While I may have reached the end off winter 1999-2000 already, let's take a moment to backtrack before continuing on our way.
In the fall of my junior year, my aging bike became what we affectionately called The Village Bicycle. I now had three roommates and couldn’t store it in my dorm room, so I locked it up outside. Then my roomies wanted to borrow it, so I stopped bothering with the lock. It had a brief but healthy life in the courtyard, its condition slowly worsening as weather and rider abuse took their tolls.
Worse, though, was that it would occasionally go missing -- taken by some stray traveler looking for a quick way home. I would find it mysteriously parked elsewhere, like in front of a building across campus, then find it even more mysteriously perched somewhere else, like atop a hedge.
This was not the nadir of my transportational life. Having made several friends while at school, I was now able to borrow the cars of a few of them. My bike was in bad condition and only getting worse: I hadn't brought it to a bike shop and didn't know how to properly maintain its moving parts. It was, day by day, week by week, month by month, grinding to a dirt-crusting-grease-borne halt. I would not mourn its passing, though, as it was old enough to seem more like a bone-weary geriatric than a youth struck down in its prime.
There was nothing left that the bike needed to give me, so I didn’t demand much of it.
To be clear, that doesn’t mean I didn’t try riding it. I would still sometimes hop on for the adventure to the airport. Trip times stayed pretty consistent because even though I was stronger than I had been two years earlier, the massive and daily-increasing drag on every bike component made up for those gains. This Mercurial resonance between companions carried me through the start of junior year until winter shrouded us once again.
To be young again and be able to tolerate such poor equipment! I have since tasted the sweet scent of a high-end bike’s elegant touch, savored her silent beauty, and I don’t think I could handle the rusty corpse of the Village Bicycle anymore. I mean, unless really pressed, in which case I’d spend the $200 it would take to just fix the damn thing. (But hey, that was 2 hours of instructed flight!)
In January, I went to Japan for a class. Or whatever J-Term is for.
Every day, I explored a novel neighborhood, taking new turns and getting thoroughly lost. In Tokyo, it would occasionally rain, and I would delight in the feeling like being at home. When we went to Kyoto, I ran through slush, my shoes thoroughly soaked by a trek up to one of the temples and across the old Edo palace. In Karuizawa, I nearly lost my toes after taking a wrong turn and spending an hour in 25-degree conditions wearing wet cotton socks; I stopped and spent a few thousand yen on some warm socks that I have to this day.
Japan was lovely, from bustling throngs of people clinging to a very personal half square meter of sidewalk to dark alleys where the middle class stumbled from geisha houses to intensely kind and giving families who lived like early-20th century city dwellers but used the most modern conveniences possible outside the home. It was a shocking revelation to my 20-year old character, thrust into an intense immersion among people whose culture was so foreign but whose generosity so upper-Midwest familiar.
As the trip would down, I was running longer distances by virtue of having forgotten about the time: in Tokyo, our group hardly measured time before 9:30 a.m. -- except the day we went to the Tskuji fish market. And by 9:30 I would have been up for several hours, usually splitting those between pounding pavement and stuffing myself with a wholesome breakfast.
The brutal winds of Minnesota brought me back to reality, but I took more late-night runs and enjoyed the eerie calm of Tuesdays at 1 a.m. An hour running no longer seemed particularly difficult (as long as I was appropriately dressed), and I was readily lost in thought after 20 minutes to the extent that 20 more minutes would simply disappear.
My relationship with the Village Bicycle was also not to last into the spring. Before winter was over, that once-blazing saddle had been outright thieved. I’m not sure who would steal such a lowly machine, nor sure why someone would bother: the outdated, rusty components couldn’t have brought more than a few bucks on the secondary market, and eBay was in its infancy. (I’m proud to be such an early user of that service that I possess a 4-letter name; I joined Twitter so late that I had to settle for 5 letters, none of which is a vowel except in Welsh.) Nevertheless, one day the bicycle I had bought those many years before disappeared into the Minnesota mists, and not even a search of the local shrubbery revealed its whereabouts.
The quest for a new steed took very little time as one of my roommates, who hadn’t ridden in years, offered his 4-year old, exceedingly light mountain bike with clipless pedals. I had never and have never been a particularly strong mountain rider, more of a casual trail rider who had some positive and negative experiences trying to go fast down hills. But that bike changed my riding habits, and it lasted another 6 years. (Flash forward those 6 years: I thoroughly destroyed the bottom bracket, derailleur, and front chainring one riding season, kept it as a single speed for a couple seasons, and on my way out of town gave all the pieces to a friend; that friend stayed one more year, but he abandoned the bike in storage in Ithaca, only to return 8 years later to find it still locked in the basement. He decided to give it a proper burial, cutting the lock, bringing it to a lake near Boston, and giving it a final ride before pushing it in.)
Whatever its ultimate fate would be, I suddenly had a bike worth using for fun. When another roommate, Tyson, brought back his two-wheeler from home, we decided to ride around the area and explore, something I hadn’t really done. To that point, I had only ever run about 8 miles at a time, and my rides were almost exclusively utilitarian. Sure, I’d done loops on my own a couple times, but typically these were short, like an hour or less, and focused on the town. I didn’t stress myself on them because I wasn’t working out so much as getting out.
With a riding buddy and an improved vehicle, I had reason to strap on my old film camera, and we’d ride out of town or to abandoned lots. We rode through the floods that spring, where I got a beautiful photo of a horse standing forlornly outside its barn, an island spared by the rising waters. I took pictures of Tyson riding and crashing, images of the bike parts in various settings, and stills of flat farmlands as far as the eye could see. It was all quite satisfying.
But it wasn’t satisfying for the rides -- those were tangential to the experience. I was satisfied by the exit, the feeling of going somewhere and doing something, the idea that I was embracing freedom. Riding was a means to that freedom, but it didn’t represent freedom by any stretch of the imagination. For the most part, I was growing up and making my own decisions; riding and running were expressions of the firm positive slope of the advancing age of a 20-something.
Spring burst from the trees and fields around me, and I became more obsessed with running and biking and volleyball. If the sun was out, I tried to be as well. I was vernal.
Alas, such days came and went quickly, the brilliant sunshine and upper-70s supplanted by hotter times, rolling thunderstorms, then exams and graduation. I could feel my time at school winnowing, a watch unwound deforming all sense of time.
When I went back to Port Angeles, I doubt I registered the finality of that move. It did not occur to me then but in retrospect bears a hint of melancholy that this would be my last time spending a summer there. Done now with cooking, I worked on one of the ferries across the Strait of Juan de Fuca, riding downtown to the docks about 3 blocks from the old newspaper office and the restaurant. The hours passed like hiccups: bursts of activity connected by anticipation.
