June 15, 2009: 2 weeks removed from my last marathon. My first marathon in almost five years, by the way. And now, only 18 weeks out from the next one. Time to follow Hal's advice as best as I can.

Yesterday, was the last day before today's "official" 18-week training program kicked off. I was in Asheville, NC, visiting my parents. I wanted to be with my father for Father's Day, but a special couple is getting married next Sunday, at the finish line of a Triathlon, and I wouldn't miss it for anything. So dad and I moved Father's Day up by one week. I hope Hal is as forgiving if I occasionally tweak his schedule.

Let me tell you a little about my father. Dad was running even before the first running boom, but he really never raced back then. I got involved in running and racing at the tail end of the aforementioned boom in the early 80's, and immediately dragged dad into the New York racing scene. He quickly embraced it. We grew close through running, and that bond whose first strands were established when I was 26 has endured for more than half of my life, as his 7:30 pace gradually slowed to an eventual 11 minute shuffle before transitioning to a walk. So I spent my last day of "non-training" walking 4.5 miles with my father at a nice 17 minutes pace, enough for him to work up a nice sweat, and for us to add yet another memory to our tie, by doing what we have always done. We did it by placing one foot in front of the other, and talking.

From the time I started running, I had documented every run in a written log. I have piles of these paper logs, all well preserved, and consider them among my more highly prized personal and sentimental possessions. They capture not only my runs, but my life during that same period of time, or at least as much of my life as I could capture in four lines per day. But for some inexplicable reason, I stopped keeping these journals in 2002, in the midst of training for what I hoped would be a marathon PR. To this day, I can't say why I stopped. It just happened.

A couple of years later, something even more incomprehensible and totally unexpected happened. I stopped running. Just plain stopped. Lost interest.

Me.

Me????

Anyone who knew me as a runner would have found that unfathomable. Running had been one of the core fibers of who I was as a person, and anyone who knew me, knew that. If ever there was someone who embodied the passion of running, it was me. I couldn't really tell you if running left me behind, or I left running behind, but either way, running, and interest of running stopped happening for me. I really thought my running days were gone forever.

In October of last year, after a layoff of approximately four years, I took my first slow steps back. I had made numerous efforts during the layoff, but it never stuck. But this time it did. As a typical runner, I jumped into my first race back way too soon and way undertrained. I needed a sprint to the finish to break 29 minutes for my first 5K back. In a way, it was an embarrassment, but since then, I have come to realize it was a triumphant return. Running stuck.

Some of you know me as a person. Some of you know me as a runner. And some of you know me as a writer. Some of you know me as all three. And some of you have been subtly (and some not so subtly) hinting that I should start writing again.

Today, June 15th, 2009, I am on day one of Hal Higdon's 18 week advanced 1 program. I am sure already that I will not be able to stick to this demanding program perfectly day by day. In fact, I already slipped up this morning by running just a little bit longer than the schedule dictated. The hardest thing about the early weeks of a program like this is settling for a 3-mile run when you desire to run 5. But with 30 mile weekends looming in the not too distant future, I had better stick to the easy part of the plan as well as I can. So my entry for today is 3.32 miles (yes, I DO have a Garmin) in 34.30. Hopefully, this will be the first 3.32 miles in a return to a sub 4 hour marathon.

Today, June 15th, 2009, I start keeping a running journal again, and the 3.32 miles will be my first entry in it, along with a current weight of 163.2, and a day of eating right and resisting the common temptations of a bowl of ice cream and perhaps even a 2nd beer. If I'm really good, I'll even resist the first one. And of course, don't call me after 9:30. After all, I am in training, and need my sleep so I can be ready and refreshed when tomorrow morning's alarm goes off at 4:30

And today, June 15th, 2009, I am once again sharing my running thoughts and current journey to those who remember me, and introducing myself to those who are reading me for the first time. Over the next 18 weeks, I am sure I will be sharing much more than just the miles and the minutes. I will be sharing the thoughts of a roads scholar.

Today, June 15th, 2009, I am finally all the way back.

On November 8th, my father turned 81. Last year, when he turned 80, at about the same time my mother turned 75, we celebrated both of their "milestone" birthdays with a family get-together. This year, I flew down to beautiful Barenton, Florida to visit them somewhere between my mother's 76th and father's 81st birthdays, because I strongly believe that once you reach three quarters of a century of living, EVERY birthday is a milestone, and cause for celebration.

I've written about my father before, but it's been a while. When I first started running, now over 25 years ago, he was my inspiration. He was already in his mid 50's, older than I am now, when I ran my first miles. At that time, he had already been running for around 15 years, but until I started to run, he had never really raced. He ran primarily because he doctor told him he needed to, in order to combat high blood pressure and live a long and healthy life.

Well, I started racing, and soon, as a result of my dragging him to a race or two, he caught the racing bug as well. I was never really fast, but I was a lot faster than I am today. Since I was in my mid 20's at the time, I had no idea what was like to be a 50 something runner, like my dad was then. I was still young and immortal in my mind.

Dad and I ran together often and raced together frequently before I moved away from New York. I lived out on Long Island, and my parents lived in the city. A normal weekend routine was that I would take an early train into Penn Station, where he would meet me. Then, we would drive to Central Park, and run whatever race the New York Road Runners Club was putting on that weekend. We had our favorite races, like The Perrier 10K, which was the kick-off of the spring racing season, and The Trivera Twosome, a couples race that wound for 10 miles through the park.

When I raced alone, I ran for speed, but when I raced with my father, I often paced him, and got more pleasure from that than I did setting my own PR's, which were easily obtained when there was not much racing history to fall back on. Some of my fondest memories are of races in which my father PR'ed. There was a 23:25 5K in Central Park in 1983, a 37:32 in Oceanside the same year. Years later, after I had moved to NC, we ran 47:20 in Chapel Hill on an extremely difficult course when he was nearing 60. There was also a 2:00:13 half marathon at Camp LeJune, also in NC, after he had retired and moved to coastal Carolina. He must have been at least 65 then.

His times didn't really mean that much to me then. I was still young, and still saw everything from a young person's point of view, without respect for the aging process.

I knew he was proud of his accomplishments, and so too, was I. He always said he couldn't have done those times without me.

Dad continued to run into his mid 70's, overcoming many obstacles along the way, including a dislocated shoulder, which happened when he tripped and fell at the start of one run, a sliced up hand, by virtue of a trip and fall on a bridge grating while training for a bridge run, and tennis-related major knee surgery which put him out of action for over a year. Every time, he came back. He came back slower, but he still always came back.

He pretty much quit racing when he was in his mid 70's, but we still had one annual event we always did, every December in Kiawah Island, a lovely island community of the Charleston coast. I'd usually run the half or full, and he's run the 5K. Unfortunately, they discontinued the 5K race a few years ago, and thus, sadly ended our tradition. His last races were in the 32 to 33 minute range.

Dad transitioned from a run to a walk about 5 years ago, not due to lack of spirit, but due to painful feet. Running just started to hurt too much, and so he settled into walking, 4 miles or so 4 or 5 times a week. When I visited, I'd run on my own, and then walk with him. I found walking with him to continue the bond that running had first tied a quarter century earlier. It was no different, except it gave us more time to visit.

So, flash forward to this past weekend, five days shy of Dad's 81st birthday. When we used to run together, his times were always much faster than when he ran alone. This had also been our experience the last few years, when runs turned to walks. Dad had been walking a 2.5 mile route on a semi-regular basis, and he told me it usually was taking him about 50 minutes to complete. When we started our walk on Saturday morning, I had no clue what to expect. I just looked forward to that special time athletes share.

We walked and talked, and talked and walked, and sooner than I would have expected, the walk was done. Dad looked at his watch and said one word. "Wow." We had completed the walk in a little over 42 minutes. Another PR. Not bad for someone less than a week from turning 81. And my own personal sense of satisfaction was no different than it used to be all those years ago when we were tearing up the roads.

Now, I am 52, and am not even close to running any of the times Dad used to run when he was in his mid 50's. I never realized back then how truly amazing his accomplishments were, because I was an immortal 20 something kid who believed I would never age. Now, I know better, and DO appreciate not only what he has done in the past, but how amazing his accomplishments are now. Every time I walk with him, it is a blessing, and I treasure every time we can do it.

Even at 81 years, it never gets old.

TRS

On September 26th, 1982, I wrote the following entry in my green Bill Rodgers runner's log. "A runners paradise. I will be coming here from now on." The paradise I was referring to was Eisenhower Park. It was conveniently located between work, which I did during the day, and school, which I attended at night.

When I started running there, I had only been running for about six months, but running was already a defining part of who I was becoming as a human being. Eisenhower Park was the hub of running activity on Long Island. From parking area 2, there were five clearly marked tours of the park, each with its own distinctly colored arrows painted on the ground and pointing the way to routes of one to five miles. All you had to do was follow the arrows with the color of the route you wanted to run.

It was only a few weeks later that I lost the park to winter's darkness. Once daylight savings time ended, the park was too dark to run in, so I had to find alternative options for running in lighted areas of other places to get me through winter's cold clutches. From the end of October on, I counted the days until spring's arrival, and with it, the arrival of evening daylight, so I could return to the park.

My enthusiasm for running, and my fondness towards the park grew through most of the next year, but in September 1983, I moved to North Carolina, and Eisenhower Park became paradise lost. It was like losing a friend. Of course, I quickly invented places to run near my new home which became my new comrades, but, as Lloyd Benson would have said, they were no Eisenhower.

For most of the next two decades, running continued to be a main fiber of who was. Though my life turned in more directions than a Six Flags roller-coaster, running remained the one constant that never seemed to change, except that my times slowed over the years. Though life around me was changing at an alarming rate, running remained the same simple act of lacing up a pair of shoes, dressing appropriately for the conditions outside, and then going out the door and running.

About three years ago, I hit a major roadblock in my life, which spilled over to my running, and as a result, running ceased to exist. This happened for a variety of reasons, including physical, psychological, emotional, and some reasons which I am sure I still don't know. The simple fact was that the longer I went without running, the less desire I had to start it back up again. I stopped running in April of 2005, only six months after I had set a lifetime marathon PR at the age of 49, and with the exception of a few meager efforts to return to the fold, I became a non-runner. I rationalized why I stopped in every way possible, and blamed it on every external thing I could think of. The fact is that the only reason I stopped running was an internal one. I didn't have it within me to take the first steps back.

In June of this year, I started a long term assignment in New York. As luck would have it, the hotel I have been staying at is right across the street from the paradise I had first discovered over 25 years earlier, when I was exactly half my current age. But as a non-runner, Eisenhower Park, my paradise lost, only served to mock me. Through the summer, I drove past the park every day on the way to work, but never drove through it, and never even considered running it. Instead, I almost daily cursed my body for failing me, when my body was not to blame. In reality, I was failing my body, allowing it to start acting and feeling its age.

But in the later stages of the summer, life drastically changed again, in several ways. Some I have shared, and some I have not, but the cumulative effect was that on a mild late September New York day, I found myself once again at Eisenhower Park, searching for parking area 2, and the marked trails which were once my main paths to sanity.

When I finally found it, the memories were vague at best. Some things had changed. The five different colored allows of a quarter century ago had been reduced to two, a white one and a red one, marking the 1-mile and 3-mile loops. The others three arrows had been painted over in black, and invalidated, due to the fact that some of those other routes took runners outside the park, creating liability issues.

My return to the park after 25 years created a swarm of emotions. As I struggled through my first 3-mile return, I found a few things to be true. First, I didn't remember the route very well, and a few times, I "lost the scent" of the trail, and had to retrace steps to find the next red arrow and get back on track. Another feeling I had was that I felt old, and slow, and most every step of the run was unpleasant.

But at the same time, I was amazed that looking back 25 years felt like a blink of an eye. I was running the exact same trail I used to run before I was married the first time, before I was a father, before I became established in my career. I was running this very trail before anything that came after. Now I am well established and looking towards retirement sooner rather than later, I am single once again, and I am a grandfather of a beautiful 11-week old boy.

In the midst of all this change, the trail I was running was virtually unchanged with one major exception. About a mile into the run, as the route took me by the lake, there was a new memorial overlooking the water, a commemoration of 9/11. It was a poignant reminder that even remaining on a constant path, there is no total stability in this world we live in.

I got through that first run with very mixed feelings. I cursed my watch, which I really shouldn't have worn. It only served as a reminder that I am not the same runner I was in 1982. At the same time though, I felt relieved that I was able to navigate three miles, and wondered if this was a one shot deal, or if I would return again and again to work my way back to running, and the life I knew for so many years. I know the advances would have to be taken one baby step at a time. Learning to run again is akin to an infant learning to walk. It's a long and slow process.

This past month or so has answered many burning questions in the affirmative. I've been going back to Eisenhower Park almost every day during the week, and when I go to see my daughter and grandson back in Atlanta on weekends, I run down by the Chattahoochee River, another running paradise. The running has gotten better. This past weekend, I completed my first 8-mile run in years, and I am now committed to running two marathons next year, Rock and Roll San Diego in June, and Twin Cities, my marathon PR course, in October.

I have gotten stronger in both mind and body, the memories have become much clearer, and I once again go to bed at night knowing that the next morning is going to start with a run. I have returned to paradise. It is nice to be back.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a date at Eisenhower Park I must keep.

On April 16th, 1982, I ran my first mile on my journey to becoming a long distance runner. Running like the wind had been a smoldering desire in the back of my mind for years, enough so that I was already somewhat knowledgeable about the current racing scene even before that first run. Before I ever ran my first step, I was a Runner's World subscriber, and I already knew about people like Alberto Salazar, "Boston" Billy Rodgers, Rob de Castella and Rod Dixon, but I had never taken the first running steps until that day.

I can't say my first mile around the block added any sparks to my dream of becoming a long distance runner. In fact my first mile was a rather unpleasant experience, akin to smoking my first cigarette. About the only difference was that running was supposed to be good for you and smoking was supposed to have an opposite effect.

Both activities made me dizzy. Both burned my lungs. Both made me feel like I wanted to puke. But that first run seemed to have much more far reaching effects throughout my body than smoking ever could, for running also hurt my legs, my arms and just about every other moving part. At least smoking only affected my lungs. After that first run, I doubted if running would ever stick, and my body hurt too much the next couple of days for me to even think about trying again.

But three days later, on April 19th, 1982, something amazing happened. I can't say I remember all the circumstances like it was yesterday. I can't for the life of me remember why I was even home on a Monday to begin with. I can't recall if I watched the Boston Marathon live or on tape delay that day. But I did know that at that time, Alberto Salazar had never finished behind anyone in the marathon, and I knew that he had a heart that hated losing, and he would go to physical extremes to win.

As many said the morning of Boston 1982, it was a beautiful day for a marathon. Of course, this was spoken only from the vantage point of a spectator. There have been worse weather days at Boston, but from a runner's perspective, this was a very poor day for a marathon. High sun, warm temperatures, and the Boston course by its very nature added yet more difficult twists to an already daunting feat of running 26.2 miles at an under 5 minute per mile pace.

Maybe I was looking for added inspiration with one mile in my running career already behind me, but for whatever reason, I was there, in front of my TV, with my full long distance running career of one difficult mile behind me, waiting to watch the 1982 Boston Marathon.

The early miles of the race were a non entity. First miles of a marathon are rarely either interesting or entertaining. In a marathon, any marathon, as anyone who has ever run one knows, the real race doesn't start until mile 20. While this is true primarily from each runner's individual perspective, it can also be said for the overall race from the eyes of a spectator.

But Alberto Salazar was in a class by himself, and by mile 20, it was very common for him to be running alone as the apparent and obvious winner. Today was different. A young runner I knew virtually nothing about, a Midwest farmer named Dick Beardsley, was matching him stride for stride through the wall and beyond, and under the circumstances and the hot Patriot's Day sun, they were running at a blistering pace.

I am sure just about everyone watching that day was waiting for Beardsley to drop back at any time, but with every increasing mile, he continued to be right there, matching Salazar's pace, and usually even pushing the pace. I also believe that with each advancing mile, more and more people were pulling for Beardsley to pull it off in the end.

After all, it is in our inherent nature to pull for the underdog, and we are constantly searching for the next Cinderella story. Boston really needed something like this, especially after the fiasco of two years earlier, when Rosie Ruiz played the role of wicked stepsister by attempting to steal the women's crown from Canadian Jacqueline Gareau and the real athletes. Boston needed a shot in the arm in much the same way as baseball did after a strike shortened 1994 season. In retrospect, there were unfortunate and obvious differences, but at the time, Beardsley and Salazar were playing a similar role for Boston as McGuire and Sosa did years later for baseball.

During the last few miles, I was feeling that it would be a shame that there would have to be a "loser" in this epic battle. In my mind, I pictured the two of them breaking the tape together, hands raised in unison, and then embracing as co-winners. But at the same time, I knew this could not possibly happen. For one thing, they both wanted to win too much. For another, if I recall correctly, The Athletic Congress, the governing body of road racing at the time, did not allow ties, and would ultimately declare a winner anyway.

What happened at the end is well documented. Alberto Salazar did end up winning at the finish, by a scant three seconds, and both runners dipped below 2:09, the first time in the history of the marathon that a loser finished in under 2:09.

But to call Dick Beardsley a loser that day would be highly inaccurate. This was possibly the most decorated race that Boston had ever seen, and it would not have been noteworthy if both runners hadn't run the race of their lives. If Alberto had won the race by five minutes, I may have not been inspired to go out and run my second ever mile later that day. But it was the combined efforts of Alberto Salazar and Dick Beardsley, showcased by the exhilarating battle over a full 26.2 miles of Boston between two great warriors that inspired me to work towards the continued goal of becoming a long distance runner.

Sometimes, running captures the imagination. And sometimes, the imagination captures running. "The Duel in the Sun" was a race that accomplished both for me. I have always closely aligned my own 25th anniversary of running with the 25th anniversary of this greatest of marathon battles. On April 19th, 1982, I ran my second ever mile, and somehow knew that running was going to stick. From that day on, I continued running, getting up to two or three miles at a time, and running my first race, a 10K at Shelter Island, in late June of that year. Running quickly became a way of life for me, at least partially motivated by these two great runners and their great race.

Tomorrow, April 16th, will be the 25th anniversary of one of the most famous Boston Marathons ever documented, and tomorrow will be my 25th anniversary of running. Running has molded my life over the last quarter century, and I cannot even come close to describing the impact running has had on who I am today.

In January of this year, I had the privilege of meeting Dick Beardsley when he came to talk to my running club in Atlanta. It was a privilege to be able to tell him face to face the impact he has had in my life. Somehow, I hope that I can also get the message to Alberto Salazar, though I don't know how to contact him. Thank you both for your part in making me who I am today. I wonder how many other lives you have changed as a result of your "Duel in the Sun" at Boston, 25 years ago?

It was eleven years ago today, on January 7th,1996, that I wrote my first essay with an article inspired by a single run in the snow. It ended up being a tribute to the late George Sheehan, the foremost writer on running philosophy of his, or any other time, for that matter. His works are timeless, but I fear many of today's runners are not familiar of his works. Since this is the first essay I ever wrote, it holds a special meaning to me, and some years, I like to revisit it on its anniversary.

My writing over the past 11 years has been much like my running. It has taken me placed I never thought I would go. It has brought me some of my greatest pleasures, and it has seen me through some very difficult times. It has been a friend and true companion. It has become a big part of what defines me as a person. Unlike running, I have been told that it has sometimes touched and inspired others, and for me, that is the greatest gift of all.

A small number of you have been with me since the very beginning, but most of you have joined at some point since then, some very recently. I am thankful for the friendships and bonds I have made with many of you over the years, and as we continue with this running life, I hope that current friendships strengthen, and new ones are forged.

And now the essay:

George Sheehan Comes to Lawrenceville

Non runners look at us and shake their heads in amusement, puzzlement, bewilderment, wondering what this pull is that attracts us to pound the pavement week after week, month after month, year after year. When asked, the answer is not so easily phrased. Runners, by and large, are private people who use their running to be alone with their thoughts, to daydream in an appropriate manner, in an acceptable forum. We use this time for problem resolution, as well as stress release. Sometimes, we use running to race faster. As a competitive runner, although mainly with myself, I am often "guilty" of this. But the run I am writing about today was special, and I knew in the midst of it that I finally had to start sharing my thoughts with other runners.

