My old training diaries, full of now antique, frequently hilarious, and occasionally appalling obsessive detail on distance, time, effort, weather, weight, pulse, and mood, are peppered with occasional days marked simply, VS2. This was my common notation during recovery from an illness or a minor injury (or in one case a memorable celebratory binge), and it meant Very Short and Very Slow. Bookmark running. Show-the-flag running. Don’t-get-out-of-the-habit running.
I’m now engaged in some Get-back-in-the-habit running which, needless to say, is VS2. It’s also turning out to be unusually satisfying. I am definitely and definitively not training for anything, even some sort of creaking elderly “special mile.” I’m not trying to get faster or go farther. I’m just out fairly early in the morning gently moving around this rather pretty town.
A few years ago, the great Gerry Lindgren, not much older than me but a boyhood hero all the same, was quoted as saying something along the lines of “I have a four-minute brain and a seven-minute body,” and admitted he was always getting hurt. My brain never had to get used to four-minute miles, but like many aging runners I’ve suffered a milder version of the same syndrome (I think it actually has more to do with rhythm or leg turnover than speed per se). For now, though, VS2 is just fine, and as I wrote last time, I’m happy keeping track of tunes instead of times. Yesterday was girls’ name day: “Peggy Sue” and “Maybelline”. This morning, the Shuffle started with “Stand By Me” and finished me off with “Just One Look”. I’ll keep you posted on tunes. Times? Just figure VS.
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Thursday, June 26, 2008
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Splish-splash
The whole tribe hit the roads this morning, under a steady rain in 45°F (7°C) temps. (But I checked—we were in Minnesota, not Scotland.) It was wonderful. We were out for only about 45 minutes, and very much VS2 (H and A had already done their swim training), but it’s so great to begin to pick up that rhythm again after a few months of the occasional snowy stagger. Sweet B was gurgling and chirping happily in her warm, dry little chariot, Jasper the Wonderdog couldn’t have been happier, and the kids gave their new flats (Saucony Guide 2 for A, New Balance 769 for H) an appropriately watery baptism.
In different realm of running, there was a truly exemplary article in the New York Times this morning about the London Marathon. It’s rare to see such intelligent and incisive writing about distance running. Any running, really.
In different realm of running, there was a truly exemplary article in the New York Times this morning about the London Marathon. It’s rare to see such intelligent and incisive writing about distance running. Any running, really.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Brucian morning
I was out before seven Sunday morning, shuffling my usual VS2, and I crossed paths with two other early morning pedestrians. Bruce 1 and I have known each other for decades. We played baseball together, and, temporarily but firmly known as Speedball, he captained my high school cross-country team when I was a junior. (Our team always arrived at away meets in style. The younger boys rode in the coach’s battered, early-’50s Buick, and we grand oldsters laughed our way along in the moving clubhouse that was Bruce’s rattletrap even-earlier-’50s Chevy hydromatic—known simply as The Bomb—urging it back up to speed with encouraging comments and body english after every stop sign or signal.) On our walks, Paul and I often pass a few semi-humorous remarks with Bruce in his front yard as he heads for his car and work. Sunday, he was out for a walk of his own, and as we passed, his question about Paul was asked and answered on the fly. (Away again, eating with Gotham sophisticates in swank New York restaurants.)
Bruce 2 I barely know, but he puts me to shame. Tall, and thin as a rail, he uses that upright, light-footed, short-striding, high turnover style you often see in ultra runners, to do his daily seven miles. He runs the same out-and-back day after day, and almost never misses. When I chatted briefly with him at the library recently, he told me he’d just taken his first two days off in almost a year. He’s vastly fitter than I am, and at least 10 years younger, but he described a familiar problem to explain his enforced rest: “I begin to feel good, I push things a little, and....” Yes, yes, I understand.
