Remember The Gift

I saw the light

2007-10-19T14:55:00.000-07:00

So I was outside mowing the rice paddy, er, lawn, today when I was nearly overcome by a brilliant light. Almost certain I was about to meet my Maker, I dropped to my knees and looked upward. Turns out it was our long-lost sun attempting a cameo appearance.

I had practically forgotten about the sun's existence. I haven't seen it in quite some time. It feels like it has been since the Reagan Administration. It hasn't been that long, though. I know that because it was present in grand and frustrating fashion during the Twin Cities Marathon on Oct. 7. It seered me that day.

Since then, however, I can't recall seeing it. And it's not just because of my nocturnal ways. It has rained and rained and rained here. My dogs paws have become webbed. I thought I might need an ark just to maneuver my way to the mailbox. And when it hasn't rained, it has been cloudy. Densely cloudy.

The sun never managed to fully emerged today. The sky just became brightly white behind the clouds in a very isolated area for maybe 30 seconds today. It wasn't much, but it was a reminder that it still exists. Our lack of sunshine in the past several days is just a reminder of what's ahead of us in the next couple of months, when it isn't unusual to go weeks without pure sunshine.

Humbled

2007-10-07T20:45:00.000-07:00

This has to stop.

I was humbled by the marathon. Again.

It has become a recurring theme. Long gone, it seems, are my days of sub-3:30 marathons. It was only three years ago that I PR'd (sub-3:26 at the 2004 Twin Cities Marathon). Might as well have been a lifetime ago.

I've become progressively slower. It started with a barely noticeable slip to 3:30 marathons. Next came the mid-3:30s. By Grandma's Marathon in June, I had slipped to 3:45.

Today, on my birthday, I posted my second slowest marathon time ever. Plus-4 hours.

Only in my first marathon had I run so slowly, and then I was only by about 4 minutes slower. Twenty marathons had passed since then. Twenty sub-4-hour marathons, including Twin Cities and Chicago three weeks apart in 1999. Heck, until Grandma's three-and-a-half months ago, I hadn't been on the slow side of 3:45 in this millenium.

The easy answer to these slower times is weather. The weather at both Grandma's and Twin Cities this year was among the warmest in the history of both races. And I felt it. Conditions were far from conducive to distance running. Everyone who ran posted slower-than-expected times. Even though my times were among my worst ever, I didn't slow as much as many runners, including many who are more acclomplished marathoners than me. Or so I'm repeatedly reminded.

Weather, undoubtedly, played a role in my recent marathons. It seems like Grandma's is warm every year now and the conditions at Twin Cities have been on the warm, sunny side of favorable for years. But weather alone can't explain what's happening to my times.

So if weather alone isn't the answer to my ever-increasing slowness, what else can explain it? Age, certainly, could be a factor. Perhaps a huge one, especially now that I'm knocking hard on the door of my next decade. That scares me. I'm not sure I want to continue running marathons if it means I'm going to get slower. After all, marathons aren't exactly fun to me and I've always said running a sub-3:30 marathon is easier than running a 4-hour marathon.

Part of the answer might be illness and injuries, which although varied, seem to have suddenly become chronic. If it isn't soft-tissue damage to my toe, then it's a strained abdominal muscle, a sinus infection, allergies or an ankle that has been swollen for two-and-a-half years.

Perhaps another piece in the equation might be training. Maybe I just don't train as intensely as I once did. This certainly seems to be the case, but it's likely just the result of the above-mentioned maladies. I just can't run as hard in my training as I did only a couple of years ago. And I'm not sure it's a desire thing.

Although maybe it is. Maybe I've just lost my fire, my passion for running as hard and as fast as I can for mile after mile. It wasn't until recently that the notion of "quit" ever crossed my mind during a long run or a marathon. Maybe I'm just weaker, both mentally and physically.

Truth is, I'm sure none of these explanations alone is the real answer to my slower times. All, I'm equally certain, have affected me to varying degrees during every marathon I've run during the past few years.

I don't know what I do or where I go from here. I wasn't shy about advertising my birthday run as possibly my last marathon. And that was before I suffered the way I did en route to my slowest time in 20 marathons. Time and conditions aside, it not be a bad way to call it a marathon-running career. Twenty-two marathons entered. Twenty-two marathons survived. It's a good number, I think. Much, much higher than I ever planned to achieve.

Add that I finished this last one on my final birthday before I enter an entirely different phase of my life -- fatherhood is less than two months away now -- and it might just be time to call it quits.

Gone, not forgotten?

2007-10-01T12:06:00.000-07:00

Dear Blog:

It has been a while since I last posted. My bad.

So many things going on in the past 18 months. Running -- four more marathons -- impending marriage, actual marriage, injuries -- not related to marriage, thankfully -- three houses/yards to maintain, a third dog and a baby on the way.

Much has changed in my life. Something -- or some things -- had to give. So blogging it was. Nothing personal, of course.

It's not that I forgot about you. I didn't. Look, I've even been diligent about updating my running odometer and marathon list. I just haven't written.

It's not that I haven't thought about it. I thought about writing plenty. I just never got around to it.

That should change. I think maybe I'll pay attention to you more often, in ways beyond updating my running exploits in your right column. I certainly have a thing or two to write about nowadays. I might even go back and fill in some of the gaps between early in 2006 -- when I last posted entries -- and today. Just don't hold me to it.

It's good to see you haven't completely let yourself go in my lengthy absence. Keep it up.

Take care,

RTG

"We're what?"

2007-04-09T19:51:00.000-07:00

It wasn't unusual for World's Most Wonderful Wife to call me at work during midday. She does so frequently and our casual, run-of-the-mill conversations always provide a much-needed and very welcomed respite from my workday.

Today's conversation was anything but ordinary, however. Near as I can recall, it diverged dramatically from the usual nanoseconds after I heard her say the words, "We're pregnant."

Um. Uh. Um....

It isn't often I'm at a loss for words. In fact, I'm rather proud of my grasp of language as well as my ability to translate thoughts into something resembling coherent conmmunication. But this was different.

I was dumbfounded. Speechless. Completely overwhelmed by the moment and the meaning of her words reverberating between my ears.

It's not that it was completely unexpected. We were hopeful that one day soon we would conceive. But it's not like we were working toward it in rabbit-like fashion, either.

I didn't know that WMWW was even considering taking a pregnancy test. I hadn't a clue. She had done nothing recently to reveal even a hint that something might be happening with her body.

So her words shocked me. In a good way. In a very good way.

I can't even explain how they affected me. It was like I was suddenly ensconced in some science fiction movie moment, with the world whirling around me as time stood still for me. My heart rate rose. My voice likely did, too. Tears welled up in my eyes. My hands quivered. My body tingled. I could feel my body temperature rise. My mind went into overdrive.

Heck, now that I think about it, the moment, physiologically speaking, probably wasn't that much different than it was during conception. The mind, though, that was completely different.

I can think of only a few other occasions when my mind went off like it did. Those were all harrowing, seemingly near-catastophic instances. Like when I was in seventh grade and I nearly drowned. All I remember about my seconds under water was a sort of out-of-body experience for my mind. All I thought about as I was taking in water and my friends were rushing to save me was what my mother would feel. I similarly experienced similar thoughts during separate accidental 180-degree spins on busy freeways.

This was different in the sense that this was all very positive. I wasn't thinking at all about my death. I was thinking about life. Another life. And my thoughts didn't immediately veer toward how I thought my mother would react, although I knew she would be positively elated about our news.

But it was the same in that if felt like I was experiencing, however momentarily, out of my body. My mind raced in ways I can't comprehend, just like in my near-death experiences. I was instantly flooded with so many thoughts.

Me? A father? Will I be a good parent? Will it be a boy or a girl? I don't care which gender it is, just so it's healthy. But if it's a girl, I'll have to join the NRA and interrogate any potential suitors. I've only held two babies, very briefly and uncomfortably, in my life. I've never even changed a diaper. We're going to need to convert our home office into a baby's bedroom. I better get my sleep now, while I can. Hey, I'm an world-class worrier already, what am I going to be like as a father?

It was a truly surreal moment for me. Absolutely otherworldly. And it was awesome.

Eventually, I was able to utter a reasonably coherent sentence. At least I think was able to do so. WMWW and I went on to discuss so many things during our not-so-routine midday conversation. It seemed like we talked forever -- talk excitedly, anxiously, nervously, eagerly -- although I'm fairly certain we limited our discussion to somewhere around an hour. Work could wait. This was a moment I had to savor as best as I could.

Back at it

2007-02-10T15:04:00.000-08:00

I returned to running today. In very modest fashion.

A 4-mile run was plenty for me. In fact, it was grueling. Five weeks to the day between runs definitely affected me. In my training log I made the rare "heavy" entry for "Perceived Exertion." Fortunately, I was able to put "no" in "Pain Felt During Activity" category. There was discomfort as I favored my right big toe, but nothing I would characterize as pain.

Today's run certainly wasn't much. It proved I'm nowhere near where I would like to be, where I should be with my conditioning at this point in the year. But there's still plenty of time before I begin heavy training for Grandma's Marathon. I just have to be prudent and stay within myself. I have to remember that the past five weeks gone, lost forever in terms of training. I can't make up for that time. I just have to accept where I'm at now. And I have to start anew.

Life on the sidelines

2007-02-08T12:40:00.000-08:00

Five weeks.

That's how long it has been since I last ran. It's the longest gap between runs for me since I began running about a dozen years ago.

It isn't unusual for me to take some time off in the winter, but not like this. Then again, I've never been injured quite like this.

I have a bum toe. Hurt it five weeks ago while trying to help Big Dog down the steps. He was in a drunken state -- the result of much medication for his epilepsy and a bout of pancreatitis -- and he was very, very wobbly on his legs. As usual, he was more than ready to go outside upon waking one morning. He immediately made his way toward the door. He hit the top of the steps and staggered downward. I reacted quickly, grabbing the top of his harness to prevent him from falling down the nine steps to the foyer. His 84 pounds, not to mention the effect of gravity, pulled me with him. I jammed my right foot into the third step as I struggled to keep both of us vertical. My upper body rolled down and forward as I held him. Somehow, we both arrived upright on the landing. The only problem was my right big toe, which had remained planted in the step not only when it landed, but also after the rest of my body hurdled to the foyer.

I knew I had done some damage. It swelled immediately. I couldn't put any kind of weight on it and it was painful to put on footwear.

This lasted for the better part of the last five weeks. It was so bad that I recently broke down and went to see a specialist. I'm not much of believer in physicians -- I mean, I believe they exist, I just don't believe they ever able to tell me something I don't already know -- but I made an appointment to see a podiatrist anyway. I hadn't run in more than a month and wanted to know if I would do any additional damage to the toe joint if I did run.