Our job was simple. In the morning, one of us would go to the grocery story to get lunch while the others scrubbed the saltwater from the vessel's hull and windows. We would load carts of luggage, take on passengers, then push away from the docks. For an hour, the deep blue waters of the Pacific Northwest surrounded us. We would slide peacefully into Victoria's harbor, swiftly tie off, send the passengers on their way, and take on the return voyagers. Back and forth, three times a day, the only real gap near noon when we cooked lunch in the galley and made up for missing maintenance time.
Each day, 12 hours end-to-end, I became more accustomed to this transitional water-and-land post. And each evening when I finished the ride back up, my legs were worn out from all-day use, but I would will myself to run a 4-mile loop that combined my two old loops and added a half mile or so. I always ran with my stick, and the locals all recognized me.
I did that the three or four days a week I was working, taking the other days to run slightly longer distances and play lacrosse with whoever happened to be around. I turned 21, celebrated with a single beer at a local bar (Full Sail IPA, for the curious) with a coworker, and kept up the wholly unregimented but active lifestyle I had established.
I met the owner of the Victoria Shamrocks and flew up to watch a game. That test of my instrument rating was both frightening and exhilarating (at least for me -- my passengers might just go with frightening). After an uneventful flight over and an exciting game featuring both Gait brothers, we made our way back to the airport north of town and took off into the night. I flew high above the Strait, worried at an engine failure, and saw the bank of clouds that moved in from the coast to obscure Port Angeles.
We joined the approach path normally and descended, but my palms were sweaty; this was my first real approach with an indefinite cloud height. The backup plan would be to fly one or two towns over and wait, probably until morning, though I didn't know how that might play out.
Pillowy whiteness became a hard steely gray of impending rain as we pressed onward and downward. At 200 feet, I caught only the runway lights making a faint “U” at the edge of my vision; 30 feet lower, the apparition of “08” was floating through the fog. We touched down without a problem, and, adrenaline-soaked, I initially forgot to taxi over to the customs office. The guy we were slated to meet was surprisingly fine with this little oversight.
All-in-all, it was a great summer, even more because I would never again be a local. A native perhaps, but this was the last time I would live or be employed in the town where I grew up. (At least, up to now. I mean, really, what can any of us say about the future? And have you seen Back to the Future II? There might be dozens of futures where I live in PA. Scary.)
But it too would come to an end. I went back to college one last time.
Next up: Graduation!
Mash out. Spin on.
The frigid days of Minnesota winter sparkled at first, then turned to bitter, wind-blasted domes of difficult chill. I once again found myself carrying a stick cloaked in a scarf, tucking my chin into a red neck warmer, an ear-warming headband covered by a bright blue hat as I battled the elements each day. For a week at a time, we would suffer through this hockey-ready prairie, then celebrate a reprieve of a day or two within an icy spitball of liquid water.
And every one of these, I ran, 4 miles at a time, sometimes doubled up on those evening when the homework was done early or I couldn't sit another moment watching friends play computer games.
That year, 1999, when spring finally broke and the birds returned, I once again upped my game. Each day, a few more steps: I lengthened my daily routine until it was a little shy of 5 miles and included a hefty dose of post-run gym time. And I also delighted in sports -- volleyball, lacrosse, soccer -- and generally "got better", earning the speed and endurance that carried me like spores on the wind.
Graduation week that year found me on my longest run ever, an 8-mile loop. By today's standards (I mean, literally, today's), that's not a particularly long run, but at the time it felt like forever. I remember the sensation of tingling pain at the effort, and it seems likely about $20 worth of food went into my gullet after the fact. But graduation came, went, and disappeared from memory, and I returned to Port Angeles to bask in the Northwestern cloudshine.
Summer passed the same way it had the previous year: working at the restaurant, running after work, riding in between. I don’t remember anything else, so I can unconfidently -- and with no evidence to the contrary -- say nothing else happened.
That autumn marked the start of my third year of undergrad. I had already developed what would be considered a “base” in that I could run pretty hard for 30 minutes without a second thought (with a lacrosse stick), and I could put in an hour as needed. I had also been relatively injury-free since the ball-to-the-eye incident.
When the school held a race that autumn, I signed up because it seemed like some sort of entertainment. The course wound through town and back up to campus, taking us through parts of town that I knew only barely. It was probably a 5k, or at least listed as a 5k, and I took that shortness as permission to go for a run that morning and take on the course in the afternoon.
This was my first ever race.
I had no idea how I would fare in a competitive forum. I knew I was fast -- because, let’s face it, I’m just damn good at pretty much everything -- but I had never “trained” like the cross country team did. And surely there would be others there who were playing other sports who would be able to beat me.
That having been said, I heard murmurs of projected times and was pretty sure I was going to beat almost everyone. Bolstering this, having played intramural soccer the previous year (and as was my experience with soccer players in high school -- several of whom ended up on the lacrosse team), even the people who should have been my primary competition at that distance were no match for my endurance. Sure, they could outrun me on single downfield sprints in the first half of a game, but I could do back-to-back runs that they wouldn’t hope to manage, and by the end of a match I was running all over them, wearing them down even more. (I would later take advantage of this during indoor soccer to the same effect. I would later later tear my ACL attempting to take advantage of this during indoor soccer, which we shall surely get to.)
What was that a digression from? Oh yes. The morning of the race, I went for a run. That afternoon, I lined up with about 40 other people, and, carrying my stick as always just because I couldn’t think of running without it, started my first official 5k-ish. But that distance isn't important right now.
What is important is that the run went off. In front were eight or so members of the cross country team. And then me. The whole race, that’s how it went: always just behind the lead group, I worked my way around the course, finishing 9th and well ahead of 10th. At least that’s how I remember it. And the beauty of writing about events that happened 15 years ago that happened in middle-of-nowhere Minnesota is that records are limited, so this is now The Definitive Source of that information. It’s a fact!
It was my worst race result until after knee surgery.
But it was still top 25%. And more importantly, I knew I was good.
After the race, the cross country coach attempted his second recruitment pitch. Unfortunately, cross country season overlaps with the initial lacrosse practice season. I had to refuse, but I was now flattered with the attention.
It’s hard to say what that crazy event did to me. But it’s easy to say what it didn’t do to me: it didn’t turn me into a runner. I was either already that, or far from that. I’m still having trouble deciding which. But, even more than is the case with facts, the beauty of looking back on feelings with a 15-year buffer is that I have the opportunity to consider the question.