The brief encounter with Bruce 1 got me thinking about favorite running partners over the years, and I quickly defaulted to memories of running with our daughter when she was very young. She would sometimes accompany me on her first bicycle. She delighted in coasting on the hills. Down, of course, but up, too, where she giggled as I leaned in and pushed her toward the top, grunting, “Pedal! Pedal!” She began coming along on foot when she was quite small. I’d cant slightly to the right to take her little hand (a technique instituted after an unfortunate trip and fall), and away we’d go for perhaps half a mile, when she’d say, “Can we take a rest now?” and we’d walk along together chatting about one thing or another, until I’d say, “How about if we pick it up again when we get to that next telephone pole?” She’d say, “How about the one after that?” And, of course, the one after that it was. Favorite running partner? No contest, really.
Bruce 2 I barely know, but he puts me to shame. Tall, and thin as a rail, he uses that upright, light-footed, short-striding, high turnover style you often see in ultra runners, to do his daily seven miles. He runs the same out-and-back day after day, and almost never misses. When I chatted briefly with him at the library recently, he told me he’d just taken his first two days off in almost a year. He’s vastly fitter than I am, and at least 10 years younger, but he described a familiar problem to explain his enforced rest: “I begin to feel good, I push things a little, and....” Yes, yes, I understand.
The brief encounter with Bruce 1 got me thinking about favorite running partners over the years, and I quickly defaulted to memories of running with our daughter when she was very young. She would sometimes accompany me on her first bicycle. She delighted in coasting on the hills. Down, of course, but up, too, where she giggled as I leaned in and pushed her toward the top, grunting, “Pedal! Pedal!” She began coming along on foot when she was quite small. I’d cant slightly to the right to take her little hand (a technique instituted after an unfortunate trip and fall), and away we’d go for perhaps half a mile, when she’d say, “Can we take a rest now?” and we’d walk along together chatting about one thing or another, until I’d say, “How about if we pick it up again when we get to that next telephone pole?” She’d say, “How about the one after that?” And, of course, the one after that it was. Favorite running partner? No contest, really.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Writer/Monster
I meant to post a few months ago about this lead piece in the New York Times Sunday Book Review. It is George Packer’s assessment of Patrick French’s biography of V.S, Naipaul, A Life Split in Two, it’s a rave, and very much worth reading (something I feel about a minority of efforts there, which are so often more about the reviewer than the reviewed).
Given the excellence of the piece, I was jolted by the banality of Packer’s closing sentence: “He had the capacity in his writing to project himself into a great variety of people and situations, allowing him to imbue his work with the sympathy and humanity that he failed to extend to those closest to him in life.”
Ho-hum. The “He” here, is, of course, Naipaul. But you run out of fingers in a hurry if you begin counting the writers it could apply to.
Writing is an act of ego, and much of it entails—requires—using people. Journalists do it by creating a false sense of trust and personal connection. Novelists do it by stealing the personalities, characteristics, conversations, and motivations of (among others) their friends and families. The only way to justify any of these betrayals is to plead the preeminence of The Truth, or The Work, or even The Art. This step, once taken, sometimes—often—leads to more direct abuse of others. The Artist and his Art come first, regardless.
Needless to say, I was never in any danger of becoming a great writer. I have done that journalist’s “soulmates” trick many times. But I have never had whatever it takes to bring myself to use the tragedies and eccentricities of friends and family as fodder for fiction, or to elevate creative needs over family requirements. Which may be why the project I’ve been working on mines the experiences of family long departed and circumstances too ancient to wound. (It may also be, I’m afraid, why I left this effort too late. I’m discovering to my surprise that this writer, like this athlete, has lost more than a little with age.)
This reticence—which I think is not altogether admirable in someone who wants to write good fiction—doesn’t, of course, mean I can’t be a monster in a dozen other cruel and dreary ways, any more than it means I can’t swan about in an old tweed jacket and a long scarf. It just means I won’t eventually be receiving what I once heard a professor call “the artist’s absolution.”
Bummer.