Just as I figured, the podiatrist was of little help. X-rays revealed the ever-ambiguous "soft-tissue damage." Uh, yeah, so? What does that mean? Are we talking cartilage? Ligaments? No help. Furthermore, when I inquired about resuming running, I was told it depended on my pain threshold. Um, duh. Isn't that always the case?

So, given this information, I'm going to run again soon. Very soon. I'll deal with whatever pain or discomfort I encounter. I don't know what I've lost in terms of conditioning by not running -- I did hop on my trainer a couple of times for some non-weight-bearing aerobic activity -- in the past weeks and I can't afford to be sidelined much longer with training for Grandma's Marathon looming.

The break from running hasn't been completely miserable. I think I've probably gained five or so pounds -- not sure if that's just a function of not training or if it's an effect of married life -- so that's discouraging. But mentally, it has been nice to have some time off. It's just more than I needed. A couple of weeks would've been plenty.

Date night?

2006-03-03T20:31:00.000-08:00

It's not like I needed another barometer to tell me that I'm some kind of endurance athlete freak. The fact that I made it a point not to ride my cycling trainer until midnight last week so that I could pedal while watching ESPN2's taped broadcast of the Tour of California was enough of a clue. That I recorded other stages to watch in the future while on my trainer solidified the notion.

Fortunately, I'm not alone in my endurance athletic freakiness. My bride-to-be, Greatest Girlfriend Ever, is too. And then some.

That explains why we spent our Friday night together, in what might be considered to be date-night fashion, doing something I'm guessing very few other couples would even consider doing. Especially on a date night.

We had reservations for two at Spinervals.

Yep, that's right. The same Spinervals of the DVD-recorded cycling workouts.

We pedaled away on our cycling trainers. Together. Side by side. In her basement. On a Friday night.

How sick is that? Cue the Jeff Foxworthy-like "You might be an endurance athlete if..." mantra.

Sicker still? We enjoyed it.

It wasn't about either of us needing to get in a cycling workout. I'm not planning to participate in any races before my June marathon. She's still months away from her next triathlon and already had spent nearly 10 hours this week in various training endeavors.

Our workout passed with unexpected swiftness. The monotony of training alone was erased by having each other to pedal with. It wasn't exactly one of the leisurely bike rides we take together occasionally on balmy Friday nights in the middle of summer, but it was good nonetheless.

Does that make me or her an endurance athlete freak? No. To say that it does would be to ignore all of the other things that makes us endurance athlete freaks. And those, as anyone who knows us will attest, are too numerous to mention.

I hate the metric system!

2006-02-28T21:35:00.000-08:00

It was too good to be true. Really, it was. And I should've known better.

I hopped on my bike to work on my cycling trainer for a while tonight and almost immediately I was amazed by how easy everything felt. I was pedaling very comfortably and maintaining a good pace. Too good.

Could it be that all of my training in recent weeks -- the increase in my running intensity, my consistently grueling trainer sessions -- was finally paying off? Paying off in the form of much-improved conditioning that suddenly made my cycling trainer work seem unexpectedly easy?

Heck no.

I was about 8 minutes into my trainer session when I forced myself to do a reality check. I mean, I was pedaling away at more than 20 mph with minimal perceived effort. Or so I thought.

Closer inspection of my bike computer revealed that when I increased my cadence ever so slightly I wasn't clicking away at a brisk 25.4 mph clip. Instead, I was going 25.4 kilometers -- %$#*&@! KILOMETERS -- per hour.

Bloody metric system. I was suspicious of it even as a wide-eyed lad in grade school when my teachers insisted that we learn the system -- replete with the useless deci- and deca- prefixes I've never heard used, even now, some 30 years later -- because someday in the not-too-distant future "everyone in the world will use the metric system." What kind of Kool-Aid were they drinking? Were they expecting Canadians, armed with meter sticks, to violently storm across the border and forcefully install their units of measurement upon the staunchly old-school US of A?

I was crestfallen -- because of my workout, not America's failure to follow through on the once seemingly imminent transition to the metric system. Crushed.

I wasn't suddenly in better condition. I wasn't enjoying some sort of miraculous improvement in training. I was slacking.

That 25.4 reading I discovered to be gauged in kph? That translates to a rather pedestrian 15.78 mph. That's slower than my average mph for a workout. Considerably slower.

I stopped pedaling immediately upon realizing my computer was providing me with kph readings instead of mph. I adjusted the computer to show mph readings, as it normally does. And I completed the rest of my workout, as hollow as it now felt after those first 8 minutes were essentially wasted, in dispirited fashion.

I'm not sure how I managed to inadvertently switch from mph to kph in the first place. But I'm pretty sure it won't happen again. At the very least, from now on I'll be sure to check the readings on my computer before I even get on my bike.

I definitely don't need to again feel as disappointed as I did when I discovered I was in metric mode.

Rough morning

2006-02-26T09:53:00.001-08:00

He didn't even have a chance to get up on the wrong side of the bed.

Only moments after waking this morning and promptly stretching his front paws skyward, Big Dog -- my gentle, good-natured, generally gentlemanly, occasionally aloof 82-pound canine companion -- felt out of sorts. I could see it immediately in his eyes.

He was blind.

I knew what was coming. I have been here before. Too many times to mention.

A seizure was on its way in freight-train fashion.

Seconds later -- just enough time to grab him by his harness, get him into a safe position on the floor and get my arm under his neck to protect his head -- his body seized violently. His legs extended stiffly from his body, his claws outstretched. His mouth opened widely with his lips retracted sufficiently to reveal his sizable teeth. His eyes closed shut firmly.

Then it was on.

An uncontrollable full-body clench enveloped him. His paws moved violently, as if he was trying to escape hastily from the villain that had so suddenly, so unexpectedly, so mercilessly descended upon him. The tension within his body was immeasurable.

I hung on for the ride. I rubbed his left hip and spoke softly, encouragingly to him as my arm under his neck and head provided the slightest bit of comfort.

For about a minute Big Dog's entire being was well out of his control. The foam his mouth produced in that short time proved as much.

Then it was over. Done.

Big Dog, still on the floor, still in my arms, looked toward me. I could tell he was still blinded by the episode. Then, almost instantly, he recognized me. Still dazed, he precariously lifted himself from the floor and moved toward me. He shook his body and was back. He had regained control of his body and his vision returned.

He joyfully wagged his tail and wanted to play. I let him outside and he ran around the yard for a few moments. When I let him back inside, he grabbed a tennis ball to play. He had rebounded completely. Quickly.
It isn't always this way. I know this much. Today was only Big Dog's second seizure -- as far as I know. The first came on Oct. 24. He responded just as well after that one.

But one of the dogs with whom I previously shared my life -- Swoosh, perhaps the smartest dog that ever lived -- didn't respond so well from seizures. He had so many of them. Had them in clusters, in fact. Had to be hospitalized in intensive care at the University of Minnesota's Veterinary Hospital on multiple occasions as the result of his cluster seizures, which always elevated his body temperature to dangerous levels and sometimes caused lack of bladder and bowel control and prolonged periods of blindness. Spent the last couple years of his life on medication -- phenobarbitol -- to better control his seizures.

Swoosh died prematurely. He was about five years old when he succumbed to liver failure. His death blindsided me. There was no hint of liver damage prior to his final day of cluster seizures -- double-digit seizures within hours. Even the U of M's incredible veterinary staff couldn't save him, no matter how many blood transfusions they gave him.

His liver failure might have been the result simply of all of the seizures his organs endured. Just as likely, I think, it was the result of the phenobarbitol he was forced to take for the final year of his life to control his epilepsy. Initially, he was on the lowest dosage possible, administered twice a day. As the seizures persisted and became more frequent -- the time between his first and second seizures was three months; eventually he was experiencing cluster seizures every three week or less -- the dosages increased. Just prior to his death, I had switch him to another medication -- potassium bromide -- that was thought to be gentler to his liver. He didn't live long enough to find out.

That's what scares me so much about Big Dog's seizure today. It's not the seizure itself, but what it might portend. Four months passed between Big Dog's first two seizures. Will they, too, become more frequent, more severe, as they did with Swoosh? Will he also have to be administered drugs multiple times a day to control the seizures? If so, what toll will it take on his body?

Big Dog is only about six years old and is in otherwise perfect health. If these episodes are going to be part of his life, he couldn't have a better home. I'm plenty familiar with canine seizures, thanks to Swoosh. I'm no longer terrified by them. I know what to do, how to do it. I'll ensure he gets the best care possible.

I just hope he doesn't need it.

Do you believe in miracles?

2006-02-22T18:26:00.000-08:00

YES!

OK, so clearly there was nothing miraculous about the performances of the U.S. hockey teams -- both men's and women's -- at the 20th Winter Olympiad. My runs the past two days? That's a different story.

However embarrassed I was after gushing in yesterday's post about the small signs of progress I experienced in that day's run, I now find myself even more uneasy about what I wrote.

After all, the achievements in yesterday's run were so minor. Were they worthy of even mentioning? I have run so much faster. I can run so much faster. Unfortunately, after months and months of nuisance injuries and serious lack of desire, I was beginning to doubt I could recapture the speed -- relatively speaking, of course -- I once possessed.

Then, today, I put yesterday's feats comfortably in my rear-view mirror. Somehow, miraculously to me, I managed to surpass them. I lopped 27 seconds off my best four-mile time this year and shaved 9 seconds off my best final mile. I finished Wednesday's run more than 2 minutes faster than Monday's. Unbelievable.

It's inexplicable really. What's the reason for this sudden improvement? My level of training hasn't changed. Nothing has changed. Nothing I can pinpoint, anyway. Except maybe I'm running with renewed vigor. I'm not sure why that is. But it's like I've rediscovered the fire I lacked for so many months. I feel like pushing -- really pushing with every stride -- myself again. And I'm doing it easily.

All of this is resulting in regained confidence, which, undoubtedly, will lead to greater determination. Faster times, I hope, will follow.

There's still a long, long way to go before I'm running at the pace I once did -- I'm not running any sub-8-minute miles now and in June I intend to again string together 26 of them -- but I'm getting there. One run at a time.

Out of nowhere

2006-02-21T21:22:00.000-08:00

Training for endurance sports still is curious to me after all of these years. No matter how many runs I do or how in tune with my body I become, I'm occasionally surprised -- maybe stunned is a better word choice -- by how positive things can happen when I least expect it.

Today was one of those occasions. I had no reason to expect anything positive out of my four-mile maintenance run today. It was supposed to be, as much as anything, just another chance to get out the door and get my body used to running on a consistent basis. My expectations for the run were minimal.

Then, out of nowhere, I turned in a decent training run. We're not talking about anything record setting, but for this time of year, where I'm typically at in my training at this time of year and how I've felt physically and psychologically with regard to my training in recent months, it was astonishing to me.