I went through winter the way I usually do, this time doing more midnight runs. I was now a pretty typical college drinker -- occasional bingeing, frequent casual use -- but I wasn’t 21 yet, so going to the bar was right out. It wasn’t exactly a training plan, though: once a month or so, I went for a longer run late at night when nobody was paying attention.
The year's end was swiftly approaching, perhaps as swift as my pace.
I’d like to take a moment to back this whole discussion up. Pretty much every runner training manual will tell you that you need to do “core work” to keep in shape properly.
Since I’m not one to go against convention, please accept this advice if you want to start running: work on your core strength. Having dispensed such oregano wisdom, I may now take up personal training.
Here are some workouts you might do, noting of course that I am not a doctor, nor am I yet a personal trainer:
0. Sit-ups. These actually don’t do much, but they’re better than nothing. And they give you muscle definition that makes you feel pretty much like an Odinic reincarnation. What I like is that they’re easy to start and easy to increase to a plateau. What sucks is how destructive they get above that plateau. And how much they can screw up your back. And that's why these get the number "0".
1. Planks. Having destroyed your back with sit-ups, now try planks! They appropriately strengthen your back and abs. And we all know that some people can plank for quite a while, which is pretty cool. If you aren’t trained for them, it’s easy to think you can too; believe me, you can’t -- it takes months upon months of regular planking to do this safely, because there are so many stabilizing muscles involved. Of course, unlike sit-ups, you kind of look like an ass while doing planks, so use them wisely (and probably privately).
2. Lunges. Most people think of these as a leg workout, but they’re amazing for strengthening your central axis. Unless you fall over, in which case they’re a compression test on half your body. Side note: if you mix lunges and running, you’re exposed to the threat of pure quad pain. Just, you know, so you're aware.
3. Leg-ups. Dangle from a bar and do leg lifts, either by moving your whole legs from vertical to horizontal, or by lifting your knees. You can do the knee lifts straight ahead or to the sides, as desired. This is often done by dangling from an apparatus that has arm cradles, so it’s more of a gym kind of thing. Or a big house kind of thing. If you’re just starting out, a gym membership is a pretty expensive investment, and a big house is (in most places) even more costly, so perhaps invest in bank robbery kit beforehand. (Bonus: If you're caught, you probably will get to the gym elsewhere, but in a more, um, structured environment.)
Next up: The Village Bicycle!
Mash out. Spin on.
I hadn’t fancied myself a distance runner, but in the shape I was in, there was no reason not to try.
Let's get some terminology out of the way first, though. In the late-90s, "long-distance running" referred to things longer than 5k. A cross country runner was effectively at the lower end of this scale, while marathoners were considered -- by about 99.99% of the population -- the top end. The ultramarathon was essentially unknown, outside of a few highly isolated enclaves of running nuts. (I notice that the word "ultramarthon" is still underlined here, indicating that while it exists as a phenomenon that can be discussed, it has not transcended into common culture yet; give it a couple years.)
Of course, the classic definitions of runners have always been tiered, essentially based on what kind of work the runner is doing during the event. The one-lap runs are considered "short"; these runs require that you stay in your lane on the track, and they're usually done at or near anaerobic capacity. The 400m is a particularly difficult distance, since it sits between the slightly sub-anaerobic 200m and the clearly aerobic 800m. The low-length multi-lap events -- 800m, 1-mile/1500m/1600m (depends on the competition context), and 2-mile/3000m -- are the so-called "middle" distances, distances that can be hammered out by the best runners in 10 minutes or less and only begin to involve strategies against other runners. Click up a number of laps to the 5000m and 10000m, and we arrive at the traditional "long" distances, endurance distances, persistence distances, distances that require planning and pacing and aerobic capacity, distances where mental focus and emotional state can become impediments to success.
And hanging like a golden unicorn far beyond all these is the marathon, that invented 26.2-mile race whose true origins have been multiply documented but are still bathed in appeals to ancient glory, a mythology which seems unlikely to die.
But advancing like the volume of ink spilled over the technological glory of running footwear, these distances are becoming more prolific, a sea of descriptors that are hard to discuss without a well-established background. I have my own descriptors (listed below), but I'll try to contextualize any words I use so the writing here is more clear. Hopefully you'll figure it out pretty quickly.
The color codings indicate sprints (red), power run (yellow), distance run (green), and endurance run (blue).
Using these terms a 10k is not a long distance at all, but a standard distance run. Recall that my daily go-to was about 4 miles, which is a little shy of a 10k but clearly longer than a short power run 2-miler. To someone running a standard or long distance, a mile is a warmup or a cooldown, so a 2-mile run doesn't include the actual run at all. (To someone doing an endurance event, a mile has to be part of the event or it's a waste of energy.)
As noted, though, I'll contextualize as much as possible, though I may fall back on these definitions every once in a while. They're pretty well burned into my skull at this point, since they're how I evaluate daily training and race potential.
So right, where was I? Oh yes, the term "distance runner". By distance I (now obviously) don’t necessarily mean marathons. We’re talking 4-10 miles here, firmly in the standard-to-pretty long distance frames.
And any increases would avoid big jumps, because the ladies were already impressed. Or because I didn't know how to get over the next hump. Remember, I was a running addict at the time, but not an adrenaline junkie: if it actually hurt, I wasn’t particularly interested.
I strongly advise this motto for anyone who’s interested in running as a hobby rather than an athletic pursuit. Pain -- the good kind, not the kind associated with injuries that need to be allowed to heal -- will only lead to longer distances or faster times, and it will rarely offer some huge improvement in the way you’ll feel about running if you’re not already interested.
You might hear about the runner’s high as though it’s some euphoria with an up that only dissipates when you've stopped. Writers will often suggest to the unwary potential runner that leaving the neighborhood on foot can get you a taste of the runner's high, and from there it's just a hop, skip, jump, and maybe a few happy somersaults through rainbow-painted fields of unicorns dancing with alpacas to the bliss of 5-milers, and from there you might just be ready for your first marathon. The reality is that if you run longer at a time, the runner’s high plateaus (for me this is somewhere around Mile 8), then eventually fades to the background before your body goes into a deep, deep sinkhole of regret and agony. If you like sinkholes of regret and agony, endurance running may be for you! If you prefer just the high, figure out where the high stops (it's usually in the distance run range), back it off a bit from that distance, and call it a day.
Er, where am I in this narrative again?
