is what my life has come to, huh? Blogging?

Sit back, buckle up, run for cover. Do whatever you feel you must to endure the random musings of a rather private, wryly cynical, anal retentive, obsessive compulsive, marathon-running, dog-loving thirtysomething American male.

And bring sugar. If you don't need it, I will.