It came without any warning. Yesterday's run was just a bit shy of miserable. Nothing painful or overly strenuous, but it was work. I felt like I was laboring throughout my run. It was all I could do to finish my last mile in under 8:45. Maybe the 20-mph wind I ran into at the start of my run drained me. No matter. Four-mile runs, at this point in my running career, shouldn't feel that difficult. Especially after choosing not to run for a few days prior to yesterday.

I shouldn't have felt strong today. Certainly not more so than yesterday, when I was better rested. My nutrition and hydration hadn't improved significantly either. But when I headed out today, something felt different. Not immediately. But I soon knew I could do something extra today.

Would it be extra miles or faster pace? I had a half-mile to figure it out. It's at that point when I veer off from my short-run trail to log additional miles. Today, with daylight waning, I opted to work on my pace.

I was running strongly at that point. I hit the half-mile mark about 10 seconds faster than yesterday. No feat there, really, especially considering how I felt yesterday. The question was, Could I maintain this pace for the rest of the run?

Somehow I did. I even ran my final mile in 8:16 -- again, not exactly blazing for me, but I'll gladly take that pace in February -- almost a half-minute faster than I did it yesterday and only a second off my best mile so far this year. I finished the run 1 minute, 42 seconds faster than yesterday and 25 seconds faster than my previous best time this year.

The best part? It felt good. It felt smooth. It felt almost natural again.

I felt strong.

And psychologically? I haven't felt this good about a run in a long, long time.

Brrr.

2006-02-17T21:51:00.000-08:00

I picked a good time to run three days in a row, six times in seven days. Add to that another intense cycling trainer workout yesterday. The way it worked out, I was due for a day off. Today worked for me. Very well.

It just so happened that today also is part of our coldest weather we've experienced in more than two years. We achieved Friday's high temp at 12:01 a.m. It became considerably colder after that. Daytime temps hovered at -10 Fahrenheit. Strong winds made it feel even colder.

It will be Saturday afternoon before the mercury rises above 0 again. So I think I'll take Saturday off too. I'll tell myself that I need some time off, that I deserve it, that nothing good could come from me running in sub-zero temps. Truth is, I'm just a wuss. But keep that to yourself. It's a closely guarded secret.

When?

2006-02-16T21:58:00.000-08:00

Tell me when this cycle training is going to get easier. Huh? When?

After successfully fending off feelings of workout-evading guilt for several hours this evening, I caved. Finally. Just after 11 p.m.

I made my way to the basement, exchanged my warm laze-about-the-house clothes for biking apparel and hopped on my bike. Immediately, I noticed the temperature of my weightroom. How could I not? It was 51 degrees down there and I was wearing only cycling shorts and a short-sleeved jersey.

The discomfort caused by the chill didn't last long. It was quickly replaced by the kind of discomfort it seems only an intense workout on a trainer can provide.

When I finished, I was nauseated. I could barely stand. I wasn't sure if I would pass out, vomit or both. The journey up those 13 steps to my home's main living level was a struggle. I'm not sure why I felt so horrible. I usually only feel like that after runs of 17-plus miles. This was only a half-hour workout. Guess that means I'm finally pushing myself again.

I mixed up my cycling routine a bit for this workout. I still played with my gears a bit and watched the mph reading on my computer. But I attempted to periodically shift to easier gears with the intent of working on improving my cadence. I did this futilely.

I can't seem to allow myself to pedal furiously with virtually no resistence. It felt like I was going at a 25-mph clip, yet my computer revealed that I was only going 14 mph. That's not for me. I'm more of a big-gear masher, à la Jan Ullrich. It seems pointless to pedal quickly, in an easy gear, only to manage 15 mph when I could shift to a tougher gear and, with the less perceived effort, crank at 20 mph. It just makes more sense to me. And it feels a lot smoother.

Someday, perhaps, I'll master the easier gear/higher cadence thing. Probably about the same time I'll learn to enjoy my trainer workouts.

That likely won't happen anytime soon.

Minor milestones

2006-02-15T10:27:00.000-08:00

Ran for the third straight day today. Felt better physically than I have in weeks. The discomfort I had been experiencing on the right side of my abdomen/front of my right hip/right side of my lower back chose not to accompany me for my run.

It was just another of my short runs. Four miles. Nothing special.

But upon completion of my run, I had logged 116 miles so far this year. That's more than I have ever put in this early in a year. Small achievement.

I had another small achievement that resonated more with me. I improved my time for the four miles for the third consecutive day. That's not to be confused with a PR. No way. Not even close. But it shows my running economy is slowly improving.

I also finished my final mile faster than I had in each of the previous two runs. I became a little quicker for that final mile each run this week. I finished my run today with an 8:23 last mile. That's still a minute off from where I should be come peak marathon-training time, but it's a good sign. Only once this year have I run that mile faster -- 8:15 on January 31 -- and that might have been a fluke. I had no similar times anywhere near it. With this one, 8:23 represents a nine-second improvement from 8:34 on Monday and 8:32 on Tuesday. That's the way I want to improve my speed. Gradually. Consistently.

Now I'll take a day off and see if I can respond similarly on my next run.

Enough already

2006-02-12T10:43:00.000-08:00

When is this going to end? It seems like every time I sneeze, something falls apart. Not literally, of course, but my body has spent the better part of the past year failing me in various ways.

Last year I endured a prolonged respiratory illness. I had an abscessed tooth that led to a root canal. I endured countless running/cycling-related injuries. Now I have something new, something different nagging me.

And no, it's not Greatest Girlfriend Ever. She doesn't nag, hence her title.

Now I'm experiencing some sort of mild tightness or discomfort on the right side of my abdomen. It doesn't hurt too bad, but it concerns me.

It's on the right side of my body, first of all. The same side as I had the tooth problems. The same side that provided me with ankle problems last year that, I think, eventually resulted in Achilles discomfort and pain in my right hip.

I had been experiencing some residual discomfort in my right hip occasionally during my runs this winter. I worked on strengthening my core and that helped. I was able to get past it. But just when I did, this abdominal issue arose.

I'm not certain they're related. I'm fearful that I injured my abdomen while doing some overhead weightlifting while on my physio ball. That I might have a hernia didn't occur to me until my neighbor suggested it after I told her of my abdominal discomfort.

Worse yet, for some reason I've been experiencing a dull, achy feeling on the right side of my lower back with frightening consistency lately. I don't even want to think what that might be. No sense in adding raging hypochondria to my myriad neuroses.

I choose not to think of these aches and pains. I hope they will heal with time. I hope someday -- someday soon -- to completely regain my health.

A bloody mess

2006-02-09T19:53:00.000-08:00

Took The Boyz -- my dogs -- along for my run today. We don't run together often anymore. Gone are the days of them joining me for 500 miles a year. Nowadays they come with me only occasionally; mostly during the winter months when it's cooler for them; typically when I figure we won't encounter the kinds of distractions that cause them to absolutely lose their minds.

Today was a near perfect run for us. Despite two inches of fresh snow, it was my easiest, most comfortable run in months. Ah, the joys of eight-paw drive.

We had the trail to ourselves. The usual distractions -- other dogs, squirrels, deer -- were nowhere to be found. Accordingly, the boys were well behaved.

They ran effortlessly, it seemed. They set a decent pace. They ran ahead of me, keeping a slightly-less-than-taut tension on their leashes. When I hit some slippery patches and briefly lost my balance, the strength I found in their leashes allowed me to quickly correct myself without falling.

I wish I could have been as helpful for Champ. He took a nasty spill not long after we passed the three-mile mark. To his surprise, there was glare ice under the fresh snow as we rounded a curve. All four of his legs flew out from under him at once. He careened across the ice for several feet.

He rebounded nicely, however, and finished the run without further issues. He seemed well enough, but I was concerned for him nonetheless upon our return home. My concern grew exponentially when I discovered several spots of fresh blood on my dining room floor.

I immediately called him to me. I checked him for injury. He didn't outwardly act hurt. And my inspection revealed no source of the blood on the floor. So I checked Buster, my second suspect.

Sure enough, he was bleeding. There was blood on the bottom of one of his back paws. Somehow he managed to break a nail during our run. I hadn't noticed anything unusual about him during the run. I didn't notice anything different about him when we got home, either. Except he was bleeding.

I'm not sure he was aware of it. He didn't even tend to his broken nail after I had stopped the bleeding.

His broken nail looked painful enough to me. It looked like I could see a sort of pulp inside it. But it didn't take long before he was running around the house, toy in tow, looking to play. Like nothing had happened. Tough guy.

Wish I had that kind of resilience. I was still queasy from the mere sight of his blood.

Resurrection!

2006-02-08T10:30:00.000-08:00

Finally, after nearly a month of making the most out of the final breaths of my two very unreliable laptops and a dinosaur of a desktop, I'm back. Back with a new computer that should serve me well -- cross your fingers and knock on wood with me -- for the next few years.

In my typical fashion, I exhaustively researched my options for a new computer. Then I researched them some more. It's sickening. I did online research when possible. I scoured newspaper ads and articles. I went to retail stores to check out laptops and their components. Heck, I even bought a laptop last week with the intent of not using it until I did a little more research.

Good thing, too. I changed my mind this week. I upgraded my purchase and ended up getting a much better value. At least I think I did.

Through it all, Greatest Girlfriend Ever showed the patience of a saint. Even when I complained incessantly about my computer issues. Even when I asked her to do web research for me. Even when I asked to use her computer. Even when I repeatedly dragged her with me to look at computers. Maybe especially then.

My research and indecisiveness were no match for her patience. She simply listened to what I had to say, offered opinions when asked, rolled her eyes when I got into a pointless point-counterpoint debate with myself and walked away to give me space when I needed to sort things out for myself.

How great is that? That even a guy as obsessive as me can find someone who can love him despite his many foibles?

Thanks to my new machine, with which I'm still becoming acquainted, I'll again be able to post and tinker with this blog. I'll have to fill in some holes from when I was unable to blog, but gradually it will appear that I wasn't dead for almost all of January.

As Mark Twain once said, "the rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated." I am indeed back.

Sign of life

2006-02-04T14:14:00.000-08:00

It has taken forever, it seems, to regain some of my former running, um, speed.

I'm not fast. Make no mistake about that. Never have been. But once upon a time I used to routinely run miles in under 9 minutes. OK, so it wasn't that long ago. Maybe a couple of months, at most. And I'll still occasionally log a sub-9-minute mile during my winter maintenance runs. But running that pace doesn't come easily in the winter. I know that. I expect that.

Maybe it's the extra layers of clothing I'm carrying. Maybe it's the constriction of my leg muscles caused by my compression shorts and running tights. Maybe it's the uncertain footing. Maybe it's the cold air. Maybe my muscles never fully warm in the winter climate. Maybe it's simply my offseason take-it-as-it-comes mindset.