Ah. Distance runs to date were standard length, featuring upwards of 6 miles of wandering, undirected running. I doubt I was making a pace below 7:30 minute miles, but it's entirely possible; I didn't know my pace until grad school, and when I found out it was a little shocking. (My most recent pacing information came from "racing" as a pre-teen in Hershey track meets, where I was always the odd man out who did the 100m in 15-16 seconds and thought that was about as fast as a person could go.)
After one fine spring day, it was approaching 11 p.m., and one of my neighbors suggested we do what he called The Bus Route, a more substantial kick-out than my daily 4. It was purported to be done by members of the cross country team. I didn’t know what the name meant, but because I was easy as a cucumber and cool like Sunday morning, I immediately agreed. That name is evocative. It sounds mysterious and shady, like a run that ends in a high school prank. But now you get to learn the secret of “The Bus Route”, and alas, I promise only disappointment.
We got a posse of four together and shoe-leathered out the door a little after midnight. The course started on my normal route, but at the typical turnaround a mile and change off campus, we kept going. Remember that this is rural Minnesota, so roads are at least ¼ mile apart. It just so happens that the next road isn’t for almost ¾ mile, and the road we were on wasn’t a typical quarter-mile route but a highway that curved off. About 3 miles into the run, we made the turn, ran by the the bus farm (hence the name; are you disappointed yet?), and made our way back on the road that I normally took home, but now 3 miles from the end instead of 2 and change miles from the end.
The total couldn’t have been much more than 6 miles, but at the time it was (a) the longest run I’d ever done and (b) my second run of the day. Remember that the First Training Plan includes these two-a-days, but I never considered doing one with extra distance thrown in.
Two of the other runners that night were completely wiped out by the trip. I enjoyed the sensation of being outside at midnight, which of course I could have gotten by just walking outside. There was, I must admit, something different about this feeling. But no, I didn’t want to do it regularly; this was a special event, I thought, and while I might do another one, it was more of a social run. In a way, it reminded me of tennis-hockey: going out with friends, feeling free in the late night air, heavy exertion followed by a long adrenaline let-down when you’ve got nothing going on in the morning. (I think I had a German class at 8 a.m., but I was willing to show up tired.)
It was around the time of that excursion that we resumed our sand volleyball games. And each one we did, I started thinking about that night. Over and over it turned, rounding any edges it might have had until it was an exquisite object of desire.
Finally, weeks later, I did the run again, this time with one other person. We set out on a beautiful spring night, and when we got back, I only wanted more of these blissfully quiet and perspirant sessions. Surely there was variety out there too.
I was, well and truly, being sucked in.
Next up: A Race! Finally!
Mash out. Spin on.
Two towns over was an aviation school, and I resumed my flight lessons there. One balmy autumn day, I filled an old backpack -- one with no support or padding, something that looked like it came free with a vacuum cleaner in the 1980s -- to hold my pilot material, then rode off to the airport. At the front desk, I asked about getting a lesson. The person at the desk signed me up for a few hours later, and I camped out at the airport, realistically unable to do any differently given the selected mode of transportation.
Finally, my time came up, and I met the first in what would be a string of instructors. She grilled me on my background, and we scheduled a time to fly later in the week. The process cascaded from there: by the time I finished college, I had a multi-engine commercial instrument rating and had logged about 300 hours in a variety of small planes.
Early on, that total took physical effort to achieve. Once or twice a week, hunched over like a mobile Quasimodo, I would mount my $200, ill-maintained steed for a pretty brutal 15 mile ride. The wind-swept expanses regularly turned 12 mph average (zero-wind) speeds into 8 mph slogs. I would show up late for lessons and appointments, sweaty and smelly and with a sore back. But my instructors were forgiving, and each one who left for greener, not-me-and-my-various-smells pastures passed me to the one they thought would be most sympathetic to my situation. The bike was, after all, what I had.
Over Spring Break during my freshman year, a tornado ripped apart our school. It was in all the papers. Since the college was out, the toll was almost exclusively property damage, and boy howdy was there property damage. I heard about it on the news to kick off a week of visiting my brother in D.C., where he lived in a gigantic basement apartment in Howard/Shaw. It was so large he gave me my own room with an arched doorway. Where by "room" I mean "partitioned 8'x6' section" and by "doorway" I mean "twin sheets hung from a rafter", and by "arched" I mean "with a rafter about an inch higher than the top of my head". This last item was often appreciated up close by my taller brother.
I didn’t know it at the time, but his neighborhood was anything but up-and-coming. The one run I remember took me across a few nearly-deserted streets, up by Howard University, and back. Two blocks from my brother’s apartment, I passed a group of 4 30- and 40-something black guys moving furniture, two of them schlepping a dresser while the other two struggled to lift a bed in the front door. I stopped, my Northwestern neighborliness showing.
“You guys need help?” I asked innocently.
The four of them looked at me like I was possibly crazy. Then the oldest one laughed. “You just out for a run?” he asked.
“Yeah, went over to Howard. I’m almost done.”
“Thanks for the offer. Really. But, uh, we’re good.” The whole group was smiling at this point.
“Enjoy the rest of the run!” one of the others said.
I told my brother about the encounter when I got back to his place. Being young and inexperienced, I just thought they were making fun of a kid running; it took a while for him to explain the massive racial baggage of his neighborhood, the historically black areas of DC that white people were just scared to enter because, well, black people. He told me about the unsettling infrastructure problems, about local crime rates and policing. (Now, of course, the neighborhood is full of rich, white people who’ve dropped $800k on townhouses that need work or a million plus on those that were either stripped to the studs and refabbed or torn down and rebuilt.)
At the end of the week, I got on the plane and headed back to Minnesota. There, I found a campus that was in no shape to be occupied. School administrators felt the same way, and we were given a respite of several weeks while they sorted out the housing situation.
I stayed with my first flight instructor, by then a pilot for a regional airline. The first day after returning, I went to campus (where we weren’t supposed to be) and got the janitor to let me into my room (where we were definitely not supposed to be), expecting to find all my pilot kit waterlogged and ruined. Instead, my roommate had carelessly tossed my backpack on my bed before he left, saving it from flood damage.
I took the bag out to my loaner car, then went back to grab my lacrosse stick. Because in order to run, I would need the stick. I did a tour of my typical route on foot. It was a longer run than normal that included dodging downed trees, avoiding dumpster zones, and taking in 360-degree views of buildings with particularly interesting damage, but it held me in rapt attention. The destination was all the destroyed buildings, empty lots where familiar sights had been, and washed out roadways, and I totally missed the fact that I put in about 6 miles doing the loop.