I woke up early today to find a beautiful white blanket of unbroken snow covering the ground, and it was still falling rather heavily. It has been a few years since I had last run in the snow, which is one of my favorite things to do. I quickly pulled on my special black running tights which had printed snowflakes running up the sides. I had been saving these tights for just such an occasion. Today was the day. A few more pieces of foul weather gear and I was out the door.

I have a nice rolling loop in my neighborhood which covers about 1.25 miles. As I started today's 7 1/2 mile run, I observed that the snow lay pure on the road ahead of me. The only disturbance was left in my wake. My mind started to wander to thoughts of Dr. George Sheehan, who in my opinion, was the most insightful author of running psychology and running philosophy I have ever read. He had an uncanny ability to allow a single run to have a profound effect on his entire life from that point forward. Not only that, but he would then write about his experience and share it with the rest of the world, so that whoever wanted to could actually benefit from his experience.

What a wonderful, caring, and giving man he was, I thought. He lived his life to benefit other people, both through his profession and his writing, and he has ensured that his legacy will live on throughout my lifetime and beyond. We all have intimate thoughts while on the run. Why not share them with the rest of the world? I'll bet he could have written something wonderful about today's run. Here is a man in whose footsteps I would be honored to follow.

At about this time, I noticed that the snow that lay ahead was no longer unbroken. There was a single trail of footsteps ahead of me, already carved in the snow. I hit the split timer on my watch to mark the completion of my first loop. Whose footsteps were those that lay ahead of me? Was I just repeating my own footsteps, running around in circles, or were these actually someone else's footsteps, beckoning me to follow? As I continued my run, I felt a strange presence, as if I were not alone. It was as if George Sheehan had come to Lawrenceville, GA, and was with me, stride for stride. I quickly started recalling the few brief times I met him.

When I still lived in New York, I used to see him at races in Prospect Park in Brooklyn and Central Park in New York, where he was basically just another good age group runner. People didn't make a fuss about him there, as this was his home running ground. He wasn't a guest there; he was competition for other people in his age group.

Then there was the year he was a guest speaker at the Salisbury Winter Flight run in North Carolina. Everyone clamored to see him there, but he was just as friendly and approachable as you could imagine. The last time I saw him in person was at the Old Reliable Run in Raleigh the next year. I remember passing him at about the two mile mark of that race, which I had never done before, and noticed him wheezing heavily. I asked him if he was all right and he just smiled and kept on going. He announced to the world two days later that he had cancer.

As I ran my sixth and final loop, the road behind me left the impression that a marathon had just been run along the left hand shoulder. I had just run the last six miles of my wonderfully snowy run with Dr. George Sheehan. Not only is he still alive, but he taught me a most valuable lesson today. It's okay to walk, (or run) in someone else's footsteps, but never, ever forget that, each step of the way, you are also forging your own path, which others may then chose to follow. Have no regrets about the trail you leave.

Why do I run? Sometimes a run can make a day a little bit better than it otherwise would have been. But once in a blue moon, as George Sheehan so consistently pointed out, your whole reason for being, the way you look at life can be changed by a single run. For me, it was once upon a snowy morning in Lawrenceville, GA, where I experienced first hand what it's like to create my own footsteps, as well as follow in the footsteps of someone I have the greatest admiration for. I also got to the experience sharing a run with the immortal George Sheehan. I have wanted to write about my own running thoughts for years. January 7th, 1996, Dr. Sheehan told me, was a great day to start.

If you are not familiar with Dr. Sheehan, please do yourself a favor and get acquainted with him. You will be amazed by his insights and observations. And who knows, you may even want to follow in his footsteps.

TRS

Now, before you assume that I take time out of my run to latch on to gossip about the surrounding domain, let me clarify my prior statement. I am not a blabbermouth. I actually prefer to keep to myself and would prefer not to know about anyone else's dirty laundry.

I meant what I said literally. Friday is trash collection day in our subdivision, and I find it kind of interesting to see what people are throwing away. It tells a lot about what is going on inside. For example, if there's a huge box waiting to be picked up with a picture of a 62" Flat Panel HDTV, This tells me that there is someone inside that I need to become friends with before Super Bowl XLI. I make a note of the address, and start devising ways we can accidentally meet.

If, on the other hand, the packaging is for an Uzzie semi-automatic machine gun, than I know that my old course is getting stale, and it is imperative that I map out a new route before I finish running this one. Again, I make note of the address, and start devising ways to sell the house and not leave a forwarding address.

This past Friday's "junk miles" run was particularly revealing. After all, this was the once a year, magical "Christmas Trash Run", where boxes holding the dreams of New Year's Resolutions are tossed to the curb.

During the run, I started to see a pattern in the types of gift exchanges people had made within the last week. As I neared the first turn, there was an empty box which once contained a Body by Jake Cardio Cruiser. I have seen ads on TV for this and similar products for many years, now. It promises results in as little as 10 minutes a day, 3 times a week. As I cruised by, I couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before the piece of equipment itself would be sitting out there on an early Friday morning.

It wasn't long before my deliberation dissolved. As I charged up the next hill, I encountered a box with Tony Little's smiling mug, bright teeth, bulging biceps and wonderfully full pony tail. He was glistening, while riding his Tony Little Gazelle Edge. It promises firming and toning in as little as 10 minutes a day, 3 times a week. I wondered my hair could get longer and my teeth could be whiter if I used it too.

Around the corner and up the next street, there was a box that had a picture if Christly Brinkley and Chuck Norris for the Total Gym. It claims to provide benefits from resistance training without pressure on your joints! I'll bet the owner is resisting using it right now. This is yeat another miracle miracle product that can give you the body of Christy AND Chuck all at the same time, and the transformation will happen….in as little as.....you guessed it........10 minutes a day, 3 times a week. I'm guessing that by March, you'll have a hundred of these "Only used once" bargains posted on eBay to chose from.

Fitness Infomercials have become the babysitter of the modern day insomniac. You can't channel surf any time of day any more without encountering these or equivalent products being pitched by pumped up long haired muscle men and slender, gorgeous models, and has been actors and actresses who want you to believe that if you buy their rubber band system, or their aerobic stepper, or their anti-gravity boots, you can look just like them and suddenly have the kind of charisma and sex appeal usually reserved for movie stars and rock musicians. And these stunning results are promised in 10 minutes a day, 3 times a week.

I have often watched parts of these product pitches, and wondered if people really purchased the commodities presented. Today's tour of the neighborhood answered my question with an unfortunate and resounding yes.

I'm sure that every piece of equipment I've alluded to works very well. After all, they have all been tested by doctors in controlled laboratories. If someone is committed, they will see results eventually, feel better about themselves, and pursue new fitness challenges. The problem as I see it is not what is being sold. The perplexity is with the marketing of the products. What is being sold here is not a new lifestyle of overall fitness combined with a well balanced low fat diet. What is being transacted is instant gratification. Ten minutes a day, three times a week. What is being marketed is more for less, with promised results.

If I started running with the attitude that 10 minutes a day, three times a week was all I needed for total health and emotional benefits, I would have been misled, and I would have stopped years ago. That amount of time would have never allowed me to reap the enormous mental health benefits that nothing else in the world can hold a candle to. The benefits of any exercise program, whether it is running, biking, swimming, or anything involving machines, weights or other apparatus is as much in the journey as in the results. To me, the health gain I realize from running is simply a dividend, but not my purpose.

And for anyone who thinks ten minutes a day, three times a week is a pittance to pay for a fountain of youth, your well is likely to run dry before you have drunk the waters. Why? Because you are determined to get to your desired destination without enjoying the journey. Slow down and smell the flowers. Exercise is better situated as part of your total self being, to be incorporated into it just like eating, sleeping, working and giving and receiving the love of those who are most important to you.

Ten minutes a day, three days a week. What a sad commentary. Nothing worth while can fit into that kind of equation. For anything you do of value, you are much better off leaving your watch and your calendar out of sight.

TRS

And you can fly
High as a kite if you want to
Faster than light if you want to
Speeding through the universe
Thinking is the best way to travel" ~~~~Mike Pinder  The Moody Blues

2006 was a year of continuous travel. Since January 4th, my life has been a barrage of Delta sky miles, Hilton and Marriot points, per diem meals and American Express transactions. Some would call it an exciting lifestyle, and it often is. But it would be a far better one if airport security was less stringent, flights always ran on time, and hotel accommodations were consistently as advertised. It's an enjoyable existence in many regards, but it comes with many bumps in the road, and air pockets in the sky.

The hard cold reality is that the airports want you to arrive two hours early, merely so they can delight in advising you that your flight is going to be two hours late. Once you finally arrive at your final destination, you learn that suitcases don't always disembark at your destination on the same flight as you do. Mapquest doesn't always succeed in getting you from the airport to the hotel in an unfamiliar city, and once you do get there, the hotel doesn't always have the non-smoking room you reserved weeks in advance. Sometimes, they don't have any room at all.

Commercial travel is a necessity in my line of work, placing me squarely at the mercy of others, but there is another kind of travel, the journey of the mind's eye, which I have a little more control of. For me, destinations of the psyche have always been most easily accessible through running, the vehicle of perfect travel where there are no delays, skies are always blue, and I never get a middle seat sandwiched between two people who are on their way to the Guinness buffet eating world championships.

At the beginning if this year, my mental travel agent must have been on an extended vacation, as I found that my thoughts were not taking me to sunny destinations. I seemed to not have any desire to run any longer than three or so miles. They were all rocky miles, and were not fun. At the time, my running was kind of stale. I'm not really sure why, but every time I went for a run, voices emanated from the back seat of my mind, repeating the mantra of any child in a hurry to get to someplace exciting- "Are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet?" It took everything in me to even get out for a run, and once underway, all I wanted was for each run to be over. The running never escalated from my labored legs and breathing to my free stream-of-consciousness thought.

It got worse from there. From February through mid-April, I was on an overseas assignment where I didn't run a single step the whole time I was there. It was ironic that I was over 10,000 frequent flier miles from home, but my running had shut down like a failing airline suddenly engaged in Chapter 11 bankruptcy. Although it was an amazing travel experience, my running stayed home in the states. I didn't run, and as a result, my mind travel was grounded.

When I arrived back home in Mid-April, I started sporadic running again, mustering a slow mile or two here and there. It was like learning to walk again. Every step was labored and my body was too acutely aware of the unwelcome weight gain and the painful and physical act of running to allow my mind to wander. For most of the rest of the year, my physical weekly coast to coast travels preempted any real opportunity to experience the mental Bernoulli Effect and simple momentum transfer in the air flow of my mind to allow liftoff.

But if you can change your thoughts, you can change your world. And when your mind is right, it can take you wherever you wish to go, first class, turbulence free and on time every time. Running is the only means of transportation that can get me there. Some call this the elusive "runner's high" but I call it my escape to reality.

One of the things I have always enjoyed about running is the seeming union of mind and body, and when it all comes together, I feel like a well oiled instrument. When the human machine is clicking on all cylinders, running becomes a mystical, magical travel experience where there are no blackout dates and miles never expire. It's a feeling of such total absorption of thoughts that the whole rest of me is just along for the ride. There is no effort, no struggle, and no outside awareness of anything, including the act of running itself.

It just is what it is.

Or at least it was. But for some unknown reason, this feeling suddenly escaped me, and so my passion, and even my desire for running dried up. It continued this way for what I was afraid would be forever. How do you recover a lost passion? You have to change your mind.

In early December, the joy of running started to return. I can't tell you what the catalyst was, any better than I can explain why the passion left me to begin with. But it started to return during a trip to San Francisco, where running started to feel good again and the scenic beauty was like oil seeping through to the rusty gears in my mind. It was during that week that, for the first time all year, I found that each day, I was looking forward to my next run, and expecting it to happen.

The next two weeks, I was working in Houston, where I discovered that running in a usually crowded downtown area before sunrise allowed me to own an entire city with a different self guided tour each day. As was the case in San Francisco, I got out every day except a couple when I chose to rest, and found myself looking forward to each next run. My body was reuniting with my soul, and I was reconnecting with running. And the words started flowing again.

I finished up 2006 at home, where, even though I've had the joy of sleeping in my own bed every night, I've been traveling every day, taking a new journey of the mind during each run. I finished up the year yesterday with a simple three mile trip reflecting on the year ready to end and the new one only hours away. We closed out the year with friends and family.

In about three hours, I'll be lining up with about a thousand other runners for The Atlanta Track Club Resolution Run, my first run of a new year. This year, I have not made any New Years resolutions. For the past month or so, I've already been resolving to evolve a little bit each day, with a simple goal of being a better person today than I was yesterday. Any day you chose is a great day to start.

Words are flowing out like 
endless rain into a paper cup 
They slither while they pass 
They slip away across the universe

Michael

Thoughts of a Roads Scholar: Home, wherever you may find it Ever since I attended my very first baseball game in the late 50's, I've always been a big fan of baseball. Well, I shouldn't say always. In the mid 90's, I actually boycotted the game for a while. I had no sympathy for millionaire ballplayers walking out on the game and fans that made them filthy rich to begin with. It felt like they were ungrateful babies, biting the hand that fed them, the paying public. Not only did I boycott attending the games, but I also boycotted watching them on TV.

Ironically, it was two controversial ballplayers who brought focus back to the boys of summer. It was Sammy Sosa and Mark McGuire who enticed me, along with most of the rest of the sports-minded nation, back into the baseball fold with one of the most exciting displays of power and friendship ever documented in the history of sports. I say ironically, because both were most likely cheating at the time, either by using performance enhancing drugs or corked bats. In Sosa's case, maybe it was both. Although that year had fans riveted, both players will now likely be denied admittance into the Baseball Hall of Fame due to their respective character flaws. It's all very sad, because these were the two single-handedly responsible for putting baseball back on the map.

Why am I writing about baseball in a running column, anyway? Mainly it is because I've been staying in downtown Houston the past couple of weeks, rediscovering MY favorite past time, and I have been scoring runs every morning around Minute Maid Park, home of the Houston Astros, It has sparked thoughts within me that I wanted to share. So with that in mind, batter up!

Houston has had three different homes since it's inception to the National League at the start of the 1962 season. Most people don't remember that the Houston team didn't even start out as the Astros. For the first couple of years, they played as the Houston Colt 45's, while they were building their first permanent home, The Houston Astrodome. They were introduced to the league the same year as the wildly popular NY Mets.

The Astrodome, at the time, was referred to as the 8th Wonder of the World. It was the first ever domed sports arena of this magnitude. An observation that I think is even more amazing than the Amazin' Mets is that this futuristic edifice only 40 years ago has now become known as the "Lonely Landmark, relegated to hosting only an occasional concert and high school football games. If I weren't still so young, that sobering thought might make me feel old.

Home. It can change many times over one's lifetime. But when you find it, there is no place like it, and it is a concept I have given a lot of thought to lately. As I have endlessly lamented in recent columns, home is a place I have spent very little time this year. The world of travel can have its rewards, but it can also be tiring, stressful, lonely, and a world apart from home. My wife has been extremely understanding and supportive, which has meant the world to me, and when I do go home, it is where my heart is.

I have always found that when I am not at home, it helps to find a routine that reminds me of home. Over the years, nothing has accomplished this feeling more naturally than running. It is the one part of the daily routine I can maintain no matter where I am, as long as I have the motivation and the desire. But both have been absent for longer than I'd like to admit.

Happily, however, both have recently returned with a passion I have not felt in a long time. I once again go to bed at night fully expecting to run the next morning, and I have been successful in that goal much more frequently than not lately. I am once again looking more for reasons to run than excuses not to.

Home. When I am not there, I can at least pack parts of it and take them with me. It doesn't even take up much room in a suitcase. All that is required is a pair of Sauconys, socks, shorts and a singlet, slightly more in the winter. It is my portable home away from home.

Home. Aside from family, it is also where my friends are, and my friends are something else I have neglected this past year. . This includes my friends on the Internet, which is always at my fingertips when I travel. In my tunnel vision with blinders, I have spent too much time focusing on other things, making most aspects of home seem even further away than they need to be. It is something else I see changing in the near future. It's just another element of home that I can control when I am not there.

So again, somehow baseball, running and Houston have caused me to reflect on home, and how much I have missed it. The new Minute Maid ballpark might be a beautiful place to call home, and my runs around it have reminded me to always root for the home team, no matter where I may be. As they say in baseball, being on the road could mean facing a hostile environment, but as long as you go home in your mind, it doesn't have to be a disadvantage.

Michael

Thoughts of a Roads Scholar: I Left My Watch.................In Alpharetta

Last Sunday, I headed out to San Francisco. My watch, however, stayed behind at home in Alpharetta. Our trial separation was not planned. This was not a conscious decision made by either my watch or myself. It was just that in my haste to get to the left coast, the watch was left sitting in my top dresser drawer.

I was only half way to Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta when I realized the oversight. For most of my running life, my watch had been about the most important adornment I'd ever owned. In fact, there was a time that I would rather have left the house naked than without my watch. In years past, having realized the calamity, I would have gotten off at the next exit, wound my way back home, and called Delta to reschedule my trip for a later flight, just so I could get my watch.

But apparently I am now living in a different era, maybe even one that includes logic and sensibility. I just shrugged and continued on to Hartsfield, ready to embark on a long and timeless journey. Times have changed, even if I didn't have the time to validate what time it actually is. To take and modify a famous Satchel Paige quote, "What time would it really be if you didn't know what time it really was?"

I landed in Frisco at about noon last Sunday, and headed for the hotel. San Fran is one of those cities you can easily fall in love with. Between the temperate climate and breathtaking beauty of lifting fog over the bay and the world renowned hills, compliments of the San Andreas and Hayward faults, it is easy to understand how Tony Bennett left his heart there.

One of my work teammates is also a runner, and we were lucky enough to draw this assignment together. So on Sunday afternoon, we headed for the hills and did a slow 4 miler on a dirt trail the cut through cow pastures. I was keenly aware of the fact I didn't have my watch, but my running partner had his, so about every 15 seconds I badgered him about how long we had been running. When all was said and done, we had gone about 40 minutes. It was a good start to the week.

One thing I love about west coast trips is that I gain three hours along the way. As a result, I go to sleep early and wake up the next morning feeling rested and ready to run well before the first hint of daylight. I don't need a watch to appreciate that. True to form, I was out like a light by 7:30 Sunday night, and on Monday morning, I think I was up before 3. My normal routine is early to bed and early to rise, but Sunday into Monday was ridiculous.

At the first hint of daylight, I took off to run, not having a clue of how far I was going to go, and without a watch, not even really having a way of estimating how long my run was going to be. When you are carving your route as you run it, it's very hard to estimate how long into the run you actually are at any given time. The concrete duration often feels deceptively longer than it actually is.

I was a little surprised that it was cool enough to produce frost on the ground, but really, it was perfect weather for running. The full moon and cloudless sky provided a nice backdrop, but I was also conscious of what was missing on my wrist, at least at first.

But slowly, my concerns about time melted away as I started noticing nature all around me. Beautifully manicured lawns plush with vegetation were grabbing me and diverting my attention away from my thoughts of seconds and minutes. The hills on the horizon, which I had run the day before, were now unsuccessfully containing the rising sun, now just starting to peak above their foggy crest. This was timeless running at its best. Time was no longer an issue, so it was also not a distraction. It was just nature and me.

I am not saying that I didn't notice the time when I left for my run, and you can be sure that when I got back to my room, the first thing I did was look at the clock, but time was merely a reference point, not an obsession as it has been for much of my running past. It was refreshing to know I was out enjoying the simplicity of running about four miles in about 40 minutes or so, instead of strict high tech documentation that I had just run 3.9735 miles in 39:47:12. It was running, plain and simple, the way nature had intended.