Whatever it is, speed is little more than a rumor in my training log in January and February. So today when I clocked my final mile in 8:41 -- I did it rather comfortably, too -- it was a small victory. A sign of life in them there legs.

Sure, there's a long, long way to go before I'm running that same mile more than a minute faster. Getting back to point won't be easy. Never is. I suspect it will continue to become more elusive as I age. But somehow, as inconceivable as it seems now, I will return to that kind of pace.

It can't happen soon enough.

Monthly results are in

2006-01-31T20:40:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure what this means, but it looks as if I've just had my most successful January of running.

I easily exceeded my very modest goal for monthly miles. I view the months of October, following my marathon, through February as my offseason. Accordingly, I plan only to train minimally. I call it a maintenance plan. It consists almost entirely of short runs -- four miles -- at paces much slower than I would consider acceptable for any other time of the year.

For January, I merely want to log 31 miles -- a single mile per day. For February, I want to ramp up my mileage to 56 miles, or two miles per day. Then, come March, I shoot for an average of three miles per day. These incremental increases in mileage have kept me injury-free and helped establish the base mileage I need when my marathon training begins in earnest in April.

I logged a whopping 74 miles this January. That's more miles than I've ever run in January -- props to Mother Nature for the unseasonably mild weather that allowed me twice to run in shorts in Minnesota in January -- and puts me ahead of my schedule by a month. Now I can either increase my mileage to keep me ahead of schedule or I can maintain my mileage as I prepare for March.

The key thing for me to remember is that I gain nothing by logging extra miles at this time of year. If I run 100 miles in each of the year's first two months and then become ill, get injured or take a prolonged break before March, it's all meaningless.

I have to stay within myself. Run when it feels right. Get in the occasional run of more than four miles. Ignore when my watch tells me how slow I am right now.

Cookie nookie

2006-01-30T04:51:00.000-08:00

I'll never be a very domestic guy. Cooking, cleaning, decorating just aren't among strengths. Or interests.

But when Greatest Girlfriend Ever suggests we bake cookies -- literally, no euphemism suggested -- well, I don't have to be asked twice. The reward is too great. Our frosted cookies, besides being capable of inducing a diabetic coma, are quite simply irresistible.

The theme this time was Valentine's Day. I'll admit, I have an issue with baking cookies under the guise of a day the cookies won't last long enough to see. But I went with it anyway.

My role was rather limited. GGE put together the dough and had it rolled out before my arrival at her house. She even had the frosting prepared. All that was left to do was to cut out the cookies, then bake and decorate 'em. Even a domestic idiot like me can do that.

GGE is a relentlessly efficient person. Although I'm often secretly envious of her trait, it's scary sometimes. It pervades nearly everything she does. Cookies are no different.

She already had used heart-shaped cookie cutters to produce the first batch of cookies before I joined to assist her. Her effort was, of course, impressive in assembly line-like fashion.

But being a rules guy, I had to institute a rule. Actually, I had to re-inform GGE of my rule. No cookie cutters. We had to freehand our cutouts. It's my rule. I think doing so fosters a certain degree of creativity and further distinguishes our cookies from any you could buy at the local bakery. Each cookie should be a unique production, a frosted work of art.

GGE at first resisted my rule, er, suggestion. It flew in the face of her normal efficiency. Gradually, however, as she watched me use a knife to carve out hearts and other shapes that were as clearly defined as any that could be done with a pre-fab cookie cutter, she came around to my idea. She became a creative cookie-cutting fiend just as we ran out of dough.

The decorating of our products was predictably time consuming. But it was time well spent, despite the fact that I know we spent far more time creating our cookies than we will spend enjoying their delight. It was an enjoyably relaxing way to spend a Sunday night in late January. And I can't imagine a better person with whom to spend it.

Shorts story

2006-01-27T21:00:00.000-08:00

It didn't take long this year before I was able to achieve a personal running first. Unfortunately, this one has nothing to do with achievement.

For the first time in my running career, I ran outdoors in Minnesota in January while wearing shorts. Twice.

I can't even describe how strange it felt. I'm sure it wasn't a pretty sight, with the shade of my legs practically matching the remaining remnants of snow.

But how could I resist. Daytime temps approaching 50 degrees. Steady blasts of sunshine. Little wind, if any.

So I eschewed the running tights yesterday and today. Heck, I didn't even wear socks for my seven-mile run today. It was wonderful. Gleeful might be a better word. Almost made me feel like a kid sneaking a cookie out of the cookie jar.

It won't last, I know. But this brief dalliance with warm weather provided a much-needed respite from the frigid horrors of winter. Even though I felt some discomfort in the front of my right hip when I ran tonight, I couldn't resist the opportunity. I've lived here long enough to know I might never get it again.

Wedding planner

2006-01-17T20:17:00.000-08:00

Greatest Girlfriend Ever and I are barely a week into our engagement and life has definitely changed. Not in a bad way. Just a busier way.

So much too do, so little time.

I can't imagine any man would enjoy the whole process of planning a wedding. I'm a detail-oriented guy, but this wedding planning has my head spinning. I'm learning about things I never even considered. And I thought finding a diamond, choosing a ring and proposing took planning? I'm not sure how people ever manage to get through all of the details in planning the actual event.

I'm lucky though. Seems besides finding a wonderful woman with whom to share my life, I've also found a woman who can plan with the best of them. A project manager by profession, she's perfectly suited to arranging countless details in advance. Me? I can't even tell you what I'm going to have for dinner tonight.

So as GGE -- does she need a new monicker now that we're engaged? -- goes into overdrive to plan our nuptials, I watch in amazement. She made arrangements for the church, date, reception site and a host of other things within days. One by one, she's knocking down details, checking items off the spreadsheet she created. I'm still in the planning-to-plan stage as far as the other things I'm responsible for. Clearly, she's more cut out for planning this sort of thing than I am. So I'll just hang on for the ride, let her run with it and allow her to impress me in yet another way I never imagined.

Weekly grind

2006-01-16T19:43:00.000-08:00

Had a date with my cycling trainer again tonight. This is going to be a love-hate relationship. As in, I'm going to love hating that thing.

I planned on another half-hour session. I achieved my goal, pedaling just a couple hundredths of a mile farther than I did last week in a second less time. My average watts were 171 again, so I guess I'm already consistent, if nothing else.

I know I'm not in the condition I want to be in. I know I'm nowhere near where I'll be in a few months, when I ramp up my marathon training. But the way I feel on my trainer is ridiculous. By the time I finish, it feels like my heart is going to explode. I don't feel nearly so miserable when I run, which suggests that I'm not pushing myself enough when I run.

I hate feeling like that. Makes me feel weak. At the same time, I love it. If it doesn't kill me, it will make me stronger.

Hello, trainer

2006-01-10T19:13:00.000-08:00

Greatest Girlfriend Ever and I bought each other bicycle trainers for Christmas. Same trainer. Same store. Same gift-giving thinking. Coincidence? I prefer to think that great minds think alike.

Tonight was my formal introduction to my trainer. I had been on a trainer only once before -- in December, when I tested the trainer I bought for her. My initial trainer session in December was rather brutal and then I was worried only about the unit's function and what accessories I might need to purchase so that she could get the most of it.

This time is was all about a workout. I figure that whatever I can do on my bike now, in the comfort of my basement weightroom, will help me stay fit now and better prepare me for springtime cycling.

I planned on a half-hour ride. I didn't plan on it be so grueling.

When I used the trainer in December, I didn't have the use of a computer to monitor my progress as I pedaled. I had no idea how fast I was pedaling or how my efforts might translate into distance. I think that made that session easier. I simply pedaled and presumed I was working at a decent clip.

This time I had objective real-time results staring me in the face. It wasn't pretty. I don't recall 17 mph seeming so difficult to maintain while cycling the local trails. Clearly, this trainer business is different.

I quickly learned a couple of other things. First, without the aid of wind or breezes caused by your motion while cycling outside, you sweat buckets on a trainer. And the temperature in my weightroom prior to my trainer session was only in the low 50s. Nevertheless, I perspired profusely. My sweat dripped below my bike and pooled on the rubber flooring. The waves in my pool of sweat crested at about two inches.

Secondly, 30 minutes -- the planned duration of my ride -- is an interminable amount of time on a trainer. I don't know how hard-core cyclists and triathletes spend hours at a time pedaling in place. Even with the distraction of my favorite college basketball team playing on the TV in front of me, a half-hour seemed like an merciless eternity.

I think the trainer will be a welcome, useful addition to my offseason routine. If the first 30 minutes -- not to mention 8.5-plus miles and 171 average watts -- on it is any indication, it just won't provide the easy workouts I thought it might. They'll be tougher and, as a result, I'll become a stronger cyclist.

Rules of, er, for engagement

2006-01-09T18:25:00.000-08:00

I'm a man of many rules. I establish personal rules for just about everything. They differ from subject to subject, but once established, they're consistent. Most go unspoken. Many, I suppose, aren't even noticed by those around me. They simply become who I am.

So when it came time for me to consider one of the most momentous events in my life -- my marriage proposal to Greatest Girlfriend Ever -- I had to have rules.

It was only natural. I had never seriously considered such a thing before GGE entered my life. In fact, I used to say I was going to wait for a woman to propose to me. GGE changed all of that. By last summer I was already considering my proposal options. Rule number one -- make sure she's Ms. Right For Me -- had been accomplished.

My rules for the act of proposing unfolded over time. Whatever I did, it had to have my signature all over it.

Nothing flashy. Nothing elaborate. Nothing cliché.

That meant no stadium scoreboard proposal. No ring in a restaurant dessert. No hot-air balloons, horse-drawn carriages or weekends at a bed-and-breakfast.

I had to pick the right time, too. It couldn't be at Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's or Valentine's Day. All are too predictable.

I had to come up with something uniquely us. A time and a place that somehow was symbolic of what defines GGE, me and our relationship.

I had already done my ring shopping, which, in typical me fashion was exhaustive in itself, so I didn't have to worry so much about that. I had an idea of what she would like and what she might expect. I went with that idea and exceeded it.

Despite brainstorming for months on the how, when and where I would propose, nothing I came up with seemed quite apropos. It didn't help that I didn't seek anyone's input. Only my contact at the jewelry store knew of my intent. I was completely on my own.

Then, finally, as we approached the two-year anniversary of our relationship, I devised my plan. GGE knew I wouldn't be the kind of guy to propose on any of the holidays. And I had successfully Heisman'd her for months, leading her to believe I wasn't ready to propose yet. So I knew I would have the element of surprise -- another of my requirements -- on my side.

There was a chance, albeit slight, that she might think I would propose on the date of our anniversary. Two years, to the day, would be something she might have thought possible of me. And it was. But I had to out-think that possibility.