Given the excellence of the piece, I was jolted by the banality of Packer’s closing sentence: “He had the capacity in his writing to project himself into a great variety of people and situations, allowing him to imbue his work with the sympathy and humanity that he failed to extend to those closest to him in life.”
Ho-hum. The “He” here, is, of course, Naipaul. But you run out of fingers in a hurry if you begin counting the writers it could apply to.
Writing is an act of ego, and much of it entails—requires—using people. Journalists do it by creating a false sense of trust and personal connection. Novelists do it by stealing the personalities, characteristics, conversations, and motivations of (among others) their friends and families. The only way to justify any of these betrayals is to plead the preeminence of The Truth, or The Work, or even The Art. This step, once taken, sometimes—often—leads to more direct abuse of others. The Artist and his Art come first, regardless.
Needless to say, I was never in any danger of becoming a great writer. I have done that journalist’s “soulmates” trick many times. But I have never had whatever it takes to bring myself to use the tragedies and eccentricities of friends and family as fodder for fiction, or to elevate creative needs over family requirements. Which may be why the project I’ve been working on mines the experiences of family long departed and circumstances too ancient to wound. (It may also be, I’m afraid, why I left this effort too late. I’m discovering to my surprise that this writer, like this athlete, has lost more than a little with age.)
This reticence—which I think is not altogether admirable in someone who wants to write good fiction—doesn’t, of course, mean I can’t be a monster in a dozen other cruel and dreary ways, any more than it means I can’t swan about in an old tweed jacket and a long scarf. It just means I won’t eventually be receiving what I once heard a professor call “the artist’s absolution.”
Bummer.
Friday, August 15, 2008
A little shuffle
H and I (and Jasper the Wonder Dog) went out for a little VS2 earlier this afternoon. We walked for 10-15 minutes, shuffled for about 5, then walked back home for perhaps 20. This was H’s first, gentle, attempt at running since giving birth two weeks ago, and it was triumphant. Then we came home I and rocked the beautiful B for a couple of hours and just watched her sleep. The yin and yang of joy.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Hot stuff
The weight of my pack had nothing to do with the ankle problem that required my retirement from the TGOC. Nonetheless, I’d like my pack weight to approach zero, and I’ve been noting the best ways to edge in that direction. One of the obvious areas is cooking gear.
Actually, I don’t really cook. I boil water to rehydrate prepared meals in plastic bags. This year on the Challenge I carried a JetBoil. It boils water really fast, which saves fuel, which in turn can have a variable short-term effect on load weight. Natural sloth makes me a fan of the piezo ignition. The Jet’s a well-engineered system, breaks down and stores efficiently, is not as unstable as it looks, and was designed by Dartmouth-connected guys from Northern New England. It weighs 15 oz (425 g.). Its little canisters register 3.5 oz. (100 g.) when full. Not including my long Ti spoon and plastic mug, the total package is 18.5 oz. (525 g.). I like it. I’ll certainly continue to use it often But it is much heavier than alternatives that would be reasonable for a walk like the TGOC, specifically the new breed of homemade and cottage-industry alcohol (“meths” in Britain) stoves.
I’d used the traditional small, brass, Swedish Trangia alcohol burner a few times, and recognized its attractions, but over the past few years, inventive outdoor people have been creating lighter and lighter stoves using soda cans, juice cans, cat food cans, tuna cans, and seemigly anything else mommy brought home from the store. There’s been debate over wicks vs. no wicks; size and location of ports; pot holders; windscreens; and other arcana that has given hikers excuses to touch off balls of fire on their kitchen counters. Burners have been weighed to the fraction of a gram, and boil times have been published, with much dispute about what “boiling” actually means: When do you stop the clock? How cold was the water when you started? How much wind was blowing? If any, did you use a windscreen? If so, how did you deploy it? And wonderfully on and obsessively on.