As the week progressed, so did my running. I got out every morning, and as I attained more familiarity with the roads, I found that I missed my watch less and less. I didn't need to know how one run compared to another from a pace per mile or total duration vantage point. I was just happy to be able to enjoy running in its purest form, surrounded only by my inner thoughts and outer awareness of a run as natural as its surroundings. When it comes to running, high technology is an option, not a mandate, and this past week drove that point home.

A little later today, I'll be heading to Houston for the week. I'll bring my watch, if I remember, but I won't feel obliged to wear it. At least not on every run.

Tony Bennett left his heart in San Francisco I left my watch in Alpharetta What is left in Houston remains to be seen.

Good running to all.

Michael

Thoughts of a Roads Scholar: Running From My Past

As each year winds down, we tend to do two things.

1) Look back
2) Look ahead

In some respects, we spend most of our existence doing this, but December in particular tends to be a time of critical self- assessment, both as human beings and, for those of us who take to the streets, trails and tracks, as runners.

From a personal standpoint, I have much to reflect on this past year. Harriet and I celebrated our 6th anniversary. My older stepdaughter, Jenny, is expecting our first grandchild in early January. My younger stepdaughter, Lissa, has become a massage therapist and competitive kick-boxer, and now has an amateur record of 2-0. My daughter, Monica, started riding a bike and returned to school for Architectural Engineering. She was recently inducted in Phi Theta Kappa, an international honor society for students attending 2-year colleges. My mother turned 75 and my father turned 80, and both are completely ambulatory and in good health. Of course, this year, as any year, has had its share of bumps in the road, but by and large, this has been a very good year.

Professionally, this past year has been a year of constant travel. Early in the year, I was away for extended periods of time, including a nearly 3-month stint in the Philippines. As soon as I returned from that perspective-changing and eye-opening trip, I started a new assignment which has included travel virtually every week, but it has all been domestic and it has allowed me to come home every weekend. This project will continue until at least July of next year, so there will be no letup in the foreseeable future. My work will continue to keep me busy, but the experience has its rewards, and the rewards encompass more than airline miles and hotel points.

But running, I am slightly embarrassed and more than a little distressed to admit, continues to smolder in the background, just waiting for the right combination of sparks and desire to ignite my running back to the level of years past. When it comes to running, this past year has seen a range of feelings, from indifference, to a real sense of loss, but has mostly been a series of wishes and hopes, with not too much reality on the roads.

It isn't that running is not there at all. I still get out for two to four miles at least once each weekend, and on good weeks, I am able to run once or twice on weekdays. But more often than not, though I still pack to run, I either don't find the time or the energy during the week. Until I get back to running as a lifestyle, which I still know will happen some day, I hang on to running from my past.

For years, I kept meticulous journals of my running, detailing every run from the early `80's until about 2002. But for some reason, I stopped journalizing my runs, instead leaving blank pages during a period when I was running well and there were still volumes to be written. I used to like to look over my old logs almost daily. It's amazing how you can read about a specific run you did 20 years ago, and are instantly transformed to a place where you can remember the feel of the wind, and the smells of nature on that very run,

My running legs and running logs used to inspire me, and motivate me to continue on at the same pace for as long as possible, but somewhere along the line, as my consistency and number of miles ebbed, looking back on those same running entries started to have more of a discouraging effect. It just doesn't seem to document where I am right now. I haven't looked at a log in a while now. All it captures is running from my past.

I am always run-ready. I still have all the running accessories a runner should have in his arsenal. I have GoreTex for winter, CoolMax for summer. I have a HRM and a GSP, and I have multiple pairs of shoes still waiting to be unboxed. Most nights, I still go to sleep with hopes and dreams of running the next day, but distractions have become second nature, and I miss the nature of running.

At the end of December, I'll be off for two weeks straight, and will have control of my life again for that window of time. There are many things I look forward to doing, and many things I am looking forward to not doing. But on the top of the list will be an effort to recommit to running, writing, and engaging once again in the running community. Call it a New Year's Resolution if you wish, but I'd like to think of it more as getting back to running from my past.

I will be running a race somewhere on New Year's Day, 2007. That much I know I can commit to. After that, it will be a simple yet complex matter of overcoming the myriad of diversions that have taken me away in recent years. For the whole of 2006, I only raced twice, and one of those races was The New Years Day run at Stone Mountain.

I can't promise I'll have a column ready to go every month as used to be the case, but I do hope that when the inspirations come and I have something to say, that this will continue to be a venue for sharing. I've missed you all, and look forward to returning to normalcy some time down the marathon route of life.

Happy holiday season to all.

Michael

Thoughts of a Roads Scholar: Old Inspiration

If you have followed my essays over the past 10 years, you already know that it was my father who first inspired me to start running nearly 25 years ago now. He had been running for quite a few years before I caught the bug, but his motivation was strictly medicinal. His doctor had prescribed running as the magic bullet which would combat high blood pressure and high cholesterol. He didn't run for sport back then. He ran for the health of it.

On November 8th, Dad turns 80. To put things in perspective, in November, 1926 the same month he was born, the NBC radio network first started airing, and the now historic route 66 was first established. Suffice to say he was born quite a while ago. In retrospect, I think it is also safe to say that running worked for him, because approaching 80, he is in better shape than most men half his age. Not only has running added years to his life. I have no doubt that it has also added life to his years.

When I first started long distance running in the early spring of 1982, my own health concerns were not a thought in my mind. I was young, I was healthy, and all I wanted to do was run farther and faster, and acquire as many running T-shirts as possible. I was driven by improvement, competition and that wonderful poly/cotton blend, but improved health was not a thought I entertained. At that age, I still thought I could repel bullets and bend steel with my bare hands.

I started racing shortly after I started running, and suddenly, the "old man" of 56, who had first inspired me to run, was himself smitten with race fever by my pursuit of faster times. On July 3rd 1982, we ran our first race together. It was a 5K, and he ran a 24 something and I ran a 25 something. At the time, I was 26 and just starting out. He was 56 and already a veteran runner of many years, having started running in the late 60's. Racing became my passion, and for him it was a new dimension of running.

My race times dropped rapidly and drastically from that point, and by the end of 1982, I was already flirting with sub 20 minute 5K times. Dad started training to race rather than just running for health benefits, and despite being in his late 50's, his times improved as well. He increased his weekly mileage, pushed his 5K times down under 23 minutes, and by late spring of the following year, we both ran our first marathon. He was 57 when he ran his first.

We were both living in New York back then, and I used to take the Long Island Railroad into the city on weekends a couple of times a month so we could meet to race together in Central Park. More often than not, he would have a race goal, and I would pace him to help meet the goal. Most of the time, we would succeed. As we ran together more, we bonded, and my father became my friend. Those early runs together hold some very fond memories for me.

I moved to North Carolina in late 1983, but I would still fly back to New York several times a year to visit the family, and to run a race with my father. And on weeks when I didn't come up to race, I would call, and when we talked, the conversation was never complete until we talked about our running achievements for the week.

Dad continued to race, albeit more slowly, throughout his 60's and into his 70's. I always got a kick out of it when we would be at a race and he would look at the oldest runners trying to find out their age. The "what age group are you in" question is timeless. It can turn septuagenarians into giddy little kids instantly.

The last couple of years have been tough running years for both of us. In Dad's case, his desire to run is still there, but running has become painfully hard on his feet. So instead of running, he lifts weights, works on an elliptical trainer, and walks 4 miles several times a week. He'll still finish up his long walks with a few hundred yards of slow jogging. He still does it all for improved health, and it still seems to be working. After all, he is almost 80.

In my case, the reasons for slacking are different. I took a career change a couple of years ago from corporate work to contracting, and I now travel 100% of the time working some very difficult hours. On the surface, I can easily use the excuse that this has all made running quite difficult on a regular basis. But I am not sure that is the whole story.

I am no longer 26 as I was when I started. In fact, on my next birthday, I'll be twice that age, and I will have been a runner for half of my life. I am no longer driven to compete the way I once was, as my best times are now securely behind me, something I was reluctant to admit for quite a few years. And it appears that, without the drive to compete, the drive to run is greatly diminished. I have gained some weight and sometimes wonder if I will ever be a real runner again. I haven't run a race since January 1st, and that one was more out of obligation than motivation. But I will be running a 5K next weekend just to have a measurable accounting of how far I have slipped.

I called Mom and Dad today as I do every Sunday. As always, Dad asked how my running week was. I told him I got out twice during the week while in Panama City, and I got in a "brisk" 4-miler at a 9:30 pace with Harriet yesterday. For me, this was a good week. Running has been hard. Motivation has been even harder. Lately, I have been feeling old.

Then Dad reflected on his week to me. He told me he went to the gym almost every day, and also got out and walked several times during the week. He rounded out his week with projects around the house they just finished having built. He said he probably got in 20 miles of walking, along with everything else. He had a very good week.

It got me to thinking. When I first started running, inspired by my father, he was already five years older than I am now. He had his best running years by far in his late 50's and throughout his 60's. He was running for the reasons that were right for him, and to this day, they continue to be the right reasons. So he continues to do whatever his body will allow. His is still an inspiration.

Sometimes, in my mind, I go back in time, recalling the years of consistent running I once did, and wondering where it went, and if it will ever return. There is a part of me that truly believes it will be back some day. But in celebrating my father's 80th birthday, I think the message is to not look back, but rather to look forward. Perhaps the inspiration of an 80 year old man is what I need. My goal has always been to be like him when I grow up. It continues to be.

Happy Birthday Dad.

Thoughts of a Roads Scholar: "Reclaiming the Gift"

This essay is long overdue, but I feel that finally, the time is right to write it, and then look only ahead.

The last 16 months have been a real struggle for me. Early in 2004, I embarked on a journey that would eventually take me to new running heights. Thanks to a well-written and equally well executed training plan, I managed to get my mileage up to 65 miles a week while preparing for the Twin Cities Marathon. I eagerly looked forward to Sunday long runs which found me out the door at 4:30 in the morning, in order to beat the stifling mid-summer Atlanta heat and humidity. In fact, I looked forward to every run, and felt a keen sense of satisfaction in every one. I was giving my best, and enjoying the gift.

But the week before the marathon, after all the hard work and focus, parts of my world temporarily fell apart. The details are not important now, as things eventually worked themselves back to where they should be. I still ended up running the marathon, and thanks to the great training base, still managed to run a marathon PR, but my heart was not in it, and I'm sure I could have performed much better if I was as mentally ready as I was physically.

Immediately after the race, I started an endless obstacle course of travel and long hours, which spun me off track, and took me completely away from running. When I returned home less than three months after being in the best shape of my life, I had gained almost 20 pounds, and my spirit for running seemed to have abandoned me. The running was still there, but the joy was not. Without the passion, the running felt like work, and so it became less frequent. The reasons for running were gone. I lost the feeling that running was a gift.

Most of 2005 was a struggle. The time I had always reserved for running was now being monopolized by other things, mostly sleeping a little later. In addition, the travel continued, and running became a hit or miss proposition. It was very easy to talk myself out of a run, and sometimes, a missed day turned into missed weeks. Without the joy, the incentive was drying up.

In October of last year, I turned 50, an event I had been eagerly anticipating in the years leading up to it. But by the time it happened, I felt more like a former runner than a grandmaster. Even the move to a major new age group didn't give me the kick in the shorts I was hoping for, and so I started to wonder if I would become like many other 50 and over runners, who just fell by the side of the road while the select few kept on going.

But I have been a runner for close to 25 years now, and running has long ago reshaped who I am, in a figurative sense even more so than in the physical one. Even when the blood is not flowing through a runners body as the result of a hard sweaty workout, running still remains in a runner's blood. You can't just run away from running. It becomes entrenched your soul. It becomes a part of who you are, and is not so quick to leave.

So for the past several months, I have still been going through the motions, and waiting for the passion to return, and anticipating the run with the pretty bow attached. The attempts have been less frequent than in the past, and the duration of the runs has been shorter. But I have kept at it, and at least done my part to keep the dream alive. Even halfhearted attempts are better than no effort at all.

I don't think I am a great writer, but I can certainly emulate one at the very least. Before this morning's run I decided that I was going to come back and write no matter what. I haven't made a commitment like that to myself in a very long time. So, I left for my run with open eyes, and an open mind, something else sorely lacking lately.

During my 30 minutes, I allowed my mind to wander, and flashed back over my past 25 years of running. I took myself back to the days when every run was an improvement over the last, and I was still steadily marching towards my full potential. Every run was a new learning experience, and before I was even finished with one run, I was looking forward to the next. It took me by surprise when I realized that I was going back a half a lifetime in my mind. It still seems like just yesterday that I took my first long distance running steps.

I fondly remember how, for many years, I ran with my father, who was the one who first inspired me to run. We were both much younger then, and lived much closer together than we do now. He is now 79, and still in superb shape, however his running has been downgraded to walking and workouts at the gym. I fear we have done our last run together, and I can't really put my finger on when or where exactly it took place. At the time, I didn't know it would be our last. But when we get together, we still try to walk, and visit like old times. Our most recent walk was less than a year ago, and I long for the next one.

My mind's eye took me to the dark parts of my running past, too, when I was injured, and would have given anything for 10 minutes of pain free running. There is not much that makes one's desires for something burn more than knowing you can't have it. It made me feel a little guilty that now, I can run pain free, and more often than not lately, still chose to not accept the gift that running truly is.

I also thought about how effortless running a 25 minute 5K used to be. That was an easy training run for many years, but the years catch up, and it takes a while for a runner's mind to accept the fact that the same level of effort yields much slower results. These days, a sub 25 minute 5K is an all out effort, and it can leave me quite frustrated.

But the thing that hit me the most during this morning's run was that, in figurative terms, I brought my canvas and paintbrush with me, and soaked it all in. For 30 minutes (well, 32:04, to be exact- I guess I really AM still a runner) there was once again joy in my running, and I knew I could come back and write about it as in days of old. For 30 minutes, I reclaimed the gift. I don't want to relinquish the gift any time soon. I will do my best to be sure that doesn't happen.

Michael

"To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift" - Steve Prefontaine

Thoughts of a Roads Scholar: "January 1, 2006"

There seems to be something about the first day of every new year that grants us permission to wipe the slate clean, readjust our life goals and look at things differently then we did even the day before. What is so magical about January 1st of every year that renews our spirit and allows us a fresh start? I have no idea what it is, but I am a believer, and I am as entitled as anyone else to jump on the bandwagon. So here it is, January 1st, 2006, and I am ready to proclaim some desired changes that have been a long time coming.

As with most people, every late December, I reflect back on the year winding down. There are many things which can make a year great, or one to forget. Family, friends, health, and professional accomplishments are all part of the big picture. And for the past 23 of those years, running has been a major element of what determines the success of the year.

As year year viewed through a runner's eyes, 2005 was not a good one for me. Races were far less frequent than they have been in previous years, and I found my running often being overshadowed and pushed away by other events going on in my life. For the first time in recent memory, there were periods of time in 2005 when I didn't really even think about running, and even more shocking to me, there were times during the past year that I didn't even fancy myself a runner. Overall, I have lost more steps this past year than I have in any year before, and I hope that this is not the beginning of a trend.

I know that part of this lack of motivation had to do with the fact that other things in my life have surfaced as higher priorities than running. Professionally, I have been quite busy. It has been very rewarding, but it has also been fairly draining, as travel has dominated large chunks of my year just completed. I attribute at least some of the reduced drive to run to the demands of work and the lack of flexibility I sometimes encountered as I toured the country on business.

But I think the bigger culprit is the fact at I am getting older, and slower, and I no longer hold the dreams I once did of running times like I did as a 30 or 40 year old. It is hitting me like a ton of bricks that I have not tricked father time was well as I had always imagined that I would. The immunity to aging I often mused about is not playing out like I had imagined. I seem to be slowing down even more quickly than many of my counterparts, and as I get older, my body is less willing forgive the sins of eating too much of the wrong foods and taking too many days off from running.

My day today was broken up nicely with a drive down to Stone Mountain to participate in the Atlanta Track Club Resolution Run early this afternoon. A run has always been a part of my New Years Day. Ever since I've been a runner, I have never missed a January 1st run. It is probably the only day of the year I can say that about.

Today, plus the next 364 days will eventually add up to the year I look back on in late December in order to evaluate what kind of year 2006 was. As with every year, there will be formidable challenges. Right out of the box, I will be away from home for three months straight starting on January 5th, so quality of life with family and friends will be impacted greatly.

It can be very hard being away from home, family, and daily routine for extended periods of time. But one thing I have always found to be true while I travel is that if I can find roads to run while I am on the road, then away starts to feel a little more like home. I am keeping my fingers crossed that I will be staying somewhere that is conducive to running.

More importantly, if I am running well, and often, then when I look back at any given year in late December, the whole year looks a little better than it would have without running. I know that my last 23 years have been so much better because of running than they would have been without it. I hope the same can be said of the next 23 years. You'll find out on January 1, 2029.

I will also plan to write a new column to be published on Monday of each week. Running and writing have always been like a hand and glove to me. They have both been very important to me over the years, and one compliments the other. It seems that whenever one ceases to burn brightly, the other is also quickly doused. Neither has been very prominent this past year. But it is now 2006. The magic shall return. In fact, it has already started.

I hope you make 2006 one of your best years ever, always taking things one day at a time. That's my plan.

Michael

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Thoughts of a Roads Scholar: "When a Runner Hits the Wall, Does It Stick?"

When I first started running back in 1982, I was immediately hooked, but it was certainly NOT a case of love at first run. In fact, I didn’t really like it very much, and I remember that it took me over three months before I could run three slow miles without taking a walk break. It was actually the lure of fast times and T-shirts that drove me to want to run every day, and to think about it around the clock when I wasn’t doing it.

In those early days, I had no common sense when it came to running. If my ankle hurt, I still ran. If my knee was screaming at me, I ignored it, and kept on running. I was happy to ignore the warning signs, “the injuries of excellence” as George Sheehan used to call them. Within me, there was a potentially dangerous combination of unbridled enthusiasm and gross inexperience. But for some reason, I was hooked.

That first year or so, I probably spent as much time on the sidelines as I did at the starting line, but running was in my blood. For whatever reason, running stuck. This was news in itself for someone like me, as I normally have a Teflon exterior and lose interest in new things quickly.

I was always known for starting things I didn’t complete. My father, my inspiration for running, knew this, and in his mind probably gave me about a month before I gave up on it, so when I continued on with my running into early 1983, it was a surprise to him. This was true especially because it meant persevering through a cold New York winter, complete with a nor ‘easterner that left the streets icy for close to a month.

But running stuck, and by the end of the year, I had improved in leaps and bounds. My first 10K in late June of 1982 was barely under 60 minutes, and my first 5K, on July 3rd of that year was over 25 minutes. By the end of the year, I had run a 10K in under 44 minutes, and had run a 5K in just a little over 20 minutes.

The following spring, Dad and I did something which questioned our normal level-headedness. We had registered for the Long Island Marathon, which had a very nice feature. It produced a full and half marathon. You could sign up for either one, but could decide at the half-marathon mark to change your mind. We both figured we’d run the half, and maybe a little bit more. Neither one of us had trained for a marathon, and I think the longest I had ever run in my life up to that point was about 9 miles.

We each ran our own race, so I never saw him once the race started. But we were like-minded runners, and running sticks, so when each one of us hit the half-marathon point, we did what any overenthusiastic runner would do. We kept going.

It was somewhere between 18 and 19 miles that I first experienced the catch-all term of the first marathon boom, “Hitting the Wall.” In my mind, I said that I still had about 8 miles to go and I know there was nothing left in my legs, and I was ready for the bus to come along and pick me up, as was advertised on the application. But advertising is sometimes false, and I never saw a bus, so I kept on going, mostly walking the rest of the way. I was not loving running too much at that precise moment, but I also remember in the back of my mind wondering, even in my glycogen-depleted state, when I’d be able to next go for a run, once the aches and pains from this ludicrous activity subsided. I hit the wall, and just like a properly cooked strand of spaghetti, it stuck. I

’d like to think that as the years rolled on, I got smarter and my passion for running grew only stronger. I started to like running just for the sake of running, and started treasuring each run aas a special gift. I decided about 15 years into my running life to start writing about and sharing my running thoughts, which I considered to be pretty much the simple and honest thoughts of a common runner. Running was so much of a focus in my life that I just had to share what I observed with whoever would listen. Thus was born “Thoughts of a Roads Scholar.” This column started as just random thoughts shared with friends, and over the years, it grew into a column that some people actually looked forward to reading. I could write in a way that inspired, and I was fortunate enough to have some of my essays published in Runner’s World and Marathon & Beyond Magazines.