Over the course of the next week, I spent more time running than biking, and when school finally came back into session, there were daily reminders of the storm, from hail-battered cars to the never-ending stream of construction vehicles on campus to the citywide cleanup efforts that we all pitched in on.
I returned to the usual running route though, with just a little more need to dodge assorted debris fields. So it was as school wound down, and since my roommate was in the orchestra and they played graduation, I stuck around an extra few days after classes finished to enjoy the quiet of a near-empty campus. It was so gorgeous, I don’t remember a thing about it except having a ton of time to play beach volleyball.
Spring gave way to summer, and I went back home to Port Angeles. As my old newspaper job was a year-round gig that required constant attention to detail, it was not possible to be a summer fill-in more than a day every week or so. Instead, I took a job at a restaurant downtown. My shift started at 6 a.m. and ended at 3 p.m. I would arrive (on bike) around 5:55, hastily change into my really crappy work clothes, stay on my feet for 8.5 hours, then take my “lunch” at the end of my shift. The owners didn’t like that I refused breaks, but near as I could tell, the only reason people took breaks was to smoke. As a non-smoker, that seemed rather pointless, a needless extension of my work day.
And when I got home, I would wait until before dinner to head out on a run, knowing I might get to the wall and just decide not to leave. Old habits might die hard, but when new habits and old habits get together, the result is a 4-mile run that ends with a wall session and maybe another 1.5 mile run home. Not the worst situation if you’re trying to get in shape (which I wasn’t) or trying to get out (which I was).
It's around now that a typical running author waxes eloquently about the quiet calm of a runner's life, time spent on the roads pursuing a deep passion, discovering the mysteries of existence through the power of bipedal motion. There's the sense of calm borne of regular thrum of footfalls on pavement, or irregular, muted steps along a forest path. Can you ever truly describe the emotional peace carried on the ocean waves and delivered at the foot of the mountains, the miles between spanned by joy and suffering, delight and dismay, pleasure and disappointment, layer upon layer of experience deposited like geological strata beneath your feet?
Probably not. So I'll just skip a bit instead.
At the start of my second year in college in September 1998, the cross country coach -- with whom I had made acquaintance because I was by this time Sports Journalist of the Century or perhaps slightly less than that -- subtly tried to recruit me. He failed, as he would fail twice more, but I was flattered by the suggestion. It wasn’t until the second time that I realized he did it because he saw potential (for once this isn’t a faux-arrogant-author comment; this was reality). Had I known then just how good a runner I could be, I probably would have joined the team.
First semester of my second year in undergrad drew to a close, and I had also taken up volleyball more rigorously as a down-time hobby. Friends in the dorm began playing almost daily as the days shortened, even when it was chilly outside, and we started honing our skills for a future in the club scene that none of us yet knew was in our future. I also joined an intramural soccer team, playing goalie with several disillusioned high school varsity guys who didn't make the college team. November through March the college varsity team put up its own players (and a couple coaches) as an IM squad, and whether we won or lost -- it was always close -- the bitterness and violence of those games was surprisingly cathartic for my clubmates.
I had also taken up the actually potentially deadly sport of casual drinking. (I mean, even more than freshman year, when I binged a few times and felt like garbage immediately after -- though that was probably more potentially deadly than my sophomore escapades.) In spite of that, rather than tacking on the proverbial the Freshman 15, I managed the Freshman minus-5 and quickly dropped another few at the start of my second year. In spite of this loss of potential energy, I was climbing up the potential well, my body primed for greatness.
If only I'd known what I could be great at. To be honest, I didn't have a plan except enjoying myself -- which is really all anyone can ask for. The Second Training Plan, the unexpected one that had seeped into my late-teenage life, was changing me, but I was changing in other ways as well. I could either embrace more athletic advances or just keep doing whatever the hell it was I was doing.
Next up: Going for Distance!
Mash out. Spin on.
First, a confession: I left the beautiful Northwest for Minnesota. Not the University of Minnesota, but a small college in southern Minnesota, nestled in a town with a population of about 4,000 locals and 2,500 students. Everything about the place was quiet: quiet school, quiet town, and quiet scenery compared to what I was used to, which, let’s be honest, wasn’t particularly noisy.
I didn't know how much I would miss mountains or ocean or the vast familiarity that connected me to Washington State. That feeling of being part of a place is difficult to define, more difficult to overcome, and even more difficult to change. The Place sets up a comfortable house inside, then clears away all the pointy and dingy bits the longer you're away, leaving only that polished impression to carry with you.
But the draw for something new can be equally strong. And I needed something new, needed that feeling like a bird hurling itself into the great abyss for the first time. In almost every possible way, Minnesota was new.
For all that's said about its frigid winters, that was one of the main attractions. I loved the cold. I didn’t mind most of those wet and chilly winter days, as long as I could keep moving. I didn’t mind wearing a T-shirt and shorts when it was 50F and drizzling. It seems like that should have been a holdover from my more weighty days, but even at a svelte 160 lbs, I enjoyed being the warm guy in the cold place.
And while I had firm friends back home, I didn’t feel the need to just uproot our day-to-day life to another town with the same towering pine trees, ocean smells, and mountain views, where instead of talking about video games and daring each other to eat moldy burritos we would talk about computer games and actually dumpster dive for those burritos (while ignoring the towering pine trees, ocean smells, and mountain views).
I craved a novel existence, a respite from the bland, contrived life of a '90s high schooler in nowhere Washington. Most of my friends went to Western Washington University in Bellingham or the University of Washington in Seattle. Those were my second and third choices.
When I arrived on campus as a pre-first day student, my first departure from the dorm was to establish a running route. Keep in mind that this was before the days of computerized mapping technology, so figuring out where to run was a process of trial-and-error. Alas, I also no longer had a wall to practice against, but with four years of doing that, I was confident those skills wouldn’t just disappear. (It turned out there was a wall, but I never used my run to get to it: it was the art building, which stared down the face of my freshman dorm; the people inside weren’t keen on regular thumping from a lacrosse ball.) The holdover, though, was running with the stick, which was so comfortable that I felt to leave it behind would have been as to run without underpants.
And I always ran with underpants.
Those first runs were a 3-mile loop, no longer interrupted by the wall session. This put my daily mileage at something less than what I’d been used to back in high school, but since it was all at once, it was actually more challenging. And adhering to the principles developed in that First Training Plan, I slowly extended it to around 4 miles and interspersed sprints with the rest of the run. In short order, I had moved from two-a-day 2-milers with an hour or so in between to a daily 4-miler, complete with sprints.