I chose the date before our anniversary -- January 8 -- because she wouldn't expect it. It satisfied my rule of surprise. It satisfied my rule of additional significance -- because the year we met was a leap year during which we gained an extra day to be together, our anniversary could be said to be on Jan. 8 instead of Jan. 9. Finally, it satisfied my rule of practicality. She had to do training presentations at work during the week and the distraction of engagement might have interfered too much had I waited another day.

All that was left to decide was the location. It really was a no-brainer for me. Neither of us is the type who would want to share such a private moment in a very public setting. I had to make sure we had the moment to ourselves, in a special place.

I chose a footbridge along the trail I run and we bike. It's situated almost perfectly between her house and mine. It's quiet, secluded -- surrounded only by wildlife and a view of the Minneapolis skyline some 10 miles in the distance -- and beautiful in the winter. Mother Nature helped my cause by dusting us with a couple of inches of snow, enhancing the setting even more.

All I had to do was get her out for a walk along the trail. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem because she enjoys walking, but I wasn't confident I could get her to go for a walk into the middle of nowhere after dark on a chilly winter night. And I was afraid that if I suggested we go for a walk -- something that I rarely do -- I might raise suspicion as to my plan.

So I planted my bait a day earlier. I told her that I ran past a fox den during my run and I noticed some fox puppies. Then I dropped the subject. When it started snowing the next day -- on THE day -- we both remarked how beautiful the snow made everything look. I knew then that my plan would work.

She actually suggested we take the walk. She even wanted to bring my dogs with us -- not according to my plan, but it was only fitting that they be there, I guess. In keeping with my diversion, I suggested we take the camera, just in case we see the foxes. She complied. With the ring comfortably secured in my jacket pocket, we conversed as we normally do while we walked.

Then we reached the bridge. Funny, I hadn't been nervous until that time. Suddenly, my heart was racing. It was all I could do to muster coherent sentences. I don't think she noticed. If she did, she likely thought I was simply cold or distracted by my dogs' inexplicably good behavior.

We stopped midway through the bridge. Well, actually, I did; she was unaware of my plan and proceeded to keep walking. I had to think swiftly of a reason to keep her on the bridge. Ah, yes, the camera. Even though there was no sign of a fox -- a fact she discovered all too quickly -- we could take a self-portrait on the bridge, amid the fluffy, white snowflakes.

It worked. After taking several photos of ourselves, I knew I had my moment. Proposal was the last thing on her mind when I dropped to a knee, grabbed her hand and revealed the ring in my pocket.

She was, I believe, shocked as much as surprised. She didn't hesitate to say yes, but afterward, as we walked back to my house, she was speaking no more coherently than I had been minutes earlier.

Everything unfolded according to my plan. Despite the rules, I somehow managed to not only surprise GGE, but also impress her. The setting and the moment were perfect. For us.

Just like my rules said they had to be.

2005: Running review

2006-01-07T16:48:00.000-08:00

What the @#$% happened to me in 2005?

I never really hit my stride. I didn't achieve the degree of fitness I aspired to. I didn't reclaim the endurance speed, however modest, I once had. I couldn't seem to stay healthy.

It's easy to blame these self-proclaimed inadequacies on illness and injury. There were plenty of those to derail me. In fact, 2005 ranks as my most unhealthy year as a runner. I suffered through some sort of respiratory crud for most of first third of the year. It took until May before my wheeze went away. Unfortunately, it was replaced by ankle problems just before Grandma's Marathon.

My right ankle remained swollen for more than a month straddling the marathon. I can't even pinpoint the source of the injury. Maybe it happened any one of the several times I tweaked my ankle during training runs. Maybe it happened when I couldn't get my cycling shoe out of a pedal as I came to a stop and I felt a brief 'POP' in my ankle. Whatever the cause, the resulting trauma to the ankle didn't seem significant at the time. It didn't hurt much later, either. But the swelling persisted. That, I believe, resulted in a chain reaction of nuisances that ultimately caused another injury.

The swelling caused blisters that affected the way I ran. My stride changed. I ran more cautiously, less fluidly. It was like my lower body was out of whack every time I ran. I ran in fear that my wheels would fall off. The finish line at Twin Cities Marathon didn't come a moment too soon. Immediately upon finishing, I experienced a pain in my hip unlike any I had experienced.

What hurt worse, though, were my marathon times. I don't set a lot of running goals for myself. I keep 'em simple: I want to run at least 1000 miles annually and I want to improve my marathon times. in 2005, I succeeded in the former (big deal), failed miserably on the latter (BIG DEAL).

I finished on the slow side of 3:30 in both marathons I ran. I want to say that's unacceptable. For me. For this time in my running career. But that's unreasonable, I'm told. The injuries were responsible for running four minutes slower than I had a year earlier, I'm told.

I fear the real reason for my slower times is worse than injury. I got soft. I lost my fire, my intensity. Sure, I made my goal for annual miles. I ran more miles (1111.9) than I had in any other year except 2003. I became more consistent. I ran more often (177 runs and two marathons). I averaged a 10K everytime I headed out the door. Heck, at one point I even got into a groove that found me making weekly trips to the local high school track for speed work.

But more often than not it felt like I was going through the motions. Just running for the sake of running. Just putting in miles to get them done. I didn't spend enough time hurting because of effort, not injury. I didn't push hard enough. For that, there is no excuse.

But there is a new year to make adjustments and improvements. I'm beyond the point of running marathons simply to finish. I want to improve. I am not an elite runner. Not even close. Never was, never will be. But I would like to qualify for Boston someday. Preferably some day before I'm 70.

At my best, I was less than 11 minutes away from qualifying. I'm not going to improve that much anytime soon, if ever. But in a couple of years I'll enter a new age group and five minutes will be added to my qualifying time. That leaves me needing to shave only about six or so minutes off my PR in the coming years. That can be done.

A healthier, hungrier, more intense me can do that. Can I do it this year? Stay tuned.

On the bright side

2006-01-06T07:08:00.000-08:00

I didn't need a meteorologist to remind me of the depressing lack of sunlight my hometown has seen recently. My mind and body had taken note long ago.

Apparently, the Twin Cities had seen only two hours of sunshine -- not even two full hours, but more like two hours in which the sun made a dispiriting now-you-see-me, now-you-don't cameo appearance -- in the previous five days. Our dearth of sunshine goes back further, at least another week.

That's not to say it has been dark here, as it is nearer the North Pole. But it seems it's just constantly cloudy here. Gloomy.

This is winter. This is one of the primary reasons why I don't exactly embrace the season. Especially here.

But not all is bad. In fact, despite the disappearance of sunshine, we're enjoying an exceptionally mild January. By Minnesota standards, anyway. Temps have routinely approached and surpassed the freezing mark. Overnight lows have been in the mid-teens or higher Fahrenheit.

This weather, lack of sunlight aside, makes it hard to create excuses not to run. January comes smack in the middle of my offseason. My traditional goal for January is to run only 31 miles -- an average of a mile a day. Heck, I'm more than halfway there in the first week of the month.

It won't kill me to run more, to exceed my goal. But I'm not sure it will help me much, either. I finally feel fully recovered from a string of nagging injuries I endured last year. I don't want to do anything to jeopardize my physical comeback or my 2006 marathon training, which I have scheduled to begin in earnest in mid-to-late March.

So I run occasionally. More than I might normally would in January, but just as slow as ever. The slowness of my runs frustrates me. It's not unexpected now -- not in my offseason, not when I'm running without serious purpose, not when I'm not in peak condition, not when I'm running fully clothed, not when footing can be treacherous -- but it's frustrating nonetheless. To run my final mile at a perceived level of exertion that I would describe as moderately intense and see that I'm barely running faster than 9-minute miles is discouraging. I have so far to go.

Technical difficulties

2006-01-03T18:33:00.000-08:00

I'm still alive. Really, I am.

It's only my computer that isn't. Make that computers.

How is it possible that all three -- count 'em (personal laptop, newspaper-issued laptop, personal desktop) -- computers in my house are functioning sub-optimally? Just luck, I guess.

My work laptop suddenly, unexpectedly crashed on Christmas Eve. I informed my editor and he forwarded my problems to the tech guy. He told me to expect a techie to contact me about resolving the problem. That was more than a week ago. I'm still waiting to hear from a geek.

After the holiday, I resorted to my old laptop, the same one that provided me with numerous headaches in 2003. It functioned, but seemingly only when it wanted to. It would shut down without warning and for no apparent reason. I can't even begin to express how frustrating this was or how many in-progress files simply disappeared before I could save them.

I was reminded of this when I called it in from the bullpen last week for some spot relief duty. It didn't take long before I was ready to chuck it through the window in my home office.

No problem, I thought. I could always wake the dinosaur, my dusty desktop from 1997.

Um, yeah, that wasn't frustratingly slow or anything. I couldn't even utilize my DSL with it. When I went to install the appropriate driver files so I could use DSL, I discovered that I couldn't even drop a CD into the computer. The CD drawer wouldn't open. So I did what any American male would do. I grabbed a screwdriver and pried the thing open.

Worked like a charm. The prying, I mean. I wasn't able to get the driver to close properly with the CD inside.

That brought me back to my personal laptop. I've tinkered with the thing endlessly for days. I have no technical background aside from what I've learned on my own as the result of my previous computer problems. Somehow, I've managed to resolve -- OK, cross your fingers with me -- the unexpected shutdown problem. All I had to do was remove all the screws holding back all of its circuitry and make a makeshift adjustment to the power receptacle.

But I was still having difficulties with my Internet security and anti-virus program. It refused to work properly, prompting me to consider re-installing it. No go. More problems, this time software related. Just what I needed -- another technical headache.

So today, instead of dropkicking my laptop across my driveway, I gutted the thing. Not physically, but virtually. I guess that's the best way to put it. I completely reformatted the hard drive. I started from zero. Again.

I did this without a hint of technical support. Not so much as even an owner's manual or help screen. It's a testament to nothing more than some of my previous technical issues.

So far, so good. I still don't have everything re-installed, but I'm getting there. This computer, even with its skeletal software contents, is still slow. But at least it's running.

Kinda like me. I've run twice this year -- a 5-mile run on New Year's Day and a 7-miler tonight -- and I feel so slow. Well, actually, I don't feel slow; I feel like I'm running at a decent, comfortable pace. But my watch reminds me that I'm running much slower. What feels like an 8:30-mile turns out to be more like a 9:15- or 9:30-mile. I'll accept that now, in the heart of my offseason. A couple of months from now, when I formally begin my marathon training again, such times will be very much unacceptable.

Fall classic

2005-12-27T09:17:00.000-08:00

I’m a man of many flaws. Too many to count.

There are some things that I just can’t manage to control. Like the laugh that brews deep within me when I witness the misfortune or incredible stupidity of my human brethren.

I can’t help it. It’s hereditary. I get it from my mother.