But the last couple of years, things have gotten very busy for me in other ways. I took on the challenge of being the president of my running club, and also took over the helm of the club’s newsletter, which is another labor of love, albeit a very time-consuming one. At about the same time, I left my corporate job, and after a brief time of figuring out what I was going to do with my life, entered the world of contracting, which involves a tremendous amount of travel.

This is not to say that my life has spiraled out of control. It has not. It is just that, over the last couple of years, my priorities have shifted, and I have found great satisfaction in providing for the family in a different way while giving back to the sport I love. But it has all taken time, and to some extent, desire, away from my running. I think the issues are compounded by the fact that my performances have sharply diminished from a time standpoint, now that I’m on the other side of 50. I know longer feel like one who can inspire and motivate. In fact, I could use some of these things myself.

What I have missed more than anything in recent years is the satisfaction of the simple joy of running, competing, and writing about it. In a way, it feels like, over the last couple of years, running has not been sticking with me. I still do it, but is seems like not much more than going through the motions. What I miss is running through the emotions.

My intension with this essay is to attempt to jump-start it all again. I appreciate the off-list emails I have received from a few of you wondering where I’ve been and how I’m doing. That has always meant a lot to me. My answer is my pronouncement that I am alive and well, and ready to get back into it all. I’m ready once again to run in the rain, and hit the track, and set some running goals, which I haven’t done in over a year now. And also, my desire is to once again smell the flowers, and catch the special glimpses of the sun peaking out and starting to spread its rays over the neighborhood while I’m out on an early morning run.

And I plan to share it all here, and look forward to it very much. It’s just a matter of once again throwing myself against the wall, and if properly prepared, I will expect it to stick.

Thoughts of a Roads Scholar: In Search of The Me of Old

In less than two months, I will hit yet another milestone in my running life. In one fell swoop, I will go from Patriarch of one age group to youthful tenderfoot of the next, as I become the most junior of the oldies but goodies. On October 2nd, I turn 50, and move in to the grand masters age group .

I have a vivid recollection of when I was in this situation 10 years ago, just a couple of months shy of turning 40 and becoming a master runner. My feelings then were a lot different than they are now, but a common thread between then and now is the realization that I will never again be as young as I was.

Throughout my 30's, my racing performances remained quite consistent. My best times for the 5K year after year were always between 20 and 21 minutes, and I felt like I could go on that way forever. Aging and declining performance were for other people, not me.

The last couple of months before I turned 40, I pumped up my training, and gained new focus, so that by the time I hit my 40th birthday, I was in the best running shape I had been in years. I was prepared to take on the new age group by storm, and had a great deal of success for the next year and a half, until I sustained an injury that more or less took me out of running for close to 2 years. Upon my return, I never attained pre-injury level performances again.

Now, I am two months from turning 50, and looking back, things are a lot different than they were a decade ago. After coming back from the injury, I spend the rest of the decade experiencing steadily declining race times at a much more accelerated rate than when I was younger, and as a result, I've lost a little bit of the desire to train hard to race fast. Once I got back to running after the seemingly endless bout with Shin Splints, a possible stress fracture, and sciatica, I was no longer able to break 21 minutes for a 5K, and by the time I hit 45, sub 22 became the difficult goal. Now, in my final months of this old age group, I fail to break 24 minutes for a 5K more often than I succeed. I never imagined that I'd lose three full minutes in my 5K time in only 10 short years. It makes me wonder where I'll be when I turn 60. Still running, I hope.

Ten years ago, qualifying for Peachtree was not a challenge. Fifty minutes was a training run. Now, it takes a lot of hard training and race day focus just to dip under 50 minutes in a 10K, and I realize that there will be a day, perhaps sooner than I'd like, where I'll have to settle for time group 1-B, and then, not being able to break 55 minutes, the potential is there to start even further back in the pack.

The past ten years have not been all downhill, but successes on the roads have been fewer and much farther between. My crowning jewel of my 40's actually came last year, one day after my 49th birthday, when I set a lifetime PR in the marathon, and it didn't happen by accident. I hired a coach who taught me about effort-based training, and I was fortunate enough to have the time to put in the training required to run well on race day. It was the only marathon I've ever run where I was confident at the starting line. I set a marathon PR by close to 5 minutes. Thank goodness for soft PRs.

But over the past year since then, running has been more of a hobby than a sport. With the loss of speed, and an increase of business travel, I seem to have also lost much of the desire that kept me motivated for over 20 years. I struggle more mornings than not to get myself out the door to run the roads that, over the years, have begged me to run them, and have become my friends.

I believe that I am not alone. When I do go to races now, which is only about once a month, rather than the once a weekend I used to do in my early 40's, I notice that many of my age-group competitors from 10 years ago are no longer racing. When I look at the results from the 50-54 age group, the fastest runners are still untouchably fast, but as I go down the list, the fast times don't go so deep, and times quickly slow once you get past the top 3 or 4.

It's hard to stay motivated when I feel like I'm running just as hard as I did years ago when the only question was how far under 21 minutes I'd go, and now I'm happy with a first mile in under 8 minutes. It's hard being 49. I feel old.

But turning 50, with a return to age-group youth is right around the corner. I'm hoping that this newfound youth will help snap me out of my running lethargy, and push me on my way to an extended search for the me of old. That would be the me that used to pop out of bed way before the alarm, eager to see what the limits of my body were. That was the me that used to think, sleep, eat and talk running all the time. That was the me that used to love inspiring the aspiring runner who was just starting out.

This is the me of old, which is somehow fighting a battle with an increasingly old me. My guess is that people who are in their 30's and 40's won't relate to these thoughts right now, and those in their 60's and beyond will kind of smile and think "just wait another 10 years and you'll look back and appreciate where you are right now."

But for those about my age, I'm guessing there is a lot of struggling company, internally dealing with much of what I am feeling right now. It's the trough realization that even in your dreams, PR's don't seem too possible any more, and the ultimate challenge is no longer improving times, but just working as hard as we need to just to not lose ground.

What are my future personal running goals? Number one on the list is recapturing the unbridled enthusiasm that guided my running for the first 20 plus years I've been involved in the sport. Second is to seriously get back to writing with the frequency and honesty that I used to, and perhaps this will be a good start. Third, I just want to connect with the wonderful community that I feel like I abandoned a couple of years ago.

The me of old. Come and discover it with me.

Michael

Obsessing Over 50

I guess this essay should really be called "Obsessing UNDER 50" because that's what I'm doing. Please allow me elaborate.

By the time you read this, I am hoping to have accomplished something I have been fixated on for quite some time now. As I write this, in all of my 49 years, 196 days, and 16 hours, there is one running goal I have yet to accomplish, that I know that some day I will. That goal is running a 10K in a time under my age. This is a goal that has remained so frustratingly elusive, like a carrot dangling in front of me, that I can practically smell it. But so far, I have not been able to grab it.

When I was 40, I was possibly in the best shape of my life, and I could still run an occasional 10K in sub 43, and thought that surely, by the time I was 43, I would have my goal. But something not so funny happened during those years, and by the time I was 43, I could barely run a 10K in sub 47. Frustrating, to say the least.

So I patiently waiting until I was 47, figuring that I'd have my goal by then. But my running times continued to slip just enough to keep the carrot whole and untouched. 48 minutes and change was the best I could do for a 10K, even though my 5K and 8K times indicated that I should have been able to do a 10K below my goal.

The last time I came close to running a 10K below my age was at the Williams Run in November 2003, shortly after I turned 48. I did the first 5K in 23:40, and thought I still had a shot, but fell off the pace the second half, and ended up running a 49:22. I was starting to think that maybe I don't like carrots too much, anyway.

That race was still good enough to continue my string of Peachtree time group 1A qualifiers through this year's Peachtree, but it puts me in somewhat of a dilemma. 2005 is the last year I can use my 2003 time for 1A seeding, which means, in order to be in that corral next year, I need to re-qualify by running another sub 50, suggesting that I have to run my age or below in order to get there next year. Added incentive is always a good thing.

There aren't too many running goals that become easier to obtain as one gets older. Certainly, every runner reaches a point where all PR's become a thing of the past. With most running-related goals, age hurts us. But, at least in theory, running a 10K in under your age should become a more realistic goal as you grow older.

Recent 5K times indicate that now might be the time. I've done a couple of them in under 24 minutes, and feel like I'm still getting stronger. Thankfully, I've lost about 10 of those pesky pounds I wrote about last month, and my mileage was up near 180 in March, and should be about the same in April.

On May 1st, I'm going to give it my best shot at The Atlantic Station Sprint for Cancer 10K. My main goal is to take advantage of my current fitness level to qualify for Peachtree time group 1A for 2006, but in the front of my mind is also running my first 10K in a time lower than my age, but that creates another question.

At 49 years old, do I have to run a sub 49 to achieve that goal, or do I take the days into consideration, and say that I have to run a 49:35 or so, since I'm already more than half way through my 49th year? I guess that, just as the 17th street overpass that crosses over I-85 and I-75 during the race itself, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

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The Asphalt Assault

It's Saturday morning, a reason we run
The kiss of the wind, the glare of the sun,
With the wave of a hand or the shot of a gun
In an instant, the asphalt assault has begun

Five hundred runners start forming a line
Five hundred reasons so neatly aligned
The mob inches forward two feet at a time
The effort's intense, and the mood is sublime

We know why we do it, we're keenly aware
The asphalt assault, it's a thrill we all share
Breathing smoke out our mouths, there's a chill in the air
We do it like clockwork, a weekly affair

The line stretches longer, our legs start to ache
Our breath becomes labored, our will starts to break
From the front to the back, stretching out like a snake
Exerting, we're hurting.  It's no piece of cake

We battle ourselves, and we battle our foes
And we bask in the gift that our running bestows
The asphalt assault, the adrenaline flows
If the goal's just to finish, or to win by a nose

The finish-line banner creeps slowly in sight
As each person ducks under, emotions ignite
Five hundred victors have weathered the fight
Five hundred winners, and each one outright

It's Saturday evening, the day is rerun
In Five hundred minds, each person has won
From the first to the last one to finish, bar none
Until next time, the asphalt assault is now done

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The Dark Side of Daylight Savings Time

(From March 1999)

Ah, the essence of spring. Its arms are long-reaching. Even in the northern stretches where the trees are still lifeless and bare, and the air is consumed with chill, the days are getting longer. Soon, most of us will be given an extra hour to do what we most love doing. The hour we lose in the morning as we spring forward, is gained on the other side of the day in added daylight. For many, it translates to more time to run, or to participate in other outdoor activities.

But this does not hold true for every runner. Some of us are slithering creatures of the pre-dawn darkness. The few. The proud. While the rest of the world sleeps, the pre-dawn runner is out there like clockwork, running on traffic free streets, with moonlight, lamplight and nocturnal wildlife for company. The thrill of seeing a deer or fox crossing a metropolitan road is a sight reserved for the pre-dawn runner.

Those of us who run prior to daybreak tend to be able to rationalize just about anything. Most people, I dare say even other runners, may think we are crazy for rising at times when infomercials and test patterns reign supreme. But we have our reasons. If 5 AM brings rain, it is only another element to overcome, and that's really what running is all about. Later in the day, when the clouds dissipate and yield to the sun, I smile in the knowledge that I didn't let the weather stop me this day. On the other hand, when clear mornings give way to stormy afternoons, I get similar satisfaction in knowing that this day, I stayed ahead of the weather. My run is already behind me, and I can reflect on a job well done, while others are pondering the wisdom of dodging lightning bolts.

For the last couple of weeks, the weather has been getting a little milder here in Atlanta. Although it is still tights weather in the early hours of the day, there is, in the air, a slight hint of things to come. Mornings in the 30's give way to afternoons in the 70's. In close parallel, something else has been happening which has taken away some of my darkness. By the end of my run, the first hints of daylight are starting to appear behind the eastern border of the universe. Those who share my feelings feel a shade of sadness upon realizing that our obscurity is becoming a little less protected each passing day by a sun that is rising earlier and earlier. But all is not lost, as on the first Sunday of April, we will be losing this recently gained glimmer of light just as it is starting to remove the shroud of secrecy and the veil of mystery of those known as pre-dawn runners.

There is so much to be gained from running. That's a truism of all runners, regardless of speed, endurance, frequency, or time of day we run. But as with anything that has a bright side, there is also a dark side lurking. On the first Sunday of April, we will again gain our hour of darkness, and our comfort level, as well as our anonymity, will return. While we will lose an hour of sleep, we gain back our hour of darkness where we most enjoy it.

Running once again under a blanket of stars, we are sitting on the dark side of Daylight Savings Time.

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March Forth:

March. They say it comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. On the weather front, that's a pretty accurate assessment, as validated this year, when March introduced itself to Atlanta in the form of cold temps, stiff winds, and snow squalls.

But for many runners, March represents the time of year when we start to increase our mileage, inspired by warmer weather, colorful blooms, attractive races, and increasingly lengthening daylight hours. We come in to March like a lamb with the hopes of going out like a lion, hungry for faster times and increased mileage.

As March arrives this year, I am not too happy with myself as a runner, but I'm more content than I was at the beginning of February. Winter is usually my favorite season to run, but this winter was a virtual off-season for me. First, there was no time to run, and then when the time peaked from behind the clouds, there was no desire.

The toughest lesson I have learned during this drought is that time off when one is approaching 50 has more of a negative impact than it does when one is 30. For the first time ever, I had to loosen my belt buckle to its outermost notch, with a wave of trepidation that a newer, larger belt might soon be forthcoming, along with a newer, larger wardrobe to match.

But in Atlanta, March, more than any other month, represents renewal, revival, and a return to life. The pink hues of cherry blossoms are already declaring the end of winter, despite Punxsutawney Phil's declaration a mere month ago that "Six more weeks of winter there will be!"

And so, for me and my running, March will be the month of shaking the cobwebs from my head and my Sauconys, and experiencing that reunion of mind and body that only running can really provide. The first three days I've been quick out of the gate. The 19 miles I ran the first three days of the month probably exceeded my mileage for the entire month of December, when I was bouncing around between North Dakota and the frozen tundra of Canada, where work hours were very long, daylight hours were very short, and the snow was very deep. It doesn't leave a lot of options for a runner who suffers from dreadmill phobia and sleep deprevation.

January was just a plain lazy month. I had the time, but didn't take good advantage of it. I guess we're all entitled that downtime once in a while. February was much better, starting slowly, but gaining momentum as the month rolled along. I ended up with a solid 120 miles, my best mileage month since last September.

These last few months have been a real eye opener for me. For the first time, I have really felt the impact of getting older on a grander level than just getting slower. It's going to take more effort than it used to just to keep my weight from getting the better of me. My eating habits are going to need to change, with better choices and smaller portions. That part is going to be tough, because up to this point, running has allowed me to eat whatever, whenever. I thought this only happened to everyone else, but I guess I'm not immune either.

Today is March 4th, and the date says it all. This is the month I march forth to becoming a real runner again, with my sights set on a Boston qualifier on my 50th birthday. In the process, I hope to put thought of buying a wardrobe of larger sized attire out to pasture.

I imagine that some of you have already gone through what I'm experiencing right now, and if you have, I hope you were able to beat it back to find the renewed athlete within. There were times the last few months when I wondered if my run of running was over after almost 23 years. My lack of interest in running was somewhat startling to me. My speed of deterioration from a lifetime marathon PR only four short months ago was disturbing. When you start to feel old, it's easy to think even older.

But the return of spring is the return of life, and the return of life is the return of running. Or maybe it's the other way around? Either way, beware of the lion. His appetite is ravenous.

March 4th. Time to march forth.

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The Rest is History:

Once you hit the rarified air of masters running, it's amazing how quickly a fit body can go down the tubes. Recently, I've had the dubious distinction of experiencing this first hand.

Last year, which I personally dubbed "The Year of the Athlete" ended up being nine months of the athlete, and then a final three months of virtually no running at all. I spent most of the year preparing for The Twin Cities Marathon, which was held in early October. I worked myself into peak shape by running 60 mile weeks, using a heart rate monitor, and adjusting my diet for the entirety of the training.

The hard work paid off, as at Twin Cities, I ran a lifetime marathon PR, and had a relatively easy time accomplishing that goal. By race day, I already had more annual miles than I had ever had in my life, and immediately after the race, I was already making plans for the next marathon, but then, suddenly things changed.

The week after Twin Cities, I entered the wonderful world of contract training, and suddenly, there was no time for running. My schedule had me bouncing all over, and by the time the 4th quarter ended, I had been everywhere from Florida, to California, to North Dakota, and even to Canada. It was great for frequent flyer miles, but not so good for frequent running miles.

To call this period a time of rest would be a bit of a misnomer, but from a running standpoint, I was standing still. The lack of exercise, combined with eating out three meals a day while traveling, resulted in my first ever "Battle of the Bulge" as I gained 20 pounds over the last three months of the year. It's actually not too noticeable to others, but I feel like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, and my belt buckle and pants are cognizant of the difference.

As I write this, it is January 3rd, 2005. I've been out running two of the first three days, for a total of about 10 miles so far, and I am already looking forward to tomorrow morning's run. I look to lose the extra weight as I work to gain back to the athlete I was for the first nine months last year. This year, however, my goal is to maintain the athlete status all the way through the year.

This year, I'll be looking for another marathon PR, this time on my 50th birthday on October 2nd. I'll be heading back to Twin Cities in my effort to make it happen. I plan to use January to fall back on some good habits, and then follow last year's blueprint to repeat the training I did last year.

There is no more rest for this athlete. After three months of virtually no running, I'm happy to say the rest is history.

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But it's an honest sweat!:

I've never made a secret of the fact that I'm not an avid reader, and when I do read, it's usually for self-discovery, and not for entertainment. Most often, when I pick up a book, it is with a desire to learn how to improve some element of me, or to acquire tools which allow me to see things more clearly, or with the intent of learning to understand other people or myself in a different, more positive light.

Mostly, I read for inspiration, and last night was no exception. With my own writing in a dormant stage lately, I picked up an older book I hadn't looked at in a long time, with the hope of becoming once again inspired to write. When I opened it, the first thing I noticed was how discolored the pages had become since I had last picked it up. But though the pages had yellowed, the words were still as timeless and appropriate as when they were first written, and they danced off the aged pages as I read. The book was Running and Being and the author was George Sheehan.

I wasn't even half way through the forward before I realized that today was going to be a writing day for me. When I read about how, in is own opinion, Sheehan the writer and Sheehan the runner were inseparable and one would likely not exist without the other, I acquiesced, remembering how I used to feel the same way about myself.

Sheehan was not my first inspiration as a runner, but he was my first inspiration as a writer. Through him, I learned how to unite my two passions, creating a compound word runnerwriter which I define as the path to the purest form of revelation and honesty. Sheehan chose to write immediately after his run, opting to towel off instead of showering because Honest sweat has no odor. But if you look deeper, there's much more to it than that.

Running sweat is as honest as sweat can get. The activity of running breaks through the falsehoods and the colored filters, and reveals the truths about ones self, others, and life in a way that no other activity parallels, at least to the runner. It is the unique and seemingly antagonistic combination of acute awareness and complete serenity in the same instant that makes running sacred. Many refer to that feeling as Runner's High. I think of it as Runner's Truth revealed overtly as honest sweat. Why should we be in such a hurry to rinse it away?

As I mentioned earlier, I have been experiencing another in a continuing series of bouts with writer's block. It's not that the ideas haven't been there. Running has been as enlightening as ever, and I've been learning more about the sport I love, the things I love, the people I love, and the person I am becoming than ever before. But somewhere between the run and the write, it has all been washed away time and time again. After being reminded again last night of how George did it, I'm confident that I'm back in the groove.