About two weeks into the school year, at my first lacrosse practice, I took a ball to the eye and cracked my eye socket down my cheek. I looked excellent, half my face painted in the deep colors of a bruise, puffed out and slightly drooping, like a water balloon at the beginning of its fill. The next day, a yearbook photographer who was intrigued by this new person on campus running with a stick stopped me while I was coming through and asked to take my picture. He saw my face and backed out.
The swelling was annoying, but it mostly felt like I recalled running with a flabby belly felt: something floppy without much individual feeling that tugged on the rest of my face in an annoying rhythm. I mentally detached that swollen part of my visage from the rest of my body and carried on as normal. When the swelling went down and feeling returned to my face (there was some question about whether that would happen at all; also, this may be another story I never told my parents -- just rackin’ em up, we are!), I was back in the lacrosse net like nothing had happened, and my fitness hadn't changed.
But that fitness felt rather uninspired, the result of an involuntary response that led me out the door each morning, pushed me through a few miles, and ended in a sprint up the hill to my dorm. My workout needed a new set of tactics for the wild and crazy days of college to come to stay interesting. That brings me to the Second Training Plan, once again compiled from my extensive notes from those years.
(Checking my blog -- wait for it -- ok, almost here, and...oh right, it was 1997. I probably used the “wall” command to announce the plan to the two other people in the computer lab. )
The Second Training Plan
Once the First Training Plan is in place, you’re ready to start increasing mileage and speed. This Second Training Plan gives you a good jumping-off point, but it won't make you extremely fast or extremely enduring. Where it excels is in maintaining both without taking up too much time.
0. Do the First Training Plan.
1. Combine your two runs into a single run, leaving off about 20% because it’s going to suck at first otherwise. Do not maintain any sprint segments you had previously been doing, except near the end of the run, as you'll be re-introducing these as you go.
2. Every couple weeks, run a little longer, maybe by a couple blocks each time.
3. When you get to a distance that is comfortably long and doesn’t bore you to tears and/or wreck your legs, stop extending it. Your normal running speed at this stage is now your "down-tempo" pace.
4a. In subsequent weeks, add up-tempo bursts -- short of a sprint but noticeably more challenging than the down-tempo pace -- of a block or two at a time, interrupted by down-tempo rests. Intersperse these as no more than 2 blocks at a time and no more than half your total run distance. (This would be called the "mile pace" by more coachy coaches.)
4b. In subsequent weeks, change some of these up-tempo bursts to all-out sprints, maintaining them as no more than 1 block at a time and no more than 1 in 5 blocks. (This is the 400m pace; an actual all-out sprint of 60-80m in 10 seconds will, of course, pretty much end your run.)
5. Keep doing Step 4 until your run is essentially 15-20% sprints, 20-30% up-tempo, and 50% down-tempo.
6. Run! Run run run run run!
Just weeks into undergrad, and I was doing daily interval training. Crude but (thanks to my youth) effective interval training that included mostly quarter-mile runs. Within 6 months of starting college, I was running almost 4 miles at a pace I never would have thought possible back home. There was -- lucky for me -- a hill in town that I ran up twice each run, including a closeout sprint, and I also had the pleasure of running into some brutal winds as they blasted across the plains at the top of the hill. The stick just added to the difficulty, a sail that, when fully luffed, ignominiously deposited a ball into the nearest ditch.
At the end of each run, I did some push-ups and sit-ups to feel more adequate relative to my less lower-bodied peers, and I achieved a measure of equality in my overall muscle mass. As long as that measure is, you know, something that looks like an Erlenmeyer flask.
It also turned out that my floor supervisor was the sports editor for the newspaper. I hitched onto that wagon late in the fall and was soon reporting on the local sports scene, parlaying my extensive background into a small sum of pay-per-word cash each week.
Across campus I gained a reputation as the lacrosse stick guy, out there every day: snow, rain, sleet, cold, and brutal heat did not deter me from the ritual exit. Each morning, either before class or after my first one of the day, I cozied my hands into my lacrosse gloves, grabbed the stick from the corner, and slipped out the door for 30 minutes. (Unfortunately for my sex life, most people were confused by the accessories. When friends introduced me, they would throw in "you know, the guy who runs around with the lacrosse stick". While instantly recognizable, that also bludgeoned most conversation because the locals generally thought "lacrosse" referred only to the city of LaCrosse and assumed I was a weird butterfly fetishist from Wisconsin.)
Rain and chill I was already accustomed to, and when temperatures plummeted, I safety pinned a scarf around the shaft of my stick, put on rabbit fur gloves under the lacrosse gloves, pulled a neck/chin warmer up over my mouth, and wore ski goggles to shield my face from bursts of icy wind and snow blindness. I had to have my daily run, my half hour of activity that would buoy my spirits for the rest of the day; no mid-December cold front would bring me to my knees, even if it came with 40-knot gusts that accelerated with abandon along the tree stands surrounding the local fields.
I was, obviously, addicted. But looking back with half a lifetime of running experience, I was not addicted to any particular aspect of the run itself; instead, I craved the feeling of having done something personally gratifying that made me me. It gave my days personality and gave me something to look forward to as the sun traversed the horizon each morning.
Running was not a means to an end -- it was always a beginning.
Senior year is a time to break all the rules, find a new personality, be what you want to be, try out new experiences. (Unless you’re my kids, in which case Get back to your school work!) My rule-breaking was more placid than most, not consumed with the classic drinking-sex-violence triumvirate, but entertaining nonetheless: staying out late, going to the beach with friends, showing up at late-night parties, and playing tennis-hockey until 1 a.m.
What’s tennis-hockey, you ask? That’s a subject that could get its own book (look for it from your bookseller, because the Legend of Tennis-Hockey is in the works) Briefly, it was a sport invented by friends of my oldest brother, when they found themselves in a position to play roller hockey at a local pair of tennis courts. The nets, it turned out, were kind of a pain with the blades, so a few days later (as I currently understand it; my research into this subject is yet early) they came back, this time with tennis rackets and tennis balls, and running the game on foot. Rules were established, and the sport of tennis-hockey was born.
The game uses two courts at once, so it became tradition to play after there was any possibility of actual tennis players bumping up against our schedule. It also became tradition, late in my middle school career and extending well into high school, to have battles with my parents over curfew for the possibility of playing, even though my oldest brother’s friends generally didn’t want the fat kid brother there.
As I slimmed down and made friends my own age who were also looking for things to do late at night, we started playing irregularly and infrequently with the older crowd, then just irregularly with those few who remained from the sport’s first days. But their numbers dwindled year-on-year, and soon it was all second-generation players, making our own way in the great big world.
