Gift of a lifetime: A tribute to a favorite fan

Posted on November 7, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

In late October 2005 I worked for a newspaper and had gone to the office early to make some phone calls and get ready for a sales appointment that morning. Sitting at a desk outside the photo department, I could hear the police scanner barking a strange yet familiar address over the crackling speaker. It was my mother’s house.

The EMTs had already arrived and were carrying my mother out the front door on a gurney when I showed up at her house. My father was inside looking worried, but there was little else he could do as a stroke victim confined to a wheelchair. The caregiver who lived with my parents to care for my father came to the door and told me, with greatest sympathy: “We had to call, she can’t walk.”

I knew it was the chemotherapy she’d had the day before. My 80-year-old mother Emily Nichols Cudworth was not up to the task of fighting the pancreatic cancer that had snuck in behind the oral chemotherapy she’d been taking for lymphoma. Mom was dying, I knew, and this trip to the hospital would likely be her last.

She stayed a few days to recover, but never regained her strength to walk. We brought her home to be with family a few days, and spent a happy Sunday afternoon listening to my daughter Emily, her namesake, play music on the violin we’d just purchased for her. My mother was a lifelong musician whose own violin had been the instrument on which my daughter learned to play. That impromptu concert would be the last music my mother heard.

She collapsed into an irreversible stroke the next morning and died on November 7, 2005, leaving behind her husband Stewart, now 86 and still living in the family home, and her four sons James, Gary, Christopher and Greg, as well as daughter’s-in-law and grandchildren.

It’s okay. I was there with her.  

This is not some “Mama’s Boy” lament that my mother is gone. Being with her when she died was an act of closure that I have explained to many people over the years was a true gift. I wish it could be true for everyone. But I knew how my mother thought about death because she told me how she felt about life, and she did not want to tarry on with some sort of compromised existence, either lost in mind or physical imprisonment. She was a devout Unitarian (no oxymoron) who believed in the beauty of life. We can only presume what anyone knows in a life beyond.

The best fan in the world

I also know this: Emily Nichols Cudworth loved her son’s participation in sports, attending literally hundreds of soccer, basketball and baseball games, and countless more cross country and track meets. I could hear her voice during many a race, a short, sharp burst of a mother’s intense fandom: “C’mon, Chrissy!”

Ha! She called me Chrissy all my life. Not exactly the macho form of moral support, but I knew what it meant. “Do your best. You’re my son.” Although I know she wanted a daughter at some point. I was to be Christine Annette Cudworth if born a girl. Sorry, mom.

Special occasions

She especially liked cross country meets and road races. These were special occasions for my mother, who was not a social butterfly by any means, but did love a good conversation in the bright sunshine. She made many friends as a result. The queue of parents lined up together at a cross country meet on a bright fall morning is one of the most inspiring thing any athlete can see. There they stand, together, the parents of your best friends, chatting and talking and keeping an eye on the attitude of each and every one of us. Their eyes would brighten if you nervously threw them a sweatshirt to hold, or a pair of flats to guard while you raced. A small part of the ritual, yes, but a big part of the success, in the end.

Making a mark

During my early 20s I set out to prove to myself–and the world in a way– that I could be a highly competitive road runner, I embarked on a two-summer attempt to win as many races as possible. One of these victories was the Community Classic 10K, a large (1500 people) local road run that started and ended in Geneva, Illinois.

Emily Nichols Cudworth (in red pants) waits for the race to begin with my now-wife Linda and my mother’s friends.

My mother and father and my wife were present for the event, which proved to be one of the most difficult yet rewarding wins of my racing career. A runner from South Dakota showed up and pushed me to a course record 31:52 on a 10k course that climbs approximately 70 vertical feet from the 5K point to the finish. The course was also measured by numerous local runners and found to be nearly 200 meters long. In other words, it was a tough course on which to run and win.

As a prolific writer, my mother decided the experience of watching her son race on a number of similar occasions was worthy of poetic tribute. This is the poem she wrote as a result. She did not always write using colloquialisms but in this case she felt they fit.