Sheehan knew better than to shower off the residue of the run before he captured his thoughts on paper. He simply ran, toweled off, and then wrote what the run revealed, while the thoughts were still fresh and honesty was still oozing out of his every pore. It resulted in primitive truths, written in modern words that will hold true for as long as the human species continues running and being.

So this morning I ran, accumulating new truths with every step. I delighted in feeling the salty truth serum dripping over my eyes, down my neck, squishing in my shoes, and saturating my singlet and shorts. Then, I toweled off, and sat down to write, still feeling the fresh film of sweat of the previous eight miles in hot and humid Atlanta.

Ah. But it's an honest sweat.

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Keep the Change:

A few days ago, I was heading across the parking lot to my car after a routine visit to the chiropractor, and I noticed a couple of well worn pennies on the ground next to my car. In the past, I would have let them lay, especially if they were face down. What can two cents buy these days, anyway? This time, however, I picked them up as a symbolic reminder that there is a big change going on in my life right now, and I my goal is to "keep the change." I've been picking up stray change I find on the ground ever since.

And now, please allow me to share my two cents with you.

As you've read in recent columns, earlier this year, I commenced on a new way of training which, so far, has suited me quite well. It has allowed me to safely increase my mileage while building strength and endurance as I prepare for The Twin Cities Marathon on October 3rd. I am banking on this new way of training as a way of one day hitting the kind of pay dirt that will lead me to the starting line in Hopkinton by April, 2006.

This new training technique is called effort-based training, and I promised to document my progress along the way, including the good, the bad, and, if applicable, the ugly. So far, I'm happy to report, there has been no ugly. Here's a little background, and my June progress report.

Around the beginning of March this year, I approached a local coach with one request. Train me to qualify for Boston and have me be ready on my 50th birthday. I've always been one with a flair for the dramatic, so I just thought it would be cool to make my 50th birthday one to remember in a special way. Of course, I'm lucky that my 50th birthday happens to fall on a Sunday; October 2, 2005 to be exact, and a good qualifying marathon happens to be taking place that day; Twin Cities.

Before embarking in setting up a plan for me, the coach asked to review my training year in training up to that point, and upon looking it over, he came back with two major observations. I raced too much, and my mileage was very inconsistent from one week to the next. So he started me out with a "Base Stabilization" period, designed to simply break me of my old habits and to run more consistently while slowly increasing mileage for a couple of months. This phase went from mid-March to early May.

During this period, he had me doing almost all my running at 65-70% of my maximum heart rate, which to me was almost painfully slow. There were weeks that I never ran a mile in under 10 minutes, and once in a while I'd cheat by running harder than I was suppose to, just to be sure I could still run a sub 10-minute mile. After a gentle reprimand, I settled in, but it was frustrating to be running so slow, and in the early days, I wasn't sold 100% on this method of training. By the end of this phase, I was averaging a pretty consistent 40 miles a week, which was a change for the better.

Starting in the second week of May, I entered the next phase of my training, a phase including endurance and strengthening, and my weekly mileage starting creeping up through the low and mid 40's. I made other changes in my life as well. I stopped drinking beer, figuring it probably wasn't doing me any good from a training standpoint, and I started making better choices in what I was eating. I figured that since I was heading down a more challenging road, I might as well switch from regular fuel to high-octane, and have my engine serviced. It seems to be working, so I plan to keep the change.

But my pace per mile was still not breaking 10 minutes most days. In fact, through the end of May, I only had four workouts averaging less than 10 minutes per mile, and those runs usually included some strides. When I did my 65% recovery runs, the average was often over 11 minutes per mile. Some of that could be attributed to the Atlanta heat and humidity making its presence felt, but I still was hoping to see more progress than that. My coach kept reassuring me that at this point in my training, pace per mile does not matter, a difficult thing for a runner to accept. But I committed to keep the change.

In early June, I started to see a nice change for the better in my running. The 65% runs were starting to average under 11 minutes a mile, and the 70% runs were starting to consistently go under 10 minutes per mile. I also started to have a day or two a week where my schedule had me doing mile and two mile repeats at higher intensity. I looked forward to those days, so I could feel like a real athlete.

I also ran a couple of paced races, breaking them down into three segments, starting off at 75%, increasing to 85%, and finishing up trying to hit 95% of my maximum heart rate. These races, though not really fast, felt good, and in the last mile of both races, I passed many people like they were standing still. Now THAT was fun!

At this point, I am exactly half-way through my endurance and strength building phase, and I'm up to about 50 miles a week, and I feel like I can still handle a lot more. My 65% effort runs are down to about 10:30 per mile, and my 70% runs are now averaging about 9:30 per mile. Without any additional perceived effort, I'm already averaging over a minute quicker per mile than I was even two months ago, and improvement is continuing. My mile repeats at 85% are usually under 8 minutes per mile, and I ran the last uphill mile of my recent 4-mile race in 7:20. None of this is blinding speed, I know, but I haven't even come close to my next stage of the training, which is the sharpening phase, when the real speed will finally come.

The change has come slowly, but hopefully I've piqued and compounded your interest. I am not exactly turning on a dime, but you can bet your bottom dollar that change is taking place. Literally, I'm up to 29 cents since I've decided to keep the change, and I have the coins put aside in a special place. It's a constant reminder that change is good, and I plan to keep the change. After all, it only makes cents!

Now that I've shared my two cents, a penny for your thoughts!

Michael

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Bound to Be Beantown Bound: If the English language wasn't so wonderfully diverse and unpredictable, I probably wouldn't find writing half as much fun as I do. But with a language in which it is acceptable to park in a driveway and drive on a parkway, and only men fart, but both men and women fartlek, there is ample opportunity to have fun with words.

As I've already mentioned in recent columns that a couple of months ago, I started Effort-Based Training in my own personal effort to qualify for Boston. So far, I have found the name itself to be a paradox, as it has seemingly required less effort than any other training I've ever done.

In effort-based training, you have to literally allow your heart to lead your head, or you'll do your training at too fast a pace. When you're doing almost all your running at 70% effort or less, your head sends a message to your body that you're running too slow, and your heart aches to cheat. It's a tough pill to swallow when an overweight man chasing after his loose dog in the neighborhood breezes past you in his pursuit. There is a smug satisfaction, however, when you notice he's red-faced, and still breathing like an asthmatic five minutes later while walking his dog back home.

When I first started following this effort-based training program, my head didn't like the feedback my heart was giving, and, as my coach admonished, I occasionally was naughty by doing my runs at too high an effort. My head and my ego were at war with my heart, and two against one was hardly a fair battle. I'd look at the next day's scheduled workout and groan to myself when I saw it was only four miles staying at under 65% effort. For me, that was too short and too slow, so I'd either add a little distance, or apply the 65% effort only to the downhill portions of the run. I couldn't seem to follow the program.

I started to think about the word follow, and what a really strange word that is, especially in the context of a runner. Why would a runner want to follow anything? After all, one of the primary definitions of follow as defined by Webster's, is To come after in order, time or position. If that was my goal as a runner, it would be time to seek out a new sport. The way I see it, if you follow something all the way through to the finish, the best you can possibly do is second place, because if you follow something, does it not imply that you are lagging behind?

Interestingly, one of the synonyms of follow is to succeed. How much sense does THAT make? Can you really succeed on something by coming next in time or succession? I've heard it said that second place is the first loser. That doesn't sound like success to me.

Yet another synonym of follow is pursue. I like that one a little bit better, because in this definition, at least you follow in an effort to overtake, which is a goal of strategic racing. But what happens of you overtake your training plan? Then you have to look backwards instead of ahead to see what run you should have done tomorrow. It's all pretty confusing.

After about a month of this nonsense, I decided I wasn't going to follow the program any more. I just didn't see how I could succeed by lagging behind, and why I would even want to succeed when by definition, succeed means lagging behind. I took one final hard look at my schedule and decided that my following days were over.

Does this mean I'm no longer in pursuit of a Boston Qualifier? Absolutely not. Am I saying I scrapped the plan that was laid out for me? Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, just the opposite is true. I stopped following my plan by putting my arms around it.

Does that sound contradictory? It might, until you look at the English language with its twists and turns once again. One word that describes this type of figurative bear hug is embrace, so by embracing the plan instead of following it, not only do I put my arms around it, but another definition of embrace is Eager acceptance. I decided to bite the bullet, eat crow, and swallow my pride, and without exception, accept that I was going to embrace the schedule.

So I've been sticking to the training, and the training has started to stick with me. I've begun to improve in leaps and bounds, even though I haven't started leaping or bounding. If I can continue to wrap my arms around the training, and follow my heart, my head and body are sure to continue to follow, and I'm bound to be bean-town-bound.

I think if I spoke any language other than English, I could have qualified a long time ago!

Michael

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The Swan:

For the first few years of their existence, I've pretty much been able to avoid the latest craze on television; Reality TV. I've somehow managed to survive without ever watching Survivor, I simply didn't watch The Simple Life, and I fear it's a fact that I don't care to watch Fear Factor. I even said humph to Trump.

But there has been one show recently that's reeled me in, hook, line and scalpel. The show is called The Swan, and for those who are unaware of what it's about, it's a show that takes self-proclaimed Ugly Ducklings and with the help of a team of surgeons, dentists, psychologists, dermatologists, personal trainers, and voodoo doctors, with probably a veterinarian and a magician thrown in for good measure, they are transformed into 21st century foxes over a three month period.

Every step of their transformation is documented, and then it's tummy-tucked neatly into one-hour packages of television entertainment. At the end of each hour, the show culminates with The Reveal, where, after their three month period of going under the knife, drill, and fat-sucking syringes, spending hours a day at the gym, and subsisting on a 1200 calorie a day diet, they get to look at themselves in a mirror for the first time since the whole ordeal started. So far, they have all liked what they have seen.

But after the ugly ducklings join the program, and before they spread their wings and blossom into swans, there is a period of time that they look much worse than when they first go in. The bruises, burns, and bandages from the brow lifts, chin implants, radiation treatments, dental work, nose jobs and liposuction make them, for a while, look like the losing party in a Mike Tyson bar fight. At some point, almost all of them become emotional wrecks, and start having doubts about whether what they are doing is the right thing, but by the time they are ready to see themselves, they all truly look and feel wonderful.

In a running sense, for my whole running life, I have run as an ugly duckling. Ever since I committed to this running life in early 1982, I've mostly just gone out and run miles and miles without any particular agenda, or real goals. Sure, I've always wanted to run each race as fast as, or faster than the one before, and I've always considered myself a serious runner. If I'm preparing for a marathon, I might add 10 or 20 additional miles to my running week for a couple of months before the event. I can say with confidence that I'm a much healthier, and probably happier person today because of running than I would have been without it. But as for a plan to get me from an ugly duckling to a swan, I've never really had a game planUntil now.

A couple of months ago, I got a coach and embarked in my first-ever real training program. I basically approached a coach who has had a great deal of success with other clients, and who is a top national age-group runner in his own right, and made a simple request. Get me to the starting line at Boston when I turn 50. I came to him as an ugly duckling, and asked him to turn me in to a swan.

My coach uses a tried and true training technique called Effort-Based Training. Without going into a lot of graphic detail in this month's column, I'll simply say that the whole program evolves around percentage of effort, an equation based on your resting and maximum heart rate. In other words, you run based on beats per minute, not minutes and seconds per mile. In order to successfully do this, you much wear a heart-rate monitor because perceived effort is not the same thing as real effort, and you have to adjust to all the variables each run, based on the feedback your monitor gives you. All 8-minute miles are not the same. Not by a long shot.

Once I gave my coach my heart rate thresholds, he developed the beginnings of a training program specific to my physiology and my long-term goal. I started wearing my heart-rate monitor on every run, and I started running as dictated on my training plan. I also immediately hated the new routine with a passion. On this plan, I was forced to do almost all my running at a snail's pace compared to what I was doing on my own. Following the schedule had me running times a minute or two slower than I had been running on my own. And I'm not talking about two minutes slower per 5-mile run. I'm saying two minutes PER MILE slower than my typical run.

After about two weeks of this nonsense, I actually called my coach one day and said I quit! I just wasn't enjoying running this way, and it wasn't even worth a trip to Boston to stick with it. I guess I was a lot like the ugly ducklings on the reality TV show who were ready to throw in their towels and go home because they felt they were getting worse, not better, and didn't have the desire to do what was required to evolve into the swans they were promised to become. I felt much worse off after two weeks on my training plan than when I first came to him, and figured if I got out now, I could undo the damage he had created.

But he wouldn't let me drop out of the program that easily, and with a little encouragement, and a little tweaking to the schedule, I agreed to stick with it a little bit longer. He reinforced what I already knew, which I guess is part of what a coach does, about the different phases of a training plan, and he reminded me that I am still in the first phase, which is building a good base. The thing that really stuck with me is that I didn't need to be concerned with the average pace per mile at all, but just doing the miles within the training zone outlined for each run.

Since then, I've taken those words to heart, and have become a less rebellious student. I've bitten the bullet, and now accept that most of my miles are going to be 10 minute plus for a while. As the heat of summer sets in, forcing the heart to work harder, I may even slow some from here, but I'm okay with it. When I reviewed last month's totals and realized that April yielded 160 miles, and it felt like an easy month, it helped appease me quite a bit. This month looks like it's going to be close to 200 miles, and it still feels effortless, just the opposite of what I would have expected from something called effort-based training.

At this point in my training, I'm still very much the ugly duckling. In fact, much like the bruises, bandages, and burns of The Swan contestants as they are wheeled out of surgery, I'm looking much worse now than when I entered the program. At the very least, I'm much slower, anyway. And just like the ladies on the show, I have a lot of work to do, and not much time to do it, if I want to become The Swan.

It took me a couple of solid months before I really grasped the concept of running with my heart, literally, rather than with my head. But I'm adjusting, and I'm okay with slower miles now, when I see how quickly they are accumulating, and how easy it is to accomplish. At this point, I have complete faith in the program, even though I still can't really make sense of how or why it works. I just have to put my trust in my surgeon in running shoes, and accept that this is a vital and important step which is required before I can proudly spread my wings and hold my head up high.

My own personal Reveal will take place on October 3rd, at The Twin Cities Marathon. Between now and then, I'll probably learn more about my running and myself than I've learned during all the time I've been running up to this point. I realize I'm taking a chance about committing to document a journey before knowing that success is assured, but just like the Swans of reality TV fame, every step of my transformation will be documented here in this column. I plan to make this a success story, but there are no guarantees. As my coach has said, and recently reinforced after running a sub-par Boston this year in stifling heat, failure is something we must all experience at some point in order to learn, grow, and improve. But it would still be my preference to not experience it right away.

My goal for this year is a 3:45, which would be about a 15 minute PR at the distance. If things go according to plan, once I accomplish this, I'll be doing it all again next year on October 2nd, 2005, which is my 50th birthday. Next time, my goal will be 3:35, good enough to get me to the starting line at Boston the following Patriot's Day.

High Noon on the third Monday of April at the Hopkinton starting line. It's not a bad time or place to be a swan.

Michael

Note:

Michael Selman is the president and newsletter editor of The Chattahoochee Road Runners. This year, he has been awarded the National Jerry Little Memorial Award as the RRCA outstanding club writer for the year 2003. He will be presented with his award at the award's banquet of the RRCA National Convention, to be held this year in State Line, Nevada on May 15th.

The Seasoned Runner:

There is something in the air these days, and I'm not talking about the pollen that makes running very difficult for allergy-sufferers this time of year. You see, it was in April, 1982, that I first committed to running, and logged my first mile. Not miles. Well, not even a full mile, really. It was closer to 9/10ths of a mile, but at least it was a start. Who would have known at that time that 23 years later, I would have logged close to 20,000 miles beyond that first 9/10ths, and I'd still be counting?

When I first decided to give running a try as an adult, I still remember how I sheepishly poked my head out the door to make sure that none of my neighbors were out before I was willing to give it a try. I didn't want to be seen trying something as risky as running, since I didn't know how successful I would be. And sure enough, I wasn't more than a quarter mile in to the run when my right foot caught the edge of the sidewalk and I twisted my ankle a little, but not badly enough to cut the run short. Thank goodness I didn't take that twist of fate as a sign to give up on running before I even started. If I had, my life would not be so full today.

Physically, that run did not make me feel good. When I was done, I felt nauseous, overheated, and I clearly remember staggering back in the house, and laying down in the middle of the living room floor, almost unable to breathe or move. I was only 26 years old, but at that moment, I felt much, much older.

Memories of that, and other early runs of April 1982, come back strongly to me this time of year, and those memories really help me understand why something as simple as left-right-repeat can hold one's attention for a lifetime. The run is about so much more than just the run. The run is about the brushing of the wind in your face, and the smells of Wisteria in bloom, and the damp earthy smell of the air just after an April shower. The run is really about everything surrounding it and everything you internalize while you are doing it.

Thanks to a mixture of ingredients, the subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) seasonings of Mother Nature, each run becomes unique. And from one year to the next, seasonal runs evolve us into "seasoned runners" and bring back memories of the same time last year, and the year before that, and so on. It happens every season, but for me, Spring is the most special, because it is in the Spring that running first started for me.

And I'm reliving that era once again lately. I started running in April, 23 years ago. And now that it's April once again, my mind's eye has been taking me back to that very first run, around my neighborhood in Massapequa Park, New York. As I lay there on the living room floor shortly after I returned from that run, after managing less than a mile, staring at the ceiling, I could feel each heartbeat pulsating throughout my entire body. Although I can still remember everything about that run and its aftermath as if it happened only yesterday, I had no idea at that time how different my life was to become as a result of building blocks I continued to add to that very first cornerstone run.

Perhaps this is one of the reasons why Spring running, and more specifically, April running, holds such a special place in my heart. The right mix of warmer air, longer hours of daylight, the singing birds, the bright colors and sweet aromas of the flowers and the blooms all take me right back to the beginning of time as a runner, when everything was new and exciting.

I'm sure other runners must get the same feelings of recognition as they approach the same time of year when they first started running many years earlier. Whatever season it is, it stands as a reminder of the newness of running athleticism, and self-discovery as you constantly met, then exceeded your own expectations. Your season is a reminder of why you are a runner.

I'm a seasoned runner, and my season is Spring. What's yours?

A Long Distance Eye on Boston:

On October 2nd, 2005, I will be turning 50 years old, and I've already decided how I want to spend my 50th birthday. At 8:00 that morning, I plan to be inside the HHH Metrodome in downtown Minneapolis, and before 11:36 that some morning, I will hopefully have arrived on foot at the State Capitol in St. Paul. I am choosing to spend the first day of my second 50 years making a serious attempt to qualify for Boston, and I've chosen The Twin Cities Marathon as the place the attempt will be made.

And the journey begins now.

I've never been much of a detailed planner, which probably explains why the marathon distance has never been very kind to me over the years. I've relied only on my enthusiasm and "Natural" talents at the shorter distances, and have been able to get away with it, but the marathon is not as forgiving. It will always catch you and punish you if you haven't done your homework, and homework has never been one of my selling points.

Just the thought of identifying a goal race more than a month or two down the road is a stretch for me. Now, I am looking at a race almost 20 months away, and in the back of my mind, I already know I will have become a much different runner by October 2, 2005, than I have ever been up to this point.

And I'll need to be, if I want to run a marathon in under 3:35:59. My recent half-marathons have been disappointing, and my fastest of the four, a 1:47:30 at Atlanta, would not nearly get me to the starting line at Boston. I was already pretty tired by the end, and certainly wouldn't have another 1:47:30 in me for the second half.

But that is who I am today, and I have over a year and a half to mold myself into the kind of runner I have yet to become. The kind of runner that can put fear in his age-group competition. The kind of runner who chooses to go beyond his own natural abilities, and taps into his unnatural abilities. The kind of runner who can earn his way to the starting line at Boston.