We would set out after 9:30 p.m. to run the courts, sometimes dodging eggs chucked by jealous schoolmates, sometimes dispersed -- the kids, not the eggs -- by the police (who were almost always convinced we were into drugs), sometimes keeping stats that would be slipped into the Agate in the next day’s newspaper. (There were perks to working at the newspaper.)
By senior year, my parents didn’t often object when we wanted to go out and play. I was regularly up until midnight anyway, usually with several friends, so going to the courts on a Tuesday night just wasn’t that big a deal. Yes, they occasionally exercised seemingly arbitrary control over my schedule, but I recognize now that their arbitrary control was strictly based on whether they felt like waiting up until I got home. They were like that.
Playing late at night while maintaining a daytime running-and-biking routine was, obviously, very good for my fitness. One particularly memorable evening, a tennis-playing friend and I ran a 4-on-2 matchup, spending 50 or so minutes in constant motion. About 40 minutes in, my legs were alight with agony from end-to-end sprints and hurdling the net, but I pressed on, not from some need to prove anything to the other players, but because it was me. Our collective stamina paid off with a glorious performance that shall surely be remembered by historians, particularly if I include it in the aforementioned book.
One more tennis-hockey story sticks out, even though it isn’t related to the sport. It happened one Saturday shortly before the end of school. The game went late -- until about 1:30 -- and as was tradition, we went to the local Safeway supermarket to “sit on the cheese”. That was our euphemism for cooling off by going to the dairy case and, well, sitting on the large blocks of cheese. So it wasn’t a euphemism at all. We arrived at the grocery store’s parking lot, performed said cheese sitting, and slipped outside for the 25-cent sodas sold in the machines. There on the curb sat two post-high school girls (they weren’t, to our eyes, “women”, and since they were sitting outside Safeway, I can only assume they were no older than about 20) with a dog.
We showed up as a mob of a half dozen people in my parents’ Ford Aerostar, and though our numbers included many who would be considered "unsocial", we were not incapable of social interaction. One of my friends struck up a conversation. They claimed to have come in from Canada that day, and to have been ditched by their friend who was supposed to take them to the hot springs. The hot springs, it should be noted, were about an hour away, heading to the northwest end of the Olympic Peninsula and a mile or more down a trail that lay at the end of a winding, half-paved road. For the uninitiated, this puts them about 20 minutes from Twilight. No, really, that’s where it is, in actual geography; for all I know, some of Twilight actually happens there.
“We can drive you,” I volunteered.
Looking back on it, I’m shocked they accepted the offer. They must have been well and truly stranded, as a half dozen teenagers (I think we were all guys, too) offering to drive you even further from nowhere for an hour doesn’t sound like a great plan. It was surely the hubris of youth. So all 8 of us (the Aerostar seats, at most, 7), plus the dog, stuffed into the car and drove into the depths of the night. It was gorgeous near the waterfront, but heading upland we found ourselves engulfed in wispy clouds, then shrouded in a cottony blanket of fog. The gravel road to the trailhead seemed to emerge from nothing, the car barely existing in the landscape around it.
Our boisterous group settled into a quieter calm, either from the eerie surrounds or the lateness of the voyage. I don’t remember our passengers revealing much of themselves, but when we arrived and they struck off on the trail, I wondered if they would make it. We sat in silence for a minute or so until they had disappeared, then turned back toward civilization. (Well, Port Angeles.)
I slipped in the door around 3:30, and I don’t remember (a) my parents being up or (b) ever answering for being missed. Which was lucky, because I didn’t have a plausible story -- even that story was so vastly implausible that it’s hard to imagine my parents believing it. Indeed, if my parents are reading this, it’s probably the first they’ve heard of that particular adventure. Hi, mom!, as they say.
As for senior year, the worst I can say is that it passed without incident. That was the year of AP Biology, a class I thoroughly enjoyed that met after lunch. I started taking lunch in the bio classroom, where my friends and I would gather after exercising the privilege granted only to seniors by leaving campus (where I grew up, schools are on campuses because there’s so much space and it doesn’t drop below zero during the winter) to get lunch. My lunch was, 95% of the time, a loaf of bread and reconstituted orange juice concentrate. Average lunch cost: $1.25 ($1 of that was the bread). My parents must have given me some kind of allotment at the beginning of each week, because that lifestyle was a moneymaker. I turned their $20/week or whatever it was into a decent amount of spending money.
(On an even stranger note, I always ate the crust first so I would have the squishy bread innards to finish with. I also kept the OJ concentrate in the bio freezer, which included vacuum-sealed rat carcasses. It was all quite amusing.)
Ultimately, though, my lifestyle didn’t change as the calendar turned from 1996 to 1997. I continued running, kept on biking, stayed with my job and hobbies. I enjoyed myself, and being in shape was becoming a part of that enjoyment. Identity was forming, and it was not what I would have expected 4 years prior.
Next up: Half a Continent Away
Mash out. Spin on.
Just to re-orient you, reader, I believe we were in my sophomore year of high school. Lacrosse was my life. Or maybe running was my life. Or maybe it was flying. Or would you believe biking? Or school. I haven’t mentioned school much because it was a background event that structured each day and gave me things to do after the sun went down but was otherwise pretty much just there.
Don’t get me wrong, I had no problems with high school.
That’s right, I didn’t hate high school. I do not consider it a dark time beridden by despair and anguish.
School was where people I knew but didn’t often hang out with were. School was where I could discuss calculus with other smart kids without feeling like an overachiever. School was a time of unmonitored (at least, not by parents) freedom. School was where we found out about parties.
To be fair, that was maybe not particularly useful, because I didn’t much enjoy parties: I wasn’t in that scene and honestly didn’t care. Yes, I wanted to be liked, but I had my own stuff going on and didn’t need some separate party life mucking it up. After school was busy, usually with homework or World’s Best Journalist work, and I even spent most Saturday mornings in the newspaper office earning money to go flying. I didn’t have time to party and drink. Indeed, I didn’t drink at all in high school, just crashed some of the gatherings where drinking occurred and, along with my non-drinking buddies, stole the food. Such glorious times.
Wow, this is turning into a huge digression from the whole running story. So let’s back up a bit more while we’re here, maybe avoiding a re-digression later.
It was spring 1996, and I was running and biking, enjoying life, being amazing already but still not fully ascended on the Peak of Greatness. Our lacrosse season had started. I was in impressive shape, enduring and fast and confident in my stick skills, if you know what I mean. (Let's put that double entendre to bed, shall we? No wait, let's leave it at that one.) All this time I was blissfully unaware that, at any moment, I could be betrayed by the very body I inhabited. (Cue dramatic music!)