Show me someone taking an inadvertent shot to the groin or slipping on ice and I laugh uproariously. There’s no stopping it. At least not once I realize the person will survive the pratfall intact.

That explains why America’s Funniest Home Videos ranks among the very few media offerings that can make me laugh aloud. Even when I’m viewing it alone.

Besides being embarrassing, it’s kind of sick, I know. But it all works out because, I’m learning, I can also laugh at myself when I’m my own worst enemy, when I’m the victim of my own stupidity or circumstance.

Like Monday night.

So my mother, Greatest Girlfriend Ever, my dogs and I celebrated a belated Christmas at the house of GGE on Monday night. After dinner, I noted that my dogs appeared in dire need of a trip outside.

Trip outside. I had no idea how literally they wanted to take those two words.

I dutifully put on my hiking boots, grabbed the dogs’ leashes and led them out into the darkness. I marched them – OK, they pulled me – to their usual spot alongside the garage.

As Buster and Champ went about their business, I took in the beauty of a rather balmy December night in Minnesota. The temps had been in the mid-30s so often lately that much of the snow that previously covered the land had melted. I stood in only about three inches of snow and admired the foggy conditions that cloaked the yard.

How could I not drift away mentally under the circumstances? The conditions intrigued me. Leading the dogs out on their leashes – something I don’t have to do at home, thanks to a fenced-in yard -- has become routine as GGE’s yard isn’t fenced. There was nothing to encourage me to keep up my guard.

So I didn’t.

I was standing on a slight slope facing the garage as Champ moved behind me and to my right in an attempt to find a suitable place to make his, um, deposit. Buster, meanwhile, was behind me and to my left, sniffing around. Neither of them pulled his leash taut.

Until the next-door neighbor let his dog out onto his front step.

That moment -- that very instant -- was surreal. I heard the neighbor open his door and I casually turned behind me to see the cause of the noise. Both of my dogs plucked their noses out of the wet snow and quickly craned them in the direction of the noise. They did this far less casually.

Time stood still. Maybe a couple of seconds actually passed, but it felt like I was about to embark on a cartoon-like adventure. Like that moment when Wile E. Coyote flies off a cliff in pursuit of Roadrunner and remains suspended in air momentarily until he realizes gravity is about to kick in.

Gravity kicked in, too. Gravity kick-started by 150 pounds of furry fury suddenly straining to leap to, um, greet the neighbor’s dog. The leashes were slack no more.

Unfortunately, I didn’t release my grip on the leashes. I didn’t have time to. My arms were immediately thrown behind me, almost rag-doll style, as my dogs pulled mightily. I hung on.

My feet didn’t. They slipped out from underneath me.

I did a faceplant into the snow. Apparently 150 pounds of inattentive man is no match for 150 pounds of extremely determined dogs.

I’m not sure which hit first – my face or my chest. It didn’t matter. Both hit equally hard. The snow, what was left of it, provided some cushion – not as much as it might have a couple of days earlier, however – but it was more abrasive than I could’ve ever imaged.

My dogs weren’t content to merely leave me there, lying face-down on the snow-covered slope. Nope, not my overachieving beasts. They insisted on dragging me down the slope – still face-down and feet-first – into the neighbor’s yard. No less than 10 feet.

It didn’t take the neighbor long to take note of my dogs. He hurriedly grabbed his dog and dragged him inside. I’m not sure if he saw what happened to me. I hope not.

Even if he didn’t, my body’s misadventure left perfectly preserved tracks in the snow – much like a chalk-outline of a homicide victim, only in snow – to mark my leash-guided voyage.

I got up quickly and ran the dogs back into the house. Champ never had the opportunity to complete his original mission. I didn’t particularly care. I was shaken. It felt like I had been punched in the chest. I felt an abrasion under my right eye. My left wrist was stiff and the knuckles on my left hand were bleeding.

Buster stood behind me, hunched forward in concern as I assessed the damage. Champ stared at me, wagging his tail in a Wasn't-that-fun? sort of way.

My mother and GGE didn’t initially notice anything amiss upon my return to the house. It didn’t take long, though, before they noticed the snow in my hair and on my sweatshirt.

I told my story. GGE appeared concerned. My mother laughed. I expected as much from her. I wasn’t physically harmed in any serious way and it’s her nature to laugh when her mind paints a picture as amusing as my story.

It’s my nature, too. I laughed more heartily. I wished I could’ve witnessed the episode. Even more, I wished had video of the incident. I could replay it endlessly whenever I might take myself too seriously.

Run to savor

2005-12-26T14:49:00.000-08:00

I didn't want to run today. No way. Not in the conditions that greeted me when I took the dogs out.

Greatest Girlfriend Ever, my dogs and I had traveled to Iowa to spend Christmas with her family. I had brought my running clothes along in case I felt like running. My plan called for me to run only three more times this year and, if the weather was pleasant, I hoped to do one of those runs in Iowa.

Well, the weather wasn't so pleasant Monday morning. The winds at the home of GGE's parents was suffocating. I quickly dismissed any consideration of running in those conditions. It wasn't worth it. I didn't need to run. I'm not in training.

Problem is GGE is one of those gotta-run-everyday freaks. No matter the conditions. So when she asked if I was going to run with her -- did I mention she is also one of those runners who only runs alone? -- I was faced with a decision to make.

Go out in miserably windy conditions to run with GGE or stay at home with her parents and get some dirt to be used later on her life's most embarrassing moments?

The former won out. How could I let her go out and run alone when I could run with her? Especially on this all-too-rare occasion when she's welcoming me a running partner? Apparently she finally realizes I don't run too fast for her in the winter.

So we ran. We didn't run near her family's farmland, where the wind was it's worst. Instead, we drove into the nearest small town and ran the much-less-windy residential areas.

It turned out to be a pleasant run, too, mostly because of the company. In nearly two years, I can count on two hands the number of times GGE and I have run together. She enjoys solitary running. She doesn't like to talk when she runs. She fears she might slow me down if we ran together. She likes sometimes to stop and walk for a while, something she knows I refuse to do. She can provide a litany of reasons, it seems, why she won't run with me. Fortunately, I'm not offended by any of them. And I understand all of them.

So the rare opportunity to join her, to move in mostly silent synchronicity with her, made the run special. But my body felt fairly strong, too. I went from thinking I wouldn't run at all to cranking out almost nine solid miles. That's a feat for me at this time of year when any run over four miles qualifies as an event to me.

It was a good run -- one I almost chose to forego. I glad I didn't. This one will be safely tucked away in my memory bank for some time.

Footprints

2005-12-21T23:59:00.000-08:00

As the end of another year nears, I generally take a few moments to reflect on any number of random things. Today, as I began my initial review of my 2005 training log, it occurred to me that I only added one state -- Iowa -- to the list of states in which I've run.

I ran in a couple of other states this year, but Iowa represented the only state where I hadn't previously left my running footprints. After last year, this qualifies as a slow year.

I ran in no fewer than nine states -- six of them new to me -- in 2004. Last year, thanks(???) to work travel, I added Georgia, Mississippi, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Tennessee. I also added Nebraska when I traveled there to attend a wedding.

With Iowa's addition to my list, I've now run in 17 (shaded in purple) of our 50 states. Not bad, considering I have yet to go out of my way to run in any particular state. My math says I have 33 to go.

Now I think back to the states I visited before I was a runner and a view them as missed opportunities. Someday I'll have to retrace my steps to states like Colorado, Missouri, Nevada, New York, North Dakota, South Dakota, Washington and Wyoming. This time, as a runner.

Half-full or half-empty?

2005-12-21T16:09:00.000-08:00

Today marks the winter solstice in the Northern Hemisphere, that tipping point in our solar year.

What it means for us is two things -- two very different things to me.

The day marks the shortest day of the year. From this point until June 21 the days will grow longer. This is good news. Heck, it's great news.

Sunsets that arrive at 4:30 p.m. are downright depressing, methinks. The thought that, theoretically if not meteorologically, we'll see more sunlight is reason to believe that maybe I can make it through the dreary monotony of winter. The optimist in me rejoices.

Unfortunately, the pessimist in me routinely beats the crap out of the optimist in me. The pessimist wins again today, trumpeting the second meaning of the winter solstice.

Today also represents the first official day of winter. Now that's just plain disheartening. The past month of winter conditions doesn't even count? Not the eight-inch snowfalls or the sub-zero temperatures? Hmmm. It certainly has felt like winter around here for some time. I feel cheated somehow, as if we should get some winter credit for what we've already endured this month. Perhaps we could have the last month of winter, scheduled to end on March 21, wiped out in exchange for what we've experienced since November? I could deal with that. The prospect of a winter ending in February appeals to me.

The thought of three more months of ice, snow and cold temperatures -- likely to be harsher than what November and December brought -- still ahead of us? Not so much.

What this boils down to is perception. I'm not much of a half-full glass kind of guy. But I'm not merely a half-empty guy, either. I'm definitely more of a Who-robbed-me-of-half-the-contents-of-my-glass? guy.

So how do you view this day?

Record-chaser?

2005-12-20T21:55:00.000-08:00

So I'm flipping through the channels late tonight when I wind up at ESPN -- go figure, huh? -- and I hear that Kobe Bryant might be in the process of accomplishing something spectacular. Something, perhaps, along the lines of a record-setting night.

I believe I heard Wilt Chamberlain's name invoked. So imagine my surprise when I learned Bryant had 62 points after three quarters. Funny, Wilt's 100-point performance on March 2, 1962 in Hershey, PA, wasn't the first mark that came to mind.(See the Big Dipper's other record)

Shame on me for not forgetting about Kobe's adventures in Golden, CO. And not immediately recalling Chamberlain's on-court prowess.

Heavy heart

2005-12-15T21:47:00.000-08:00

Even the best heart-rate monitor couldn't have measured what was going on inside my heart as I ran this afternoon.

It was heavy.

In the minutes before I set out for another winter maintenance run, I received a phone call from my best friend. I had been expecting a call from him. His mother was gravely ill and Greatest Girlfriend and I had volunteered to watch his three children tonight so that his wife could join him at his mother's place.

"My mom passed away," he said.

The words cut through me.

His mother's death hadn't been unexpected. She recently discovered she had cancer. Pancreatic cancer at that. It's among the most viciously aggressive forms of cancer. I knew that much when he informed me of her plight last month. The prognosis wasn't good. She probably wouldn't make it far into 2006.

The cancer wouldn't wait that longer. It took her swiftly and prematurely -- she was only 68 -- from her two adult sons.

I was at a loss for words to somehow comfort my friend today. It seems I've usually been the grieving person whom others have unsuccessfully tried to comfort.

What can you really say at such a time? Words failed me. There was nothing I could possibly verbalize to convey my sympathy.

Usually running focuses my mind. I'm at my most creative, my most cogitative, my most introspective when I run. Running did nothing to help me formulate sufficient words of sympathy.