Training for a marathon in early October presents a challenge for someone living in the summer heat of Atlanta, but what does not kill me will make me stronger. I've decided to train for, and run Twin Cities this year, so I can experience long runs in hazy hot and humid conditions, and so I can get to know the course before I make my run at Boston in 2005. My goal for 2004 is to set a marathon PR there, and run under 3:50. Then, I have a full year to put everything I've learned on the table, and find 15 more minutes of "marathon fat" to carve away.

It must be a wonderful feeling to look someone in the eye when they ask "Have you ever run Boston" and to be able to smile and say "yes." It's probably been one of the most uncomfortable questions I ever get as a runner. It just seems like something I should have done by now.

I've never given a Boston qualifying marathon a serious run, but there will never be a better time than now to set my goals. And there would never be a better time to reach the pinnacle of what some say is the grand slam of running than on the first day of my second 50 years.

And the journey begins now.

Michael

An Uphill Battle:

Well, I lost my virginity at Hogpen, after fears of "not being able to get it up....to the top of the hill, that is. Thank goodness my performance anxieties didn't turn to any real performance issues, with the exception of a few very tough miles near the end of the course.

Heading up to Hogpen from Atlanta on the party bus, I found myself in somewhat unfamiliar territory, actually worrying about what it was going to be like, and wondering just how bad it was going to be. Hogpen is one of the two Georgia races that have nasty reputations as knuckle-scrapers. The other race, The Brasstown Bald-Buster, is "only" a 5K, but the winning time is often over 30 minutes. Hogpen, on the other hand, stretches out over 17K, and much of the net elevation gain of 2500 feet comes in the final miles of the race.

I had seen an elevation map on the trip up, so I had some idea of what miles 8 and 9 were going to be like, and as a result, started out very conservatively. I also carried a single-use camera to get pictures on the way, which I'll post after I get them developed. Everyone on the bus wrote down their predicted times before the race, and I had been told to expect finish times similar to a normal half- marathon time, so I wrote down a goal of 1:55, figuring the shooting a roll of film on the way would slow me down a little. My last two recent history halves were 1:47 and 1:50.

From what I've heard of previous Hogpen's, the weather this year was very good. The course is often detoured and changed to an out-and back due to icy roads on the upper half of the course, but this year, the report of 40 degrees at the top sounded almost dreamy. At the bottom, I would guess it was about 50 at the start.

The race started by winding through the quaint village of Helen, a quaint Alpine community most famous for its annual Oktoberfest. If the race had been a 5K, I would rate it as difficult and hilly, but the first three miles here was just a foreshadowing of what was to come.

I snapped a couple of pictures as we passed through town, and the splits were hard to figure out. Someone had said that markers were probably ill-placed, due to the fact that the race used to start in a different location, and perhaps some of the markers had not been adjusted.

Mile 1-8:59
Mile 2-9:22
Mile 3-9:58
28:20 for 3 miles-it felt like it should have been way quicker than that.

The main things I remember about miles 4-6 is that the uphill grades increased, but every mile at least had sections of flatlands or valleys, and I had no desire to walk...yet.

Mile 4-9:01
Mile 5-9:47
Mile 6-9:00
6 miles in 56:09 with the worst yet to come. I was actually starting to feel pretty good at this point.

By mile 7, the elevation was starting to bring the temperature down, and a light drizzle started falling. The forecast had called for afternoon rain, and I was hoping what was currently happening would stay a drizzle, which, thankfully, it did.

It was during mile 7 that I did my first walking, during one of those long steep uphill stretches, where you could see a long way, and it was all uphill. By walking with enthusiasm, the walkers at that point were pretty much keeping up with the runners, which was a pretty amusing sight. I wasn't really tired, but was definitely in conservation mode, still aware that the worst was just ahead.

Mile 8, simply put, was a cruel joke, and it was at that point that I figured that whoever mapped out the course was not a runner, but a very sick person. I started this stretch of walking at about 7.1, and didn't start up again until at least 7 3/4, where the climb became a little more gradual.

Mile 9 was only a little better, as the road finally leveled off and dropped down near the end of the mile. I probably walked more than half of it, and when I started running again, my legs did feel a little like jelly for the first few minutes. Now it was getting closer to cold than cool.

Mile 7-11:25
Mile 8-13:42
Mile 9-12:05

Hmmmm, that 5K would have been about 38 minutes, but I knew at this point the very worst of the worst was over. Only 1.7 to go.

The 10th mile still had some steep uphills, and I walked some more, keeping up with the runners still, and putting enough effort into it that between the exertion and elevation, I could feel a pulsating and elevated heartbeat throughout my body. There were now areas of thick ice along the cascades than lined the road, which I got some pictures of.

Just before 10 miles, I got a sudden burst of energy, and felt great. Also, I know that the distance between mile 10 and the finish was WELL less than .58 miles. I would guess it was closer to maybe 4/10ths, but I wasn't complaining.

Mile 10-11:55
Finish-4:09.

Total clock time 1:49:30. I was very pleased with the time, and actually, my legs felt pretty darn good for what they had just been through.

I learned a lot this time about how to race it in the future. I would definitely take the first 6 miles much more aggressively, but would probably walk in all the same places I did this year.

Overall, it was a fun, and very long day. The bus first left for Helen a little after 8:30 in the morning, and by the time we all had dinner and made our return trip to Atlanta, it was 8:30 in the evening.

I also took a few pictures along the way. They can be viewed at

Hogpen Photos.

Michael

2004-The Year of the Athlete:

For the last five years, it has recently dawned on me, I have become a "safe" runner. This is one of the potential side-effects of post-injury recovery. Once the physical ailments have healed, the impact on the psyche can still be felt in every step for years down the road.

The year and a half of recovery was, at the time, unbearable. The inability to run made the desire even stronger, and it almost got to the point where I resented those who could enjoy a run as if they were taking it for granted. After running injury-free for 15 years, I was not able to run due to injury for the first time, and this was a very difficult pill for me to swallow.

Before my injury, which happened in July, 1997, I used to push myself often. I raced almost every weekend the year before I got hurt, racking up 51 races in 52 weeks in 1996, and I raced well, too. When I first got hurt, thanks to my own ignorance, it took a few more days before I realized the severity of the injury, and on each successive attempt to run through it, I did more and more damage until I had no choice but to stop totally. It hurt too much.

When I returned to regular running and occasional racing as a part of my lifestyle, nearing the end of 1998, things were much different, but I was very content with just being able to once again participate. There were still hints of the injury every run, but I modified my purposes for running, removing the competitive aspects of it except with myself. My overall mileage eventually returned to pre-injury numbers, but my training intensity and race times headed way south. I didn't mind. At least I was still running.

The physical reminders of the injury finally lifted totally, and I was running pain-free for the first time in over two years, but I continued to proceed with caution. I never wanted to relive the experience of having one tiny weak spot on my body dissuade me from running altogether. My feelings while injured often turned to pondering if I would ever run again. It was sickening to even entertain the thought, but at the time, it felt like it was a very real possibility.

Overall, I have been very satisfied with my running since my return, and now I've enjoyed five full years on the other side of the injury without a recurrence. I have also been fortunate enough to have experienced some of the fondest memories that my running has provided since my return.

It suddenly hit me yesterday, during my New Year's Day run, that if I was going to label 2003 from a running perspective, it would appropriately been called the "Year of the Bore." I really did nothing new with my running, and finished the year with no real running accomplishment to show for it.

And I realized that this is not acceptable for 2004.

It's interesting how easily we put off our commitments to make positive change until the calendar pushes forward from one year to the next, when the ability to make significant changes is available to us every day of the year. Regardless, there is something about a new running log, with its entire history still to be written, that jump-starts each new running year.

For Christmas, Harriet presented me with a new heart-rate monitor. I have no idea yet how to either operate it, or how to use it to improve myself as a runner, but I am committed to learning in very short order. I was very excited to receive it. I'm sure it will be an important step in re-discovering the athlete within.

A new health club just opened up within the past month, right up the road from us, and it sports a 25 meter lap pool. I don't know the first thing about swimming, except that it's preferable to keep your head above the water, but I am committed to learn, thus making me a more well-rounded athlete.

I am also ready to make more of an effort to be sure that the things I put in to my body will support and enhance the maximum efforts I try to get out of my body. This will mean adding, eliminating, or at least modifying my choices of what I eat and drink. I believe that this is something that separates the athlete from the runner. Does this sound like a New Year's resolution, or what?

My 2004 is going to be all about performance goals, and going about the most effective way to achieve and exceed them. What I'm most excited about is that I am finally ready to leave the comfort of "safe running" behind, and take some chances again. I'm willing once again to risk injury to reach new heights. I am saying good-bye and good-riddance to the "Year of the Bore" and I am declaring 2004 as the "Year of the Athlete."

Anyone care to join me?

Michael

Only a Few Heartbeats Away:

For me, as with most people, the week between Christmas and New Years always ends up being a time mostly reserved for reflection, evaluation, and creation of new goals. I do this in all aspects of my life, but running is always one of the things I closely scrutinize without fail this time of year. There is a special excitement in closing out one year's running log, and making those first few entries on the front pages of the new one.

The human body has a way of distancing itself from its own full athletic potential as we age, and it's a frustratingly helpless feeling. As I inch ever closer to completing the first half-century of my life, I realize that lifetime PR's at any distance are getting less and less likely, but I'm still too stubborn to say it could never, ever happen. But I do know that if there ARE any PR's in my future, they won't "just happen" as they used to in the good young days. They will happen by knowing my body, and learning how to train in order to push it beyond its current abilities.

As I reflect back on this past year in running, it's been a rather lackluster year. It started out with great promise, and high hopes. I closed out 2002 with my first ever 200 mile month in over 20 years of running, and I was seeing positive results of marathon training in shorter race distances. In January and February of this year, I ran a couple of "training" marathons in preparation for Myrtle Beach and learned some hard lessons about over-training. The training marathons both went very well, but race day was a bust, and I ended up with a DNF. It was a very anti-climatic end to months of very good training.

After that, and for most of the rest of the year, running was either largely unfocused, or non-existent. I still got out and ran from time to time, and raced occasionally, but I was there more for the social aspects, or for photo opportunities in support of the newsletter I produce for my club. I often carried a one-use camera to a race and assumed my position as "embedded photographer," which made for some great photos, but some of the worst 5K times I've ever run.

I started to train a little more seriously in late September, and times did improve from where they had been, but they still aren't nearly approaching last year's times. Only a fraction of that can be blamed on the aging process. Most of it can be attributed to a lack of goals and real focus.

On Christmas Day, along with the running log I get every year, my wife also presented me with a new heart rate monitor, and with it, the potential to be only a few heartbeats away from a change for the better. I've never used a HRM before, but I've never really looked closely at the real science of running, either. For the most part, I've just run, and when I train for a marathon, I run more. There's nothing too fancy about that.

For some irrational reason, the new year provides an opportunity for each of us to draw a line in the sand where one can cross over from what was negative to what is positive. Some people call this phenomenon a New Year's Resolution, but these resolutions often have a shorter life than a fruit-fly. The truth is that any moment of any day can be the moment you change something about your life forever for the better.

The main positive aspect of a bad running year is that it leaves much hope and room for improvement the next year. 2003 was one of those unpleasant years, and so I look forward to 2004 with positive feelings that my times can be better than they were this year.

Next year will be the first year I take a hard look at the discipline of running, as opposed to merely the act of running. Discipline is the main element that's been lacking in my running for most of 2003, and it's an ingredient I hunger for again. Once I plow through the 90-page user's manual and get an understanding of how to use it, my new heart rate monitor will be an essential part of my training plan to better times in 2004. It will always be very close to my heart.

2004 is going to be a great year. Improvement is only a few heartbeats away.

Michael

Same Time Next Year

While most races are lightly penciled in on my annual race calendar, Kiawah Island is boldly carved in stone. Every year, as has become tradition, Harriet and I make the 5-hour trip down to the Island southeast of historic Charleston and meet my parents there for our Kiawah Island weekend. They drive down from their home in Wilmington, NC. We’ve been doing this every year ever since Harriet first moved to Atlanta in 1998. It has become a central focal point of our running year.

What used to be a well kept secret has now become more popular with the masses, and as a result, procrastination almost cost us this wonderful family tradition this year. Applications first became available on-line on September 20th, and by September 22nd, the race had already reached its 3000 maximum capacity, and unceremoniously closed. We had not even received our applications in the mail yet when the padlock was placed on this race.

I called the race director, Dylan Jones, and somewhat tongue in cheek, pleaded my case. A couple of years ago, I had written a positive review of the race for Marathon & Beyond Magazine, and I reminded Dylan that perhaps the race had gotten so popular because of my article. I strongly doubt that this was the actual case, but in any event, he allowed us to “slip in the back door.” It’s always good to have a rapport built with people in high places. Thanks Dylan!

Past tradition usually dictated that my father would run the 5K, and battle it out in his age-group with another gentleman from Wilmington that we’ve known for many years. Each year, they’d find each other before the race, discuss any new body parts that had been surgically removed during the past year, an increasingly popular subject with the 75 and over age-group, and then take first and second place in their age group. We have not seen him there the past couple of years.

Harriet and I usually choose to run the half-marathon, although I’ve run the full marathon there a couple of times. Harriet most often trounces me in the race, and I think it was three years ago, she ran a wonderful 1:42 half, while I struggled to break 2 hours. This year, we both did the half.

For many years, my mother was the cheerleader, and the baggage handler for the rest of us. Before our races, we’d peel off whatever layers we were using to keep us warm until race time, and hand them over to her for safekeeping. She gladly held it all in a bag, and then patiently waited for us to finish our races.

But that is a part of the tradition that’s now changed for the better. My mother is no longer available as our own personal baggage checker, because she has become an athlete in her own right. She has become a part of the tradition in a new way. Participant!

Mom has done beautifully this year. Early in the year, she found a diet that worked, and it became a part of her lifestyle. She started losing weight, and she started walking more regularly, and that too became a part of her regular routine. Dieting and walking are both activities she has attempted many times before, but this time, they both stuck.

This year, for the first time, all four of us crossed the finish line. In fact, mom came in first in her age group, and received a beautiful carved wooden plaque for her effort. This was her third race of the year. In early August, she came to Atlanta, and finished in second place in her age-group at the Run for Life 5K. Then, she did the Maggie Valley 5K walk at the end of August.

There is much more about the weekend that is all a part of the tradition. We always go to the pasta dinner the evening before the race, and of course, there is always nap time after the race itself. Saturday night, we always go to the same place for dinner, and the following morning, we always say good-bye after enjoying a relaxing buffet breakfast.

Harriet and I drove home from Kiawah Island this year with the same warm feeling we always have after a Kiawah Island weekend, and it had nothing to do with how fast we ran the race. This has become a weekend in which the race is secondary, and family is first by plenty. This is Kiawah Island, and, God willing, we will do it all again, same time next year.

Michael

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Road Kill

" W-O-W-W-W, Y-E-A-H, HEY BABY WAKE UP, COME AND DANCE WITH M-E-E-E....."Monica's Rock and Roll chicken alarm clock bellows these words loud enough to wake up the whole neighborhood on a typical Saturday morning. The clock is completely obnoxious, but I bought it for her when she was still living with her mother. Poetic justice, I thought at the time. How was I to know she was going to come and live with me?

Nevertheless, this is what Harriet and I are greeted with on race day, and it's somewhat of a call to arms. We all slowly crawl out of bed, feel our way downstairs to brew a fresh pot of coffee, and put on the weather channel so we can try to determine how to dress for today's race. We grab a couple of bananas, and we're out the door. I drive and Monica and Harriet fall back to sleep for an hour or two. It doesn't bother me. I like the peace and solitude of watching the sun peaking over the eastern horizon. Of course, I DO have to wake Harriet up as we approach the race site. After all, someone has to ask for directions after I get lost ;-)

Occasionally, Georgia offers a Sunday afternoon race, and the events leading up are completely different in every respect. First, there are no Rock and Roll screaming chickens to deal with. That's the dominant plus. Eating also becomes a part of the approach. You want to eat long enough before the race so the food won't still be in your stomach trying to digest at race time, but you have to eat something or you'll be seeing spots by the time the flag drops.

The best part about a Sunday afternoon race is the drive up. In stark contrast to Saturday mornings, when everyone snoozes while I drive, Harriet and Monica are awake and talkative. And our conversations give me ideas for new articles, like this one.

We were driving up to do rural cross-country race in northern Georgia one Sunday afternoon. We were talking about some of Monica’s school projects, and she shared the requirements of a research project in which she had to compile data on over the next month. It was called "Operation Road Kill." The assignment was to look for, and identify various dead mammals, reptiles, and amphibians along the Georgia highways, byways, and back roads. Additionally, the project required a note of the surrounding terrain where the dead animals were found as part of their study information base. The following ground rules applied;

1) Domestic animals could not be included in the study.
2) If the fleshy mound was decomposed to the point it couldn’t be identified, it couldn’t be used in the study.
3) You were not allowed to have your parents intentionally run over the animal.
4) You could not find a dead animal in the woods and drag it out to the street.

If you do a lot of your training on the roads of Georgia, I'm sure you've had your share of encounters with road kill. If you run the same routes often, you've undoubtedly monitored the deterioration process of these victims, and how the effects of rain, sunshine, heat and humidity aid in that process. If you are in a larger city, you can usually call the department of highways and transportation, and they will send someone out to scoop up the remains before any damage is done. In smaller rural towns, it becomes more difficult. The powers that be will often refuse to clean up the refuse, as a dead opossum can suddenly become a significant landmark. "Well, you go down past three dirt roads, make a left after the second dead raccoon, and it's the third trailer on the right once you pass the dead possum."

If your expired animal has to stay, the first day or two is not so bad. Rigor Mortis may set in during this time frame, but I can deal with that. Days three through 10, however, can make running quite unpleasant. It becomes a question of how long you can hold your breath as you pass the carcass. Don't look down as you pass, either, because decomposition has already started. Hot, sweltering summer days accompanied by strong afternoon showers only enhance the experience. Finally, after about two weeks, the remains are pretty well flattened, and now it's mostly only a visual delight.

Harriet and I were pretty excited about Monica's project, and, since we were already heading to road kill country, we decided not to procrastinate any longer. Her requirements for the project were to identify ten different road kills. They didn't all have to be different species, but ten different isolated incidents. Within two minutes, we had our first "statistic." It was definitely a possum. The terrain was flat and wooded. Another three minutes and there was another sighting. This one was a squirrel. This was near farmland surrounded by pines. Monica took mental notes, and squealed with delight. "For a school project, this is pretty fun" she said laughing. And then she added, "Hey Dad, you should write an article about this.” By George, I think she might be on to something.

We arrived at the race, ran through the most difficult cross country course any of us had ever experienced, and we all lived to tell about it. I suggested after the race that Monica might want to comb the course and find something else for her ever growing list. She gave me one of those stupid daddy kind of looks. "Dad," she said. "Humans don't count. They are considered domestic animals."

By Friday afternoon, Monica had identified nine different road kills. She had a nice variety, including a rabbit, a hawk, a frog, and several possums. She still had one more to go. The following morning, we were greeted with " W-O-W-W-W, Y-E-A-H, HEY BABY WAKE UP, COME AND DANCE WITH M-E-E-E.....". Two minutes later, she had her tenth victim. It was a chicken alarm clock, and the terrain was our driveway.

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"After 20 Years, New Shoes"

For nearly eight years now, I've written the column "Thoughts of a Roads Scholar," and for those who have followed my ramblings, you have also, in a way, followed my life. This figurative odyssey all started because I was continually observing, and marveling at how running imitates life. Or maybe it's the other way around.

"Thoughts of a Roads Scholar" started as a humor column, more or less poking fun at the different aspects of runners' obsessive/compulsive behaviors. In my early essays, and some of my more recent ones, I have mused at things like logging every run to the zillionth of a mile, a total inability to throw away any of our thousands of running T-shirts, or buying close-out shoes a dozen pairs at a time. These are among my own personal behaviors, usually, but not always over-exaggerated in my essays, and they have provided opportunities to make fun of myself. From responses I've received over the years, I'm a bit unusual, but not nearly unique.