We traveled to one of the games, and early in the contest, I took a pass from a defenseman behind the goal. I turned to give the usual juke-and-jive to the attacker coming at me. Alas, the juke had apparently stalked off the field, and any jive I might have hoped for was gone fishin'. My right leg simply stopped moving.
And so I stood there, not knowing what the approaching attacker was going to do. The lack of movement must have been a great clue, though, because he slowed up his run until he was no more than 3 feet away -- close enough that he could look me straight in the eyes, where he presumably saw some mix of pain and confusion.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “I can’t move my right leg.”
“Sit down!” he insisted, incredulous that I would be standing there when the universal sign of injury in any sport is sitting.
“Er, I can’t. I can’t move.” I was essentially stuck, unable to flex my right hip. That, it seems, is a rather important function in our daily motions, and "sitting down" would have meant "falling over without moving one leg", which sounded like a painful resolution. "Maybe you can sit down for me?" I ventured.
He must not have been a Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy fan. Instead, he turned to the ref, who by this point apparently had figured out that a goalie doesn’t have a convo with an attacker mid-game when the ball is right there. I was carried off.
The injury was probably from overuse. A blood vessel had burst straight into my hip flexor, incapacitating me on my feet. I stretched the muscle for a day or two, exercised it to get the clotted blood out of the area over the next week, hobbled around with a cane and a hot water bottle until the swelling and bruising had cleared up, and finally felt up to running again.
This time, I vowed, I would take it easy.
Just kidding. I didn’t vow that at all, because at the time I didn’t identify it as an overuse injury, just as one of those random setbacks on the road to being awesome.
Instead, that summer I made preparations for my senior year, visited some colleges, and went right back to playing lacrosse, running, and riding. With the injury fully behind me, I felt spectacular. And the impressive fitness I was building would carry through the next year and beyond.
With nothing holding me back from achieving my fearsome potential, I entered the fall/winter of 1996 with high hopes for the future. Perhaps.
Next up: Tennis-Hockey!
Mash out. Spin on.
By the end of sophomore year, following the First Training Plan, I was running 7 days a week to and from the wall, biking 5 days a week minimum, and feeling pretty awesome. I wanted to ride 7 days a week, but the Northwest is notorious for its lousy biking weather -- in Port Angeles, this is especially true mid August through late June -- and I was often stopped by the prospect of a rainy day ride to nowhere.
That’s not to say I didn’t have rainy day rides to nowhere. Indeed, I remember one such ride in particular that featured a highway overpass, a high-speed gravel truck, and a flat tire that I just rode home because I was too exhausted (and probably wasn’t carrying the needed kit) to stop in a persistent rain to fix. Rides like that can start out exhilarating and end up nigh-annihilating.
But when it came to attending to work, I had no problem making the trip in the rain and showing up sopping wet, because I was just too awesome for anyone else in the newsroom to object. Either that, or it was the night shift in the sports department, and I was usually alone or just there with the editor, who mysteriously put up with an odor that would make a whale's blowhole move off. Other days, I would ride 10 or 15 total miles on back highways and feel like a badass. Because I was.
You can see the pattern, reader friend.
Then there was eating. Oh, the eating! The terrible, delicious, soul-crushing and life-affirming foods of youth! My friends and I camped out in the computer lab over lunch and ate microwave burritos and candy bars, and drank such gloriously healthy beverages as Sunkist (the orange kind...they didn’t have other flavors back then, you choice-saturated hooligans!) and Mountain Dew (the piss-yellow kind...refer to previous crotchety admonishment!) It was in this environment that I learned one of life’s most important lessons:
Mountain Dew and Rollo’s don’t mix.
Take that one to the bank. Or the grave. Depends which way you want to play it.
We would make fun of the jocks and what we called the ABADs (“auto-body all day”, now known as “the people without whom our lives would fall apart because our cars and air conditioners and probably things like whole city sewer systems would no longer work if they weren't around to fix them”), pick on one or more of our friends on any given day, mock haircuts, make snide remarks about the stupidity of various people, and just generally sound a lot like Beavis & Butthead & Company, if one could imagine B&B with company.
At one point, we grew mold on a burrito in an almost-never-used drawer and had a standing -- and expanding -- betting pool for the person who would eat it. Nobody did. I don’t know what happened to that little guy, but it was probably left to some poor janitor to clear out. May said janitor live a longer life than we detritus-keepers deserve.
God, we were terrible people. Teenagers in general are pretty terrible, and I guess all that terribleness did make the human paragon who sits behind your screen, on the other end of some wires, and in front of another screen, typing these words. But still.
Wait, was there a point? Oh yes. I ate like crap. More specifically, I ate vegetarian crap.
All this is to say that underpinning my gluttony was daily athletic excess. Running with my lacrosse stick to the wall, throwing the ball around and with friends, running home, and capping it with a bike ride, with or without a break for work.
Something had changed in those runs, too: I was bringing back speed work, this time without the walking. At first, I was just jogging, slowly chugging along the streets and making my way to the destination. Then I started adding a sprint to finish the run -- a block of hard effort that would make the run feel “complete”. Then I decided to add a sprint halfway through. Then a sprint up each hill. Then a sprint on each east-to-west block. What mattered was finishing the sprint and not stopping, churning on like I hadn’t done anything different.
Sophomore year was also when lacrosse coalesced into something more organized. We went from a ragtag group using crappy, childish sticks and throwing a ball around in our back yard to being a ragtag group using crappy-but-adult sticks and throwing a ball around in a school yard. Our team found a pseudo-coach (a 30-something guy who hadn’t played in over a decade and, according to the women on our team, was extremely creepy to them; he didn't last long), and we started practicing.
We had our first season that spring. I think our CF (if you're unfamiliar with this term, I refer you to The Internet, where there are answers) of a team scored a few goals. Maybe we weren't exactly a team, actually, because we were still learning how to play. We were more like a soccer "team" full of 5-year olds running around with little purpose or skill. There were probably people staring at airplanes or looking at the flowers. It was messy and fun and completely new, and for most of us, it was as close to organized sports as we would ever get in high school.
Over the following summer, the athletic habits continued. But I would only run with a stick; anything else felt unnatural. And still, it was for lacrosse, not for the sake of running itself, that my training program built up endurance. By the end of the summer of 1995, I was down to about 160 lbs, and I could power up hills with impunity. Hills could not impugn me. I was unimpugnable.
I see your hill, and I raise you a me.
Next up: High-Flyin' White Guy. (Bill Nye gets it.)
Mash out. Spin on.