It helped me cope, though. It always does.

I swallowed hard and fought back tears as I began my run. It surprised me to be so profoundly affected by the passing of my best friend's mother.

What was it that seared my heart? Was it sympathy, empathy for my friend? Was it reminder of the fragility of human life? Was it the thought that someday I might face the loss of my own mother?

I couldn't pinpoint the cause. It was likely a combination of all these things and possibly additional others. Whatever it was, it resulted in a most unusual run for me. My muscles and joints somehow carried me while the rest of me was on auto-pilot.

I was overcome by a flood of memories.

My friend's mother -- a single parent like my own mother -- welcomed me into their home so often while I was growing up. As a teenager, I spent more time at their house than I did anyplace outside of my own home.

There were my friend's raucous sleepover parties. The late nights of playing Strat-o-matic baseball in their living room and at their kitchen table. The house-rattling, full-contact Nerf basketball games in my friend's upstairs bedroom. Those precious summer days during our late teens/early 20s when my friend and I engaged in epic fast-pitch whiffleball battles in their driveway, with the garage door taking a merciless beating as our backstop. She cheerfully accepted it all.

His mother helped provide me with memories that will never escape me. The birthday parties she threw for my friend in summers prior to seventh- and eighth-grade years, when she hauled a group of young boys to the St. Croix River, where they would play football on sandbars, have mud fights in the water and eat as much food as they could shove into their faces. She attended so many of our baseball games, cheering wildly with my mother and other parents as we transformed ourselves over the course of three seasons from a winless squad to an undefeated team. She allowed me to join her son and her on a camping trip when I was 15. To this day it's the only time I've been camping. She let me come along when they went mushroom picking, something I also had never done and likely never will again.

She also was there to pick up her son, me and another friend from the airport in 1993 as we returned home from a California vacation that I childishly allowed to strain my friendships for almost four years.

My feet kept moving today, somehow carrying through my run. Meanwhile, my mind kept racing. Today's run wasn't about the run. It was about catharsis. It was about grieving. For once, it didn't matter what how my body felt or my watch told me.

Time was unimportant to today. Except, of course, the time my friend's mother shared with me throughout the years.

Thanks for the memories, Carol. Rest in peace.

Not your usual unit of snow measurement

2005-12-14T21:23:00.000-08:00

Just when I thought I asked so little of my dogs, out of nowhere, something comes along to remind me that I do, indeed, ask great things of them.

OK, this epiphany didn't exactly come out of nowhere. It came out the sky. And it came unremittingly overnight. And then it came some more.

Snow.

More than a half-foot of the white stuff blanketed my backyard today. I'm guessing it was more like eight inches. I can't say for sure.

My dogs can.

If they could speak -- and by speak I mean something slightly more coherent than the gutteral noises emitted by guy who works at the local gas station -- they undoubtedly would inform me of exactly how much snow we received. But they probably wouldn't tell me in terms of a unit of measurement.

Unless, of course, that, um, unit, is, uh, their, um, units.

Yep, we have enough fresh snow to make even the most routine practices uncomfortable for my dogs. One of them, anyway.

The shorter one.

Poor pooch didn't want to leave the porch this morning to do his business. Initially, I couldn't figure out what was keeping him planted within the bare confines of the three-season porch. It wasn't the cold. It was warmer today than it has been in some time. And it couldn't have been the snow. He loves snow. At the very least, he tolerates it very well.

Eventually, he ventured out into the snow. Slowly. Carefully. With all the deliberate movement of a cat burglar.

It was then that I figured it out. The snow measured plumbing-deep to him. He couldn't move through it without experiencing a nippy sensation in a place no male ever wants to be chilled. It was like he was dragging a periscope through the snow.

My other dog, well, he was more fortunate. He stands a few inches taller. Just enough for his plumbing to narrowly clear the height of the snowfall. He went about his business as usual.

I was glad to see him do that. Not half as much as his brother was, however. He allowed the big dog to clear a path for him before he proceeded any farther into the yard.

Made me think that maybe I do expect my dogs to do some rather uncomfortable things.

I promise never to complain about a cold toilet seat ever again.

In case I forget why I live here...

2005-12-13T17:42:00.000-08:00

I interrupt your regularly scheduled blog browsing to deliver the following announcement:

So once upon a time I became involved in a discussion about my native state with an all-too-ignorant co-worker. Why I bother to even waste my breath talking with such people continues to perplex me.

This guy – young, cocky, disheveled, uneducated and living under the terribly misguided premise that he knew everything – traveled to Minnesota to work for a few days. He proceeded to spend those days bad-mouthing my beloved state and driving me crazy.

The weather is terribly here. The land is flat here. The taxes are high here. The women are fat and ugly here.

I repeatedly heard him proclaim such things in front of me. I was offended.

Normally, I would vehemently disagree with everything he said. A full-scale dissertation of all Minnesota has to offer typically would follow, complete with pie charts, footnotes and reams of statistical evidence about its prestigious standing among our 50 states. Instead, I offered only a few tidbits of information for this idiot. I knew any more than that would be superfluous. He resided in, of all places, Alabama.

I had the pleasure of visiting Alabama and much of the South in the weeks prior to this yahoo’s visit to Minnesota. (See how well I can make nice when talking of someone else’s residence?) I purposefully ignored all preconceived stereotypes I had of Southerners before visiting there. My travels, however, quickly confirmed all of those stereotypes.

Still, I didn’t speak negatively of the South while I was there or when I was in the presence of anyone fond of the area. I wish this guy took a similar stance while in Minnesota.

I also wish I had been armed with the sort of ammunition I’ve accidentally stumbled upon recently. There could’ve been a battle of wits. Except the guy was defenseless in any such battle. He seemed incapable of processing anything more complex than a brightly colored pop-up book. And I didn’t have facts I could readily cite.

I do now.

Check out some of this information about Minnesota, in general, and the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, specifically. It’s where I call home. The following data reminds me of the reasons why it remains my home.

Minnesota ranks as America’s “healthiest state,” according to the United Health Foundation, for the 10th time in the past 15 years (http://www.unitedhealthfoundation.org/shr2005/states/AllStates.html).
It’s the fourth-healthiest, according to another ranking (http://www.morganquitno.com/hcrank05.htm).

Minnesota ranks as the second “most-livable” state (http://www.morganquitno.com/sr05mlrnk.htm).

Minnesota ranks as the sixth-smartest state based on education rankings (http://www.morganquitno.com/edrank.htm).

Minnesota ranks seventh in personal per capita income (http://www.census.gov/statab/ranks/rank29.html).

Minnesota is the 15th-safest state (http://www.morganquitno.com/dangsaf05.htm).

Additionally, Minnesota has been the birthplace of many things we now find indespensible, including Scotch tape, the thermostat, the stapler, and the first super computer, the first Better Business Bureau, to name a few (http://www.50states.com/facts/minn.htm).

Praise for the Twin Cities includes the following:

“Most Fun City In America” by Money magazine

“Best City for Children” by USA Today

“Cities That Rock,” No. 3 by Esquire magazine

“Third-best City for Families” by Child magazine

“Cleanest City” by AOL Travel and Travel + Leisure

“#1 City for Entrepreneurs” by Entrepreneur magazine

And, of course, I would be remiss as a marathon runner if I didn't add that the Twin Cities Marathon is "America's Most Beautiful Urban Marathon."

Alabama, incidentally, consistently ranks near the bottom of every livability index encompassing major socioeconomic factors.

Now, having finally gotten that off my chest after a couple of years, I'll patiently wait for a kickback from the Minnesota Office of Tourism.

I now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

"...but they don't fall down."

2005-12-12T15:37:00.000-08:00

I survived my first near-fall of the season tonight. Barely.

I was just past of the halfway point of my four-mile maintenance run -- my first after-dark run of the season, incidentally -- when it happened. My left foot veered off the hard-packed snow on the trail and landed on the pavement. Except it wasn't just pavement under my footfall. It was some greasy snow/slush/ice combination that my headlamp didn't detect as a ran around a curve.

Suddenly, an otherwise routine run turned into an adventure, albeit momentarily.

My left foot skidded across the ground, the rest of the attached leg hovering above its path. Reflexively, my hip locked, my back arched and I threw my right arm out amid the cold, thick, December air. Somehow, I managed to catch myself, not unlike a nimble halfback running wide left before quickly correcting his course to surge forward toward the end zone pylon.

I survived the slip in deft fashion, thanks to my equilibrium and quick-responding muscles. Penguins have nothing on me. I was built to survive these conditions. I have a touch of Weeble Wobble to me. My flat feet, ample hips and lack of vertical stature keep me keenly prepared for ill footing. Even when I don't see it coming.

So what if I wasn't so graceful in staying upright? No one was present to judge my solitary movements and deduct cool points from me. It was too dark to see anyway. Only an inquisitive owl tall in the trees saw what had happened. Or nearly happened. And the owl wasn't nearly as concerned with what happened or how it happened as it was with who was involved.

The episode startled me. I had been running for 18 minutes with nary a thought about precarious footing. Now, in the wake of my near-fall, I became obsessed with whatever might or might not be under my feet.

My body tightened throughout the rest of my run. My legs and hips remained poised to defend against any similar encounters with a slick surface. It hampered my time, not to mention the mental and physical enjoyment I typically garner from my runs. But I survived unscathed.

Score one for the runner with a good sense of balance.

All too predictable

2005-12-07T21:56:00.000-08:00

Just a quick NBA note.

I tuned in to the final moments of the Timberwolves game tonight -- the only moments worth watching in any NBA game these days are the waning minutes -- in time to catch an impressive comeback, even by NBA standards.

The team was in Portland finishing a four-game West Coast swing when its lackluster play against the Trailblazers jeopardized its three-game winning streak. The Wolves staggered through the first three quarters. They trailed by 14 points early in the fourth quarter.

Predictably, they made a late-game comeback. It's the NBA, after all. The league is like a Downtown Minneapolis singles bar at closing time -- everyone makes a late run.

The only question was whether the Wolves would be able to erase their 14-point deficit. Surprisingly, they did. Led by Wally Szczerbiak and Marko Jaric, they went on a 19-2 run en route to an 84-74 victory.

Jaric was especially fun to watch. He had a steal, a couple of key rebounds and, of course, several points late. Figures. Just as it is in those Downtown singles bars, it's always the unshaven European who inexplicably scores most at the end of the night.

The good life

2005-12-07T13:02:00.000-08:00

I'm not going to complain about my life. There's no reason to. Not now. Not ever, I hope.

I have it good. There's no reason for me to envy anyone or anything.

But my life isn't even the best one in my house, it seems. My dogs don't just live in my house. They live in my house. You would have to read my mortgage to know that they don't own it.

Unfortunately, they can't read.

So they take advantage of some rather comfy quarters. They live like kings. They pay nothing for it.