But there are only so many funny things one can write about running without repetition, and it's really not easy to write humorous thoughts when it feels as if life is falling apart like your stride at the 23-mile mark of a marathon you've under-trained for. Shortly after I started my column, I quit my job "to pursue other interests" and shortly thereafter, went through a difficult divorce. Concurrent with these difficult events, some of my essays started getting more philosophical as I observed more clearly that there were obvious parallels between running and life. Running had always been my thinking time, and running thoughts were thoughts reduced to simplest terms, with no filters. Running was truth, and I wrote honestly about my running thoughts.

While all that was going on, I suffered the only long term running injury I've ever experienced, one that kept me frustrated and out of the game for over a year. That despair rang out in some of my essays, which wallowed in self-pity. Any passionate runner whose body has forced them to take a major detour in their training for an extended period knows how difficult it is to be off the roads while the rest of life goes on. We're not much fun to be around, and that's stating it mildly.

Eventually, everything worked itself out for the better. I met my current wife, I started a new and improved job with the same company I had left, and my body gradually healed and returned to a slower version if what it had been before. But even two or three 10-minute miles were glorious, because they were pain-free. From the ashes of despair rose a Penguin. My essays started taking on a more positive tone, and focused more on the recreational side of running, like smelling the roses, and being thankful for the little things in life. And they were written with a renewed appreciation for the gift of running.

But while my personal pendulum was taking an upward swing, the world was changing in a not so positive way. The economy turned sour, terrorist attacks changed the face of society, and the particular industry I was working in fell out of favor on Wall Street. My job started to become an all-consuming emotion-robbing entity, and almost everything else in life started slowing to a crawl, or stopping all together. My total being became my place of employment, and my employment became very unpleasant. People around me were quitting or being laid off, and instead of backfilling their positions, I was expected to do their jobs as well as my own. I stopped seeing daylight, even through the pinhole that once was the end of the tunnel.

Brand loyalty is an interesting concept. Do we stick with a certain product because we really love it, or is there actually a fear factor that keeps us from considering other options? I have been wearing the same brand of shoes since the early 80's, and don't see any reason to experiment with other brands. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" the adage goes. But even when I was injured, I never considered that my shoes may have contributed to the breakdown, and I stayed loyal to the brand. I think that in part, this was due to the fact that I was afraid to try anything new. Must of us are very reluctant to change.

And so it has been with work. The last couple of years have been a downward spiral. There have been several rounds of downsizing, and the workload for everyone has increased. Now don't get me wrong. The pay and benefits have both been excellent, and I'd be hard-pressed to find the same level of compensation anywhere else. 20 years of brand loyalty has treated me well monetarily. But the landscape has become ugly, and gloomier times are on the immediate horizon.

The latest turn came recently when company management became embattled with hourly employees as existing union contracts expired, and negotiations continued on for a full month after the contract expiration date. The eventual outcome was that the contract issues were resolved without a strike, hourly workers received a very good long-term contract which pretty much provided them with everything they had tried to negotiate.

Shortly thereafter, an enhanced separation package was offered to virtually every one of the close to 175,000 management employees of the company. This came with strong verbiage that there would very likely be continued management cutbacks after the enhanced offer program was completed, without the same benefits that those who took it now would receive.

Brand Loyalty. 20 years in the same brand of "shoes." That's how long I've been with the company, almost to the day. Monetarily speaking, I'm running faster than I ever have in my life. But if my career is like my shoes, the shoes don't fit like they used to. In fact, not only do they provide very little comfort and support any more, but lately, they have been hurting my feet with every step. If my career is like my shoes, my feet are blistered beyond recognition, and all my toenails have either turned black, or fallen off. My arches hurt all the time, I have heel spurs, a torn Achilles tendon, and planter fasciitis all rolled into one fine mess. If that's the price to pay for running faster, I'm ready to fall back in the pack.

I've decided to accept the early separation package, even though I'm far from retirement, either in age or in financial status. November 21st will be my last day on the payroll, and after that, after 20 years of commitment to a single brand, I will be shopping around for a new makes and models. I'm going to try on many different types of "shoes", and take my time figuring out which one fits best. My focus this time is not going to be on speed. After 20 years, I've slowed considerably, and no longer have the desire to keep up with the young corporate climbers. This time, I'm shopping for comfort, stability, and control. Whatever it is I end up doing for a living, it's going to have to be something I enjoy, and something that compliments the things I love to do. It's time again to smell the roses.

Michael

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"Andres, Ed, and Fauja"

On October 2nd, I celebrated my 48th birthday, and found myself entrenched smack dab in the middle of no-man's land. At 48, I am considerably slower than I was when I first entered the 45-49 age group, probably more due to lack of training that advancing age, and I'm still two years away from the relief known as 50-54. I'm thinking at this point that they must call it "Hard"ware because for the next couple of years, age group placement is going to be very hard for me to come by. As someone who tends to think of age in five-year increments, I'm wishing at this point that I was already two years older, so I can once again be the new kid on the block. Runners are funny in that way.

But there is hope for me, and people like me, who tend to get older with each advancing year. This hope comes in the names of Andres Espinosa, Ed Whitlock, and Fauja Singh. Perhaps none of these are household names in most homes, but for aging runners, they probably should be. Allow me to explain.

You've probably already guessed that these three gentlemen must be old, and in varying degrees, you would be correct. In reality, they are old, older, and oldest, and all three have recently accomplished amazing feats in the realm of marathon running. Keep in mind that I use the word old in relative terms, for what they have accomplished on the roads is truly remarkable and the envy of many a marathon runner of any age.

Let's start with Andres Espinosa, who is the baby of the three. At age 40, he is barely teething, but that didn't stop him from taking on the world's best at The Berlin Marathon, held on September 29th, 2003. The winner of the race, Paul Tergat, became the first human ever to break the 2:05 mark in a marathon, and one second later, Sammy Korir became the second. But keep in mind that they only beat the old standard by a little over 40 seconds.

All that Andres Espinosa did was completely obliterate John Campbell's long-standing master's record of 2:11:04 by over 2 full minutes. His 2:08:46 marathon was good for 4th place overall in a race that saw the two fastest times ever run for the distance. That works out to an average per mile pace of 4:55! How many of us can run a quarter mile on the track at that pace? To put it all in perspective, nobody of any age had ever run a marathon that quickly until Derek Clayton did it in May of 1969.

Now, let's move to the other side of the pond, and talk about someone who was born in 1931. His name is Ed Whitlock, and he is 72 years old. He is 5'7", and weighs in at about 125 pounds. He is certainly not the most imposing figure you have ever seen. But looks can be deceiving.

Five days before intending to run The Toronto Waterfront Marathon, he tripped and fell on his way to the store, using only his face to break his fall. His race was in jeopardy, but he showed up anyway, his face still bloodied and scabbed from the fall. And less than three hours after the start, he became the first septuagenarian to ever run a marathon in under three hours, clocking an unbelievable 2:59:10.

But Ed Whitlock did not grab all the headlines at The Toronto Waterfront Marathon. It seems there was another runner there who was old enough to be his father. His name is Fauja Singh, a retired farmer who was born in Jalandhar, India a long, long time ago. Before World War I in fact. He is 92 years old, and has a hard time standing still. But forward momentum is another thing, and he can certainly maintain that for long distances.

Amazingly enough, he has several marathons under his belt already since turning 90, and has progressively improved on his own work records just about each time out. In 2001, he became the first nonagenarian to break 7 hours for the marathon, running London in 6:54:55, breaking the old world record by close to an hour. But he was not finished yet. The following year, he ran London again, this time shaving another 40 minutes off his own world record, completing it in 6:11:09. In the process, he beat over 10,000 other runners.

This brings us to The Toronto Waterfront Marathon, held on September 28th, 2003. He prepared by putting in about 15 Kilometers a day, eating a healthy diet, taking warm baths, and practicing daily meditation. It must have worked. He became the first 90 year old to ever break 6 hours for a marathon, and he did it by plenty. His finishing time was 5:40:01, another giant leap of over 30 minutes in breaking his own world record.

On October 2nd, I turned 48 years old. You know, that doesn't seem all that old any more.

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"The Dark Side of Daylight Savings Time"

Ah, the essence of spring. Its arms are long-reaching. Even in the northern stretches where the trees are still lifeless and bare, and the air is consumed with chill, the days are getting longer. Soon, most of us will be given an extra hour to do what we most love doing. The hour we lose in the morning as we spring forward, is gained on the other side of the day in added daylight. For many, it translates to more time to run, or to participate in other outdoor activities.

But this does not hold true for every runner. Some of us are slithering creatures of the pre-dawn darkness. The few. The proud. While the rest of the world sleeps, the pre-dawn runner is out there like clockwork, running on traffic free streets, with moonlight, lamplight and nocturnal wildlife for company. The thrill of seeing a deer or fox crossing a metropolitan road is a sight reserved for the pre-dawn runner.

Those of us who run prior to daybreak tend to be able to rationalize just about anything. Most people, I dare say even other runners, may think we are crazy for rising at times when infomercials and test patterns reign supreme. But we have our reasons. If 5 AM brings rain, it is only another element to overcome, and that's really what running is all about. Later in the day, when the clouds dissipate and yield to the sun, I smile in the knowledge that I didn't let the weather stop me this day. On the other hand, when clear mornings give way to stormy afternoons, I get similar satisfaction in knowing that this day, I stayed ahead of the weather. My run is already behind me, and I can reflect on a job well done, while others are pondering the wisdom of dodging lightning bolts.

For the last couple of weeks, the weather has been getting a little milder here in Atlanta. Although it is still tights weather in the early hours of the day, there is, in the air, a slight hint of things to come. Mornings in the 30's give way to afternoons in the 70's. In close parallel, something else has been happening which has taken away some of my darkness. By the end of my run, the first hints of daylight are starting to appear behind the eastern border of the universe. Those who share my feelings feel a shade of sadness upon realizing that our obscurity is becoming a little less protected each passing day by a sun that is rising earlier and earlier. But all is not lost, as on the first Sunday of April, we will be losing this recently gained glimmer of light just as it is starting to remove the shroud of secrecy and the veil of mystery of those known as pre-dawn runners.

There is so much to be gained from running. That's a truism of all runners, regardless of speed, endurance, frequency, or time of day we run. But as with anything that has a bright side, there is also a dark side lurking. On the first Sunday of April, we will again gain our hour of darkness, and our comfort level, as well as our anonymity, will return. While we will lose an hour of sleep, we gain back our hour of darkness where we most enjoy it.

Running once again under a blanket of stars, we are sitting on the dark side of Daylight Savings Time.

Michael

Michael Selman lives, runs, and writes in Atlanta, GA. He has been nationally published in both Runner's World and Marathon & Beyond magazines. He would love to keep in touch with other runners, and may be contacted at TheRoadsScholar@aol.com

I am making the change to help facilitate the distribution of the newsletter. The way I do it now, I have to cut and paste hundreds of e-mail addresses to e-mails, send them out, and then modify the list when discontinued e-mail address bounce. It has become a very time consuming process.

The e-mail group allows you the flexibility to join or leave any time you want, and all I have to do is send out one e-mail which will go to everyone who has signed up. In addition, all the essays I send out are archived on the site, so any time you might need a little additional inspiration, you can go right to the site and read any essay you want.

The correct URL is:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Thoughts_of_a_Roads_Scholar

"The Bonds That Tie"

Runners are a peculiar lot. Although the act of running isn’t particularly funny, the way runners think and act most certainly is. Those who don’t share our passion often misunderstand us. We are frequently perceived as being self-involved and aloof as we run by with squinting eyes and a focused expressionless forward stare.

But the truth is that runners are a bonding breed, especially when it has to do with anything running related. We may appear to be introverts to those who remain on the dark side, but with other runners, the conversation usually seems to flow easily, except maybe when fighting oxygen debt during your anaerobic sprint to the finish of a 5K race. But there is nothing quite like a dual to the finish line to establish mutual respect, friendship, and friendly rivalry. From the heat of battle, lifetime relationships rise from the ashes.

But as I mentioned at the start, runners are a funny bunch, and our bonding instinct is unique. Our need to create links is not confined only to other runners. In fact, it’s not even confined to the world of the living. The fact is that runners are notorious for bonding with just about anything, as long as it has anything to do with running.

If someone were to ask me if I still own any clothing I wore 20 years ago, my first reaction would be to answer in the negative. How could 20 year old clothes still be in style today, and why on earth would I hold on to a piece of fabric for that long, anyway? But upon further reflection, I fondly remember wearing my very first race T-shirt for a full month after I finished my very first 10K on June 26th, 1982. I never took it off. Not at bedtime, not at shower time. Never. That was my first bonding experience with an inanimate object. But it was only the first of many. I still have that shirt today, as well as all 783 other race T-shirts I’ve earned over the years, one from every race I have ever run.

Over the years, I’ve found myself bonding with many other non-living things related to running. I even bond with the roads I train on. I name all my routes, and I have to run them following the same exact line every time. If I run one of my courses with someone else, and they want to deviate, even just a little, I just can’t do it. It would ruin my run, and possibly, my whole month.

My most recent bonding experience has been with my new GPS watch, which utilizes a series of satellites to measure speed and distance very accurately as you run, under the right conditions. It was not love at first site. This watch was a little more sophisticated than most running accessories I’ve ever been exposed to, and it took a few runs with it to really fully understand and appreciate its capabilities. Now that I understand it a little better, we have definitely bonded, and we’re practically inseparable. I wear it all the time now. For the first time in my life, I know exactly how far it is from my desk at work to the bathroom, accurate to within 1/1000th of a mile. How did I ever live without it?

You name it. It makes no difference if its socks with holes in them, watches with batteries that have been dead for years, shorts and singlets with rips and frayed edges, or anything that can possibly touch a runner. Runners bond with them all, and, although we might not use them any more, we just can’t throw them out even after their usefulness is gone.

But all these aforementioned bonds pall in comparison to the most intense relationship that a runner can have with an inorganic object. Of course, I’m referring to the bond between runners and their shoes. These are the Bonds that Tie. I’ve been through exactly 127 pairs of shoes since I first started running. How do I know this? Easy. I counted them all last night in preparation for this article.

What is it that makes it so hard for a runner to actually throw out an old pair of running shoes? I can’t really say. They only have about as many lives as a cat. They can go from running shoes, to wet and muddy trail running shoes, to walking shoes, to weight workout shoes, to wear to the mall shoes, to lounging around the house shoes, to mowing the lawn shoes, to pool shoes, to gross smelly deep-sea fishing shoes.

You would think that after all that, they could easily be thrown away. But instead, they just get tossed in the “9-lives” shoe pile, which smells like something that a cat might actually consider eating. And there, forever they shall sit. The bonds that tie.

Bonding means never having to say, “I’m going to throw you out.”

Michael

Michael Selman lives, runs, and writes in Atlanta, GA. He has been nationally published in both Runner's World and Marathon & Beyond magazines. He would love to keep in touch with other runners, and may be contacted at TheRoadsScholar@aol.com

"Where Did the Time Go?"

It seems that at least once every year, I go through a period of time when I reflect on my running history. I mean really reflect. It starts as I fondly remember those first few months of running, and how hard it was to get to the point where I could run three full miles before I couldn’t go any longer. Then, I’m moved to pull out the ever-increasing volumes of running logs I have kept over the years, and look back fondly as I relive the smells and the sounds and the feelings of those first runs. It seems like just yesterday that I ran my first race, but it has actually been over 20 years. Where did the time go?

I didn’t always have the library of logs that I treasure today. In fact, I had already been running for several months before I got my first journal. Keeping records of anything was never my forte, but for some reason, at some point early on, I decided that keeping track of my runs would be a good idea. I don’t even think I purchased that first log, but I think it might have come in a goodie bag from one of my early races. In any event, in August of 1982, I made my first entry in the log, and it’s pretty much been a way of life, and a story of life, since then. It was the place that I logged my times, but it also encompassed the accompanying thoughts and observations as well. As I started going through the 20 years of running history, I started to wonder. Where did the time go? To say it went in my log is much too simplistic.

When I first started to register my runs, I was still single, still living at home, and home was New York. After three months of running, I could still barely run three miles before I had to walk, and in my early races, I couldn’t break 25 minutes for a 5K. That was many moves, and many moons ago now. The first time I raced with my father, who had already been running for years, he beat me by a minute. He is now 75, and though he still runs, the days of marathons and regular races, when I used to meet him in Central Park, are long behind us. Since my first entries in my log, my daughter was born, grew up, and moved out. She went from not being there at all, to becoming an adult, and all this has occurred since I first started running. It all seems to have happened so fast that I am left shaking my head. Where did the time go?

As I continued to read through my logs in chronological order, from the oldest one, now a bit frayed and tattered, to the current one, with still four chapters to complete, I was struck by a lot of different things. From a strictly performance viewpoint, early on, my race times dropped fast, and then, as the years went by, they held pretty steady. There were some years where the annual log had many blank pages, and that emptiness alluded to things outside of running. The pages are blank to the reader, but in my mind, they are detailed to the 100th of a second. Only the owner of the log would know the missing text of the empty pages, and I remember all the blank pages very clearly. A second hand reader would just see pages with no times, and wonder. Where did the times go?

At some point in the early 90’s, the logs seemed to become more alive, and at the same time, they became much too small to hold everything I wanted to say. The entries were no longer just records of a person who ran, but they became the memories, goals, dreams and accomplishments of a runner, squeezed into four small lines per day leaving me hungry to write more. By the mid 90’s, the small daily entries were no longer enough to hold my thoughts and to satisfy me, and that’s when I started to write “Thoughts of a Roads Scholar” which is really nothing more than an expansion of my journal entries. It’s always been about the run, and will always continue to be.

As I finished skimming through my logs, I had walked through over 20 years of running, and I was feeling pretty content. In all those years, I’ve only lost about 2 minutes on my 5K time when I’m in top shape. That falls right in line with the established standard of 5% loss of speed for every decade that I have read about. That’s not too bad, I thought. In 20 years, there were only two minutes that remained unaccounted for. And I wondered, where did that time go?

But as I lay in bed that night, the numbers still dancing in my head, the whole picture suddenly struck me in a different way. I realized that this loss of time is not just fractions of a second. This is a full two minutes! 120 seconds that I used to spend on the other side of the finish line, cheering others on, and now, I’m still on the wrong side of the finish line with more than a quarter mile to go when the clock hits 20 minutes. And not a single step of it is any less taxing than it ever was before. From one day to the next, I haven’t changed a bit, but somehow, over 20 years, I have gotten a full two minutes slower than I used to be. I understand that this was going to happen to everyone else, but it was never supposed to happen to me! Where the hell did that time go????

For some reason, I started to see more clearly than ever before that my slowing down might be something that is here to stay, and it’s a hard pill to swallow. In 20 years, I’ve lost two minutes, which I may never be able to recover. The time has shifted to the wrong side of the finish line, and I may never be able to put it back where it belongs. But it won’t stop me from trying.

This morning, I ran a 5K, and it took me over 23 minutes. My training has been very good, but my race performances continue their gravitational pull to slower times. I could not have squeezed a single second of additional speed out of today’s effort, and a difficult effort it was. For over three miles, I kept on looking for those minutes I have lost over the span of my running career, and they were nowhere to be found. I finished the race totally frustrated. And I questioned. Where did the time go?

Wherever the time went, I will continue my quest to find it again, a few seconds at a time. The direction I take in my quest to improve my time will play a major role in the direction that my future times ultimately go. It has recently become more important to me than it has in a long time to push towards a faster finish line, and more time spent on the winning side of it.

They say that time, once lost, can never be recovered. With good training and positive focus, perhaps that theory can be disproved. As my times drop, let the people who used to kick my butt come up to me and ask.

“Where did the time go?”

Michael Selman lives, runs, and writes in Atlanta, GA. He has been nationally published in both Runner's World and Marathon & Beyond magazines. He would love to keep in touch with other runners, and may be contacted at TheRoadsScholar@aol.com

"The Roads Whisper My Name"

I do a lot of driving through the North Georgia Mountains and the Carolinas, and I've noticed that this part of the country has its share of quiet roads. Quiet, however, does not exactly mean silent. These roads actually talk to me through their tranquility, and they whisper my name, barely audibly, but undeniably. They soothingly grab my attention, and once they have gotten it, under their breath, they always utter the same two-word refrain. Like a gentle breeze, they plead. "Run me."