This stuff is all over the internet. (Start on WhiteBlaze and bpLite, then follow your nose) For the past few weeks I’ve been cruising the web, looking at all sorts of alcoholic offerings. Among those I found most appealing were the Caldera Cone system, the Ion Stove, and the Blackfly and Coolfly stoves from the ingenious Tinny at MiniBullDesign. The one I’ve chosen, though, is the StarLyte, from Zelph’s Stoveworks at bpLite. Very light (well under an ounce, including pot stand); simple to use, even in temps well below freezing; and spill-proof, which makes it reasonable to use in a tent if weather forces the issue. (This is useful to me, because my Stephenson Warmlite doesn’t have a vestibule.)
To boil the water in, I’ve decided to go all the way and try the wildly popular modified 24-ounce Heinekin beer can. There’s lots of info on this do-it-yourself project and possible results at the wonderfully named “Pimp my Heine” forum at bpLite. The appeal? The cool factor: it will give me the trail cred I so urgently desire, but that the size of my belly keeps denying me. Actually, it’s just the fun of joining all the other guys who are pimping their Heines...but I also wind up with a pot that comes in well under 2 ounces. Add a heavy foil windscreen, and I’ve got a personalized cooking system that saves me almost a pound.
And that trail cred.
Actually, I don’t really cook. I boil water to rehydrate prepared meals in plastic bags. This year on the Challenge I carried a JetBoil. It boils water really fast, which saves fuel, which in turn can have a variable short-term effect on load weight. Natural sloth makes me a fan of the piezo ignition. The Jet’s a well-engineered system, breaks down and stores efficiently, is not as unstable as it looks, and was designed by Dartmouth-connected guys from Northern New England. It weighs 15 oz (425 g.). Its little canisters register 3.5 oz. (100 g.) when full. Not including my long Ti spoon and plastic mug, the total package is 18.5 oz. (525 g.). I like it. I’ll certainly continue to use it often But it is much heavier than alternatives that would be reasonable for a walk like the TGOC, specifically the new breed of homemade and cottage-industry alcohol (“meths” in Britain) stoves.
I’d used the traditional small, brass, Swedish Trangia alcohol burner a few times, and recognized its attractions, but over the past few years, inventive outdoor people have been creating lighter and lighter stoves using soda cans, juice cans, cat food cans, tuna cans, and seemigly anything else mommy brought home from the store. There’s been debate over wicks vs. no wicks; size and location of ports; pot holders; windscreens; and other arcana that has given hikers excuses to touch off balls of fire on their kitchen counters. Burners have been weighed to the fraction of a gram, and boil times have been published, with much dispute about what “boiling” actually means: When do you stop the clock? How cold was the water when you started? How much wind was blowing? If any, did you use a windscreen? If so, how did you deploy it? And wonderfully on and obsessively on.
This stuff is all over the internet. (Start on WhiteBlaze and bpLite, then follow your nose) For the past few weeks I’ve been cruising the web, looking at all sorts of alcoholic offerings. Among those I found most appealing were the Caldera Cone system, the Ion Stove, and the Blackfly and Coolfly stoves from the ingenious Tinny at MiniBullDesign. The one I’ve chosen, though, is the StarLyte, from Zelph’s Stoveworks at bpLite. Very light (well under an ounce, including pot stand); simple to use, even in temps well below freezing; and spill-proof, which makes it reasonable to use in a tent if weather forces the issue. (This is useful to me, because my Stephenson Warmlite doesn’t have a vestibule.)
To boil the water in, I’ve decided to go all the way and try the wildly popular modified 24-ounce Heinekin beer can. There’s lots of info on this do-it-yourself project and possible results at the wonderfully named “Pimp my Heine” forum at bpLite. The appeal? The cool factor: it will give me the trail cred I so urgently desire, but that the size of my belly keeps denying me. Actually, it’s just the fun of joining all the other guys who are pimping their Heines...but I also wind up with a pot that comes in well under 2 ounces. Add a heavy foil windscreen, and I’ve got a personalized cooking system that saves me almost a pound.
And that trail cred.
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