They live like royalty in exchange for nothing more than undying loyalty.

They have a roof over their heads, sheltering them from the harsh elements. They have comfortable places in which to rest their heads -- and you wouldn't believe how much they abuse this privilege. They're fed regularly. They get all the water they can drink. They get regular exercise. They have more toys -- or pieces of now-unrecognizable toys -- than I can count. They travel with me to the bank, to my mother's house, to Great Girlfriend Ever's house. Heck, they even get entertainment via Animal Planet.

They live quite the life.

It wasn't always this way for them.

Both are rescued dogs.

I discovered Champ in November 2000, less than two months following the premature passing of one of my other dogs due to complications from epilepsy. I had been searching for a dog similar to the one I had just lost. I was looking for a black lab/border collie mix. Something athletic. Friendly. Smart as a whip.

I had searched the local shelters for weeks, making periodic visits to interact with the four-legged being that might someday cohabitate with me. I had narrowed my list to two dogs when, on the Sunday I was set to make my decision, I came across another dog on the Internet who possessed the characteristics I sought. I decided to make one last dog-shopping visit. Literally, a last-minute visit.

I encountered a shy, insecure, thin dog named Robbie.

This dog's history was depressing. He had been in the no-kill shelter for more than six months -- estimated to been more than half of his life at that point -- after being discovered homeless. He lived in a small kennel for months, enjoying only periodic ventures outside and very limited human and canine interaction. He was treated well at the shelter, for sure, but clearly his time there had proven dispiriting. And there was no indication anyone would come along to liberate him anytime soon.

Despite this dog's seemingly reserved manner, I knew immediately we were a match.

I brought him home and introduced him to my way of life. Soon, he was renamed -- a dog of his speed, endurance and agility deserved a more apt name than Robbie -- Champ. He became, just as I suspected he would, more than a dog. He became a friend, a faithful companion, a running partner. We logged more than 600 miles together in 2001.

He has grown since then. Physically, he has filled out without yielding any of his athleticism. Socially, he's generally an excitable, outgoing gentleman. Intellectually, he's too smart for me.

Champ almost didn't become a member of my household. Besides the other similar dogs I considered adopting, there was another that I had the opportunity to take in around the same time.

My co-worker's wife worked as a community service officer for a local police department. One morning an officer discovered a discarded puppy at the door of a neighborhood store. The puppy, only a couple of weeks old, was destined for the Humane Society and whatever his future might hold there. But my co-worker and his family stepped up and opened their home to the puppy.

Problem was, their house was already filled with two small children, multiple cats and a mature dog that was none-too-welcoming of the newfound puppy. My co-worker suggested I take the puppy.

I love dogs, but it seemed like the puppy, which they named Buster, might be a good fit for my co-worker's family, if somehow their other dog ever gave the newcomer a chance. Besides, I was looking for a running dog, something along the lines of border collie/lab mix. And I knew all too well how much difficulty puppies could be.

About nine months later, well after Champ had become a fixture in my house, a situation dictated that my co-worker's family downsize their pet population. Buster had to go.

The sucker in me took over. With Buster again facing shelter life, I stepped forward this time and took him in. Only he wasn't supposed to be for me. Originally, the plan was for my mother to have Buster. After all, she shares my fondness for dogs and old age recently had claimed the life of her dog.

Buster wasn't a fit for my mother. Heck, he wasn't for me, either. He was rambunctious, inquisitive and destructive. Oh, was he destructive. To the tune of multiple pieces of furniture, books, shoes, you name it. I had expected as much from such a young dog.

I think we shared a mutual disdain for each other during those first several months together. I tired quickly of his destructive ways. He tired of ignoring my reprimands. Champ didn't exactly warm up to him either.

Slowly -- way, way too slowly -- Buster learned what was expected of a dog in my house. He learned how to socialize, how to remain alone for a moment with chewing something apart, how to run like a big dog.

Learning didn't come easily for him. Still doesn't. It's not that he's not intelligent. He's just obstinate.

He's fiercely loyal -- he doesn't allow me to leave his sight -- and overly friendly. He's also a runner, even if his respiratory system isn't ideally suited to such activity. He joined Champ to log more than 450 running miles with me in 2002.

The two have become inseparable over the years. Champ still displays aloof tendencies occasionally, but Buster, as he does with virtually everything else, ignores them and tags along wherever Champ goes. They're the best of friends. They're brothers.

They're like brothers to me, too. It's the only way I can think of them and still be comfortable with how little rent they pay while taking advantage of my generosity.

They live great lives. And I'm all too happy to provide them with their numerous luxuries. Even if sometimes it seems they lead better -- certainly more relaxing -- lifestyles than I do.

Admiration or concern?

2005-12-05T12:46:00.000-08:00

Check out the weather we're enduring here in Minnesota. Just take a gander at the "Hometown Weather" section in my sidebar. It's just a little cold.

As I type, it says that the forecast high for today is a not-so-balmy 9 degrees. The low is 0. It says the current temp is 7 degrees Fahrenheit, or -14 Celsius for you metric fiends. Other outlets indicate 7 degrees is optimistic; it's actually a few degrees colder than that in our neck of the woods.

That qualifies as cold to me. Even in December.

Yet Greatest Girlfriend Ever runs in these conditions. Everyday. Every day.

I don't know whether to admire her for that -- I haven't run in conditions that cold since last January and I'm not sure I'll bring myself to run in single-digit temps again -- or have concern for her sanity.

This is a woman routinely who wears five layers around the house if the thermostat dips below 70 degrees. Her range of tolerable temperatures goes from 65 degrees to 85 degrees. Heck, she shivers at the mere mention of Dairy Queen.

Yet she bundles up every morning and plods her way through the snow and bone-chilling conditions to log her daily seven-mile run. I don't know how she does it. I'm much better adjusted to cold weather than she'll ever be, but I'm a winter-running wuss. She makes me feel even wimpier.

Still, I applaud her. I applaud her consistency. Her determination. Her love of running. Her desire to maintain her fitness.

I applaud her compulsive nature when it comes to running. At least I think I do. It seems healthy enough. And it's inspiring to me. Plus, it's probably the one area in which her compulsion dwarfs my various compulsions.

COOKIE!

2005-12-03T09:36:00.000-08:00

No one has ever inquired about this, but just in case you ever get the urge to one of those silly get-to-know-you-better questions like, If you were a Sesame Street character, which would you be? I'll save you the trouble.

Cookie Monster.

Yep, that would be me. It's a shock, I know.

Most people would have me pegged as an Oscar The Grouch kind of guy. Must be my warm and effervescent personality.

It wouldn't be any other character. I'm pretty good with numbers and I mentally survive marathons mostly because I work mileage fractions in my head for three and a half hours at a time, but I wouldn't be The Count.

I'm not tall enough to be Big Bird. I have no desire for the sort of all-too-cozy relationship Bert and Ernie have, so I wouldn't be them either. Grover? Too annoying. Elmo? Don't think so.

Sorry, nice try. I'm definitely a Cookie Monster guy. Despite my otherwise-healthy lifestyle, I'm helpless when it comes to cookies. Not all cookies, though. Just the good ones. The ones with chocolate chips or peanut butter or nuts or frosting or colorful sprinkles.

OK, I like 'em all.

But I'm especially a sucker for sugar-laden Christmas cookies. You know, the ones that would send a diabetic to the emergency room with even the slightest whiff. Mmmm. Like little slices of heaven to my tastebuds. What can I say? I have a sweet tooth.

So imagine the nirvana when Greatest Girlfriend Ever suggested we bake some on a cold Friday night. How could I refuse, even if it meant I had to play domestic for a couple of hours? The reward was too great to resist.

We made more than four dozen individual masterpieces. I can't take a whole lot of credit for them. I helped with the cutting -- even eschewing the handy metal cutters to carve a few freehand -- and the decorating, but little more. GGE put together the dough and frosting from scratch. I'm almost ashamed I didn't have a greater role. But, GGE, I promise you this: I will be more helpful when it comes to eating the cookies.

They won't comprise the portion of my diet I wish they would, however. GGE is on top of this. She knows my weakness. She has fabricated reasons why we can't eat them yet. She says she's going to save them for the coming weeks when she has family and friends at her house. She's freezing them until then, picking and choosing the rare moments when her deserving boyfriend has earn a small ration.

Gotta love that. She's saving me from myself.

Of course, I don't love it quite as much as I would the opportunity to devour the cookies by the fistful until I become ill.

Harbinger?

2005-12-01T12:00:00.000-08:00

I don't believe in things like crystal balls, horoscopes, palm reading or tarot cards.

I do believe in fortune cookies. I believe I like them very much. The often nonsensical tidbits of portending information offered inside them? Not so much.

Still, I read every one I encounter. Unlike some people, however, I don't read them just to add the words "...in bed" to the end of every fortune. I'm just a voracious reader of things that don't require a commitment of more than five minutes to read.

So I'm blowing through a stack of fortune cookies recently and discarding the enclosed fortunes one after another. I'm not impressed with what these cookies say is impending for me. I'm similarly unimpressed by the "Learn Chinese" tutorial on the backside of the fortunes. I mean, when am I ever going to need to know how to say "sisterhood" in another language? At least the supposedly omniscient writers of the fortunes are making good use of both sides of their half-inch-by-two-inch slivers of crisp, white, cookie crumb-crusted paper.

Then I open my last fortune. Forebodingly, it reads: "Your luck is going to change."
Hmmm. I know there's nothing factual about this statement, other than that change is constant in all things in life. But it sounds ominous enough to me.

Just what does that mean? Is my luck going to become better? Should I race out and buy lottery tickets, enlisting my allegedly "lucky" numbers alsonlisted on the back of the fortune? Or is my luck, whatever I might have, going suddenly going south, and not just for the winter?

It gave me too much to ponder. What if I think I'm a rather lucky guy, all things considered, and I don't want my luck to change? What about that? Should I brace myself for an onslaught of incredible misfortune?

It was simply too much for me to digest mentally. A single simple declarative sentence that's delivered to me as a cuisine accessory shouldn't haven been so thought-provokingly sidetracking. But it was just that for several minutes, even though I don't believe in such things.

And I have yet to begin to consider the possibilities of "Your luck is going to change...in bed."

Resistence is futile

2005-11-28T17:25:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-26T15:49:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-25T21:32:00.000-08:00

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!!!

2005-11-24T21:40:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-23T21:55:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-22T21:46:00.000-08:00

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?

2005-11-21T21:51:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-20T21:52:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-19T15:47:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2005-11-18T21:59:00.001-08:00

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.

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!

2005-11-17T13:10:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-16T17:10:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-15T18:11:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-13T13:29:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-13T11:47:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-12T18:26:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-11T17:24:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-10T16:31:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-08T17:51:00.000-08:00

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.