Whenever I hear the call, I find myself for one brief moment rearranging the rest of the day in my mind, and, once that is done, pulling over to oblige the call. But there is always a reason I don't. Either I have an ultimately unyielding agenda for the day, or there are people waiting at the other end of my travels, or I'm just not ready to take that kind of risk, so the thought is fleeting. I have therefore always denied the invitation, tricking myself in to believing that maybe, some day, I'll return to answer that call. But thus far, though the roads are always inviting, I have not accepted the invitation.

The roads that whisper my name are always roads less traveled, and that's what makes them so compelling. These whispering roads of which I speak all have a similar character. They are for the eye's eternity tree-lined, with an abundance of shade, and the roads themselves are always ascending until they ultimately stretch beyond view, only adding to the mystery and intrigue. Perhaps, if just one time, I chose to pull over, and accept the road's request to run, it would make all the difference. But so far, I have remained indifferent.

There are risks in the unknown and unrevealed, and these roads gently dare me and seemingly taunt me to find out what lies just beyond my view. That's why they continue to call out to me, and goad me by saying "Run me." The roads that whisper my name remain an unaccepted offer, and an unsolved mystery, because I continue to stay true to the paths I know, where I feel safe and protected. They remain an invitation I have yet to accept. But the temptation grows to some day give in to the plea. "Run me."

Whispering roads are not like the roads I run every day, which have less and less to say as the years go on. The familiar roads no longer talk, as they did when they were new. They are reliable and predictable, and I run in peaceful communion with them, but there is little new on roads that I have come to know so well that I could traverse them with my eyes closed. They are, at the same time, safe, and somewhat monotonous.

Perchance , the day will come when I wake up discovering that the same old road is no longer the comfort I had always thought it to be. Upon that realization, I may just hop in my car, and point it north, without any particular final destination, and without any specific activity to complete. I may drive with no other purpose but to hear, and be ready to respond to that whisper I've heard so many times before. "Run me." That road I choose may turn out to be a dead end, or it might possibly be a new beginning. But taking that whispering road might make all the difference.

Michael Selman lives, runs, and writes in Atlanta, GA. He has been nationally published in both Runner's World and Marathon & Beyond magazines. He would love to keep in touch with other runners, and may be contacted at TheRoadsScholar@aol.com

Not Well Grounded

I'll have to admit, for much of the current year, I have not been very well grounded, and things aren't likely to change any time soon. I have found myself up in the air about almost everything much more than usual, and I place the blame squarely on three primary culprits. They are Delta, American, and US Airways. Through it all, I am finding it quite difficult to remain anchored with my feet planted firmly on the ground when I constantly find myself either cruising at 30000 feet, or landing at final destinations, which are strange and unfamiliar. I have become, in the most literal sense of the word, flighty. No wonder my head's so often in the clouds.

In almost all ways, I am a man of routine. I have a hunch that most runners are, as running requires a lot of it. On a daily basis, I am most at peace with the simplicities of life. My desire is to wake up in my own bed before the sun comes up, run on my own roads before work, watch Jeopardy while snuggling with my wife in the evening after dinner, and then tucking myself in bed by 9:30, eager to follow the same predictable schedule the next day. On weekends, I like to start my Saturdays with a race, and then run down by the Chattahoochee River on Sundays. Routine is not such a bad thing, and the routine of home is the finest routine I know. I have devout fondness for home, and my running seems to like it too.

When I'm at home, I know I can wake up at 5 in the morning, and the roads I run are a footstrike away, just past the end of my driveway. As I gently step over the dew-drenched newspaper, I can go as far as my legs and my imagination are willing to take me, and I have the comfort of knowing that the finish line will always take me back home. I don't require such trivial things as house falling on a wicked witch or a yellow brick road, or a pair of ruby red slippers to know my biggest happiness is found right in my own back yard.

The last couple of weeks, my travels have returned me to places of my past, as I have returned to Wilmington, Delaware and Pittsburgh, PA. I used to live in both cities, and in fact, I was born in Wilmington. At one time or another, I called both places home, but neither trip was a return to any place even remotely similar. The physical structures where I once lived might still be standing, but the comfort of my routine was left behind in Atlanta.

A house is merely a structure, cold and stoic. But the warmth and the familiarity of home IS structure, in its most pure and simple form. So two weeks ago, when I was in Wilmington, I went searching, not for a house, but for home. I found it, but not in the residence where I was born. Instead, I found it in a 2 ½ mile loop down by the Delaware River, where I found home for about an hour each morning on my run, before going to work. As I traversed the roads that ran along the river and through Brandywine Park, the structure of home appeared. Within the run, I was home, and it made the rest of the day more than just a little bit better.

This week in Pittsburgh, I once again found routine, this time along the Golden Triangle. I never did make it back to the physical structure in which I once lived, but there was really no need to. Every morning, I made a date to find my way back home by the waters of my three friends: the Monongahela, the Allegheny and the Ohio. As I negotiated the Eliza Furnace Trail each morning, I simply enjoyed the warmth, and the structure. Despite what the rest of the day would bring, for that magical time, I found home away from home. As I write this, I am once again at 30,000 feet, heading back home to Atlanta. That's home in every sense of the word. My wife awaits me there, as well as my friends and my routine. Tomorrow morning, I'll step across the morning paper, still covered with morning dew, and lose myself somewhere just beyond my driveway. An hour later, I'll finish right where I started. Home. How can it get any better than that?

But even at this high altitude, I feel a little more grounded than I did even two weeks ago. I'm content in the knowledge that I can pack a little bit of home in my suitcase before I leave again on Sunday afternoon to return to Pittsburgh for another week. Home will be packed in the form of a pair of running shoes, shorts, Thor-Lo's and singlets. There is no place like home, wherever you can find it.

Michael Selman lives, runs, and writes in Atlanta, GA. He has been nationally published in both Runner's World and Marathon & Beyond magazines. He would love to keep in touch with other runners, and may be contacted at TheRoadsScholar@aol.com

"At Long Last, Confluence"

It's been a while since I've written anything worth reading, and of recent times, that fact has been gnawing at my inner soul. Over the years, every time I complete an article, I wonder where the next profound running thought is going to come from. There is only so much that can be written about running before it's all been said. How many times can you put one foot in front of the other for an hour a day, week in and week out, before you run out of profound insights and inspirations to write about?

But somehow, month after month, year after year, the answer is always found somewhere deep in the inner dimensions of the run. While the rest of my day is occupied with everything else, the run is the recreation of the body, the regeneration of the soul, and the creation of the next thought, which ultimately ends up as the next essay. The last few months, I've had this sickening feeling that maybe there is nothing left to say. My inkwell started running dry in early March, when I became so consumed with, and controlled by work issues that I stopped running all together. I couldn't even entertain the thought of a run. When perspiration is not a part of the beginning of my day, there is no inspiration to follow. No run meant no writing. March and April were drought months for me. I rarely ran, and I didn't write at all. After a couple of months, things slowly started to sort themselves out at work, and I started to gradually get back in to running. For a while, I was forcing myself to get out only because for the last 20 years, I have been a runner. But something within the runs felt a little bit phony, and the writing did not tag along close behind. The former excitement and anticipation of the next run was gone, but at least I was starting to get out again. Taking the "cup is half full" approach, I told myself that even just going through the motions still keeps one moving forward.

It took a couple more months before runs were again delightful, and during that time, there was still nothing to write about. So I remained silent, just waiting for that next unique thought to connect during the run, and wondering if I would ever write again. But finally, the thrill started to come back, and the reunion of body and soul started to return.

The name I write under is really the confluence of two different personas. The Roads Scholar is an equal mixture of one part runner, and one part writer. If there is no perspiration, there is no inspiration, and the creative well runs dry. If either element is missing, there is no Roads Scholar. That's why you haven't seen him lately.

But this morning's run took care of that, and it happened because, before the run, I did something I hadn't done in a long time. I reminded myself to be open once more to running's parables. Running used to teach me something new almost daily, because I was receptive, and willing to be a roads scholar. The student was once again ready for the teacher to appear. Somewhere in the mayhem of earlier this year, I forgot how to run that way. This morning, I reminded myself to remember.

As I ran down the Eliza Furnace Trail, which runs along The Golden Triangle of Pittsburgh's Three Rivers, where the Monongahela and Allegheny meet to form the Ohio, I realized that The Roads Scholar needs to run and write, just as the Ohio needs the Monongahela and the Allegheny. In both instances, the confluence of two from to create the one. That was the message embedded within this morning's 70 minutes of ecstasy.

I know in my heart that I am back to writing, and the return of the reemergence of the and of the body and soul, and subsequently, runner and writer, is complete. I'm already looking forward to tomorrow's early run, because I know there is another inspiration to be plucked from thin air, another moral to seek, and another essay to write. The Roads Scholar has returned. Confluence at its best.

Michael Selman lives, runs, and writes in Atlanta, GA. He has been nationally published in both Runner's World and Marathon & Beyond magazines. He would love to keep in touch with other runners, and may be contacted at TheRoadsScholar@aol.com

"Meet My New Best Friend" Here we go again. This month, I bring you yet another article about the trials and tribulations of a runner who is helplessly growing older. I'm sorry, but as long as I continue to fall into that category, I'm probably going to continue writing and complaining about it. Hopefully, you won't mind my fixation on the subject, as my hunch is that the majority of you are also not as young as you used to be, either. There's even an outside chance that some of you might even relate, especially if you're over 30.

This latest rant was inspired by my participation in the Myrtle Beach Marathon earlier this month. I've run about a dozen marathons in my life, and none of them have been particularly fast. My very first one was one of only two which I ever ran in under 4 hours, and I refer to it as my accidental marathon. It was the Long Island Marathon, and I was a youthful runner of 27 years at the time.

I was only planning to run the half that day, as this race allowed you to stop at the halfway mark and call it an official half-marathon. But I was too young and too stupid to stop when I got there in 1:45, and because I was still feeling good at that precise moment, I continued on. About three miles later, I was unceremoniously introduced to the wall, and I walked, staggered and crawled the final 10 miles to finish in 3:58. That was the day I learned that a 6-mile long run was not sufficient for marathon preparation. Over the next 19 years, I have run a dozen other marathons, mostly in the 4-hour range. In 1997, at the ancient age of 41, I ran another 3:58, but other than that, the 4-hour barrier has been an elusive one for me.

In mid-2001, I decided that I wanted to really give a marathon PR another shot. 46-year old men have had wilder dreams than that, I'm sure. I had been running injury-free for the last couple of years, and I felt my body was ready for the higher mileage and longer runs of marathon training, so I made a commitment to train well, and see what I could do. Perhaps, I thought, good training could be the great equalizer.

I ran a really good race at Myrtle Beach. I hit the half at 1:57:45, which was right about where I wanted to be. But around 18 miles, I started falling just a little bit off the pace, and ended up missing the sub 4-hour barrier once again. I finished in a little over 4:03, but I ran the whole way, and really felt I did well. The effort was by far better than any other marathon effort I had ever done. I came home scratching my head about what might have gone wrong.

There are two things that are about as sure as death and taxes for a runner. One is that we are all going to eventually slow down as we age. And the other is that we are all going to search high and low to rationalize why exactly that is happening to us.

The day after the race, my wife and I drove back home from the beach, and I promptly went on the Internet and did a search on age-graded running tables. I was interested to see how my 4:03 at age 46 equated to the open time of 3:58, as I did when I was 27, and the 3:58 I ran at 41. The open division, by the way, is the division assumed to be the fittest and strongest and fastest. The theory is that, after the age of 30, the human body starts to measurably slow down, so the open division goes to age 30.

I found a great age-graded table, and the results made me feel a lot better, at least initially. It's a great converter, as it grades by both age and sex. I didn't know it at the time, but both these facts would come back to haunt me later.

According to the table I found, my 4:03:15 at age 46 was converted to an open time of 3:43:33. Wow, I set a virtual PR by almost 15 minutes! Even my 3:58:02 at age 41 only translated to an open time of 3:46:08. Could this have actually been my best marathon ever?

I started playing around with my performance at other race distances as well, and I started feeling even better. My best 5K time at age 45 was a 21:57. I found out that this translates to an open time of 20:02. My lifetime 5K PR is 19:54. If I can run 21:57 again this year, the conversion chart says it would be the equivalent of a youthful 19:54. That means if I can go under 21:57, I can have a virtual 5K PR. So now, my 5K goal for this year is 21:56 or lower.

Here's what I need in the other common distances to beat my age-graded lifetime bests.

My lifetime PR at 10K is 41:30. At 46 years old, a 45:47 would be my virtual PR goal. If I could do that, it would actually net me two accomplishments, as it would be the first time I've run a 10K in under my age, too. My lifetime PR at 10 miles is 1:08:20. That just might be my best race I've ever run at any distance. Today, I would have to run a 1:15:23 to match it on the age-graded tables. That would be a stretch, but there aren't too many 10-miles races in this neck of the woods, anyway. My lifetime half-marathon PR stands at 1:33:54. That would translate to a 1:43:36 equivalent by the age-graded standards. I just might be able to do that by the end of the year, with good training. And by then, I'll be 47, and I get another 25 second bonus just for having another birthday.

I was feeling really good about this whole age-grading thing, and should have left well-enough alone, but could I possibly do that? N-o-o-o-o-o. I decided to compare my own times with those of my best friend off the roads, who is also my bitter rival on the roads. He is 10 years older than I am. In real life, we're really close year in and year out. I beat him by a few seconds one race, and he comes right back in the next race and beats me. But when I plugged in our race times and ages, I found out he kicks my virtual butt every race by close to 2 minutes.

Then, I did the unthinkable. I compared my times to those of my wife. I won't reveal her age, but when I plugged our times, sexes and ages in to the converter, I discovered that, virtually, anyway, she kicks my virtual butt even worse than my friend does. Oh well, at least nobody will ever again accuse me of being a wife-beater.

Overall, I've found a lot of comfort in the new found best friend, whose name is "Age Equivalent Running Results Calculator." It has helped me feel much better about my marathon performance last week, and it has given me some new PR opportunities, even if they are only virtual. It's the great equalizer, as well as the great rationalizer, all rolled into one. Just do me two favors, please. Don't tell my friend, and don't tell my wife. They wouldn't be interested.

But if YOU are, e-mail me, and I'll give you the link. It just might make you feel a little better too.

Michael Selman lives, runs, and writes in Atlanta, GA. He has been nationally published in both Runner's World and Marathon & Beyond magazines. He would love to keep in touch with other runners, and may be contacted at TheRoadsScholar@aol.com

"Not in my first 20 years"

On April 16th, 2002, I will mark my 20th anniversary of running by doing what I do most mornings. I will get up at 5AM, go for a short run, and in a small way, it will be a disappointment that I am able to do so. There is a trivial piece of me that would prefer that the act of getting out of bed that morning would be too painful, too hard, too challenging. I will fantasize that while I am lying in bed, stiff and sore, almost unable to move, I will still be reveling in the accomplishments of the day before.

But that will be the dream, not the reality.

On April 19th, 1982, three days after I ran my very first mile, I watched as perhaps the most thrilling Boston Marathon ever took place. While I watched, my legs still aching from that single first mile I had run three days earlier, I was riveted as Alberto Salazar and Dick Beardsley waged a classic battle through the hills of Newton down through Brookline into the Back Bay area of Boston. Though Beardsley pushed the pace for almost the entirety of those last nine classic miles, Salazar prevailed at the finish by 2 seconds, and won the race, as he almost always did back then.

A lot has changed over my first 20 years of running. Today, I can run a mile without having sore legs for the next week. Today, I can even run a marathon in over four hours, and not be one step ahead of the sweep vehicle. In fact, today's four hour marathon might still place me in the top half of most races. Though I have slowed more than I'd like to admit, the overall field has decelerated at a much quicker pace.

In 1982, nine of the top ten men's finishers at Boston were Americans, as well as seven of the top ten women. The following year, Americans made a clean sweep of the top 10 in both the men's and women's fields. Large purses in other marathons were enticing the International field away from Boston. But the standard quickly shifted, as the lack of sponsorship and prize money that had initially pushed the international contingent away from Boston gave way to corporate sponsorship and large purses, which lured them back. Before the end of the decade, in 1988, to be exact, there was not a single American top ten finisher in either division.

Boston has changed in other ways to, since I ran my first mile almost 20 years ago. In 1986, qualifying standards were eased, and in 1988, they were relaxed even more, putting the potential to qualify within the reach of runners like me. The question now became less one of raw talent, and more one of heart and desire. In 1996, for the historic 100th running of the race, a lottery was conducted to expand the official field and allow non-qualifiers to officially run the race. I chose to remain pure to the tradition, and did not submit an entry. Today, much to the chagrin of some, one can receive an official Boston Marathon race number by raising funds for designated charities.

But there is one thing about Boston that has not changed over the years. On April 15th, 2002, the final day of my first 20 years of running, Boston will be run without me for the 20th time since I stepped out the door to jog my first mile, and then needed a week off to recover from it. Qualifying for, and running Boston would be a storybook ending to my first 20 years as a runner, and if I wrote fiction, I would be there. Perhaps if I put on life-filtering blinders and totally dedicated myself to marathon training, remained uninjured, and ran the perfect race on the perfect course on the perfect day, than MAYBE I would qualify, and be there. It would all have to be perfect.

I honestly don't know if it's just sour grapes on my part, or if Boston is truly not synonymous with running in my book. I consider myself a runner, so Boston is not the defining element. But I cringe just a little bit inside every time I am asked if I've ever run Boston. And I turn just the slightest hue of green every time I meet someone who has done the training I have been unwilling to do, and succeeded in qualifying for Boston. It's even a little bit harder to swallow when someone just assumes I've run it, because that's what every "real" runner does.

And now, as I approach my 20th anniversary of running, I look back and realize how much I have accomplished in my first 20 years. I have 20 years worth of running logs, and almost every run I've ever done since that first mile is secured within their pages. I have acquired a respectable number of medals and trophies from races where nobody else in my age group showed up. I proudly display framed copies of the articles I have had published in magazines like Runner's World and Marathon & Beyond. I am about to take over as the president of what I consider one of the best running clubs in the world. I am content with my running. But I have not qualified for Boston.

More importantly, however, as I prepare for my second 20 years of running, I am content with my life. I have a lovely wife who also just happens to be a runner. She has even qualified for, and run Boston on more than one occasion. She wins awards even when everybody shows up. She is a brilliant runner, and works hard at it.

Between us, we have three wonderful children. They aren't runners, but they each have their own special talents, and give us immeasurable joy. Our home is our castle, and it is always a warm place for anyone to enter. And I have close friends that I know will always be there for me. 20 years ago, I had none of this. About the only thing I had was running. And even in running, all I had was one wretched mile.

If I had chosen the path to Boston, who knows how different the rest of my life might have been. If I had chosen the singular focus of qualifying for Boston, perhaps I would have been successful. But perhaps, I would not have been, and either way, the cost may have been more than I would be willing to pay. Succeeding does not always translate to success. And success at one thing could result in multiple failures in other areas.

Sour grapes? Maybe. But I'm very content to start my second 20 years of running just being able to do what I've done for most of the first 20. That would include waking up at 5AM, and going out for a short run, and enjoying a well-rounded life of family, friends, and varied and diverse accomplishments that must include running, but doesn't have to include Boston. And as I get older, and qualifying times relax a bit more, Boston's 5 minute gift for entering another age group, maybe, just maybe I can outpace the Boston qualifying standard itself, and nip it at the finish line. Just like Alberto Salazar did with Dick Beardsley, three short days after I ran my very first mile.

It would be a storybook ending.

Michael Selman lives, runs, and writes in Atlanta, GA. He has been nationally published in both Runner's World and Marathon & Beyond magazines. He would love to keep in touch with other runners, and may be contacted at TheRoadsScholar@aol.com