 Runner

I watched as you stretched and started

moving slowly, eyes inward, thoughts on self.

Sensing the morning’s chill, noting the wind

a muscle twitching here and there–

(“Will it last?” he wonders, “will it last?)

Click for larger view of starting line.

Adjusting the suit, talking briefly

(Breakfast wasn’t much, couldn’t you know–

Too important, too important a race you see.)

A milling crowd arrived, some garrulous and greedy

for the prize, half-formed decisions in their eyes.

Some there for fun, pure fun, no more

like children looking through a door.

But you were not these people

(“Muscles are trained,” you told me)

There were days and days of running.

In the cold mornings– beard frosty,

stocking cap pulled down

(“You can’t freeze your butt,”) you said

both humorously and morosely,

a Captain of the sleet and snow.

In the Mid-Sumer,smell of sweetness, grasses, ferns

upon the air, joyous birds alight at dawn and calling

(“Saw a line of swallows on a wire.”)

Heat of the sun, tempestuous, burning on the road

tar bubbles going SMACK SMACK

Hot feet, sweat, burning lungs.

Now, cotton-mouthed, you wait.

Click to view larger image of race start.

Lined up first.

(“It’s by your times, you know,

five-minute-milers are the first to go.”)

Crack of a gun, startling the silence

and you’re off.

I did not see you for a while,

I sweated out that first slow mile.

You finally breathed by me, easy,

I didn’t feel so scared, so queasy.

(“Up the slope, a lot will die”

you said, with twinkle in your eye.)

They did.

By droves with dirges, played inside the head,

“We’re dead, we’re dead.”

I saw them panting up the hill

the untrained heart will not be still.

You were smoothing out when next you passed.

You heard the timer and you gasped,

slowed down a little, evened out,

the crowd a-watching, gave a shout.

“Look out behind you!

Someone’s coming Someone’s coming

Someone’s passing you a-running.”

You let him go, for you’d already

calculated, taken his measure, breath abated.

Down came a smaller torrent pouring

down to the finish, all adoring.

Finish banners, crackling, flying

arms held high but body sighing

then THERE YOU WERE

your strong legs pumping

Eyes alight! My heart was thumping

“He’s got it still,” I heard one say,

“He’s got his win at least today.”

You did.

You’d passed the man ahead

You stalked about, less said than

anytime before.

Thumping of backs and hugs all sweaty

Friends and drinks and world all ready.

But still you looked a little sad

You were back in the world

but were you glad?

You did not say.

Silently, you jogged away.

And I, who did not run the race

cried softly.

It was something to watch

now in its place, dead paper cups

and empty space.

Perspective

While not her best stretch of poetry by any measure (she wrote many more serious works of great beauty) my mother did capture the tension of a spectator at a race as well as anything I’ve read.

She also responded one time when I was lamenting the amount of time and intensity pushed into running during my early 20s. “It was self indulgent,” I proclaimed, lamenting perhaps that the investment had cost me in terms of career focus.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she corrected me. “I rather liked you when you were so focused.”

Which goes to prove that we do not always know the effects our running and riding might have on others, or ourselves. There is, after all, that inspiring component to all that we do and share.

I am grateful my mother was able to enjoy life in so many ways. But also that she could be there to see her son do his best, even if it was less appreciated than it should be by the very person who ran the race.

Footnotes: 

Emily Cudworth was  a brilliant elementary school teacher who believed in the importance of balance in education. She taught all the newest theories in reading and math as they (inevitably) came along, but she also stuck with using phonics all her career to give kids the basics.

She especially loved reading and encouraged her students (and her sons, and grandchildren) to explore all kinds of literature. Art also played a huge role in her life, and all her sons can paint, draw and write as a result. Those may not be the most practical ventures in the scope of life, but they do help you embrace your existence. And that may be the most important gift of all.

Her legacy as a school teacher lives on in dozens of students who as adults have come up to me upon hearing my last name to ask, “Was your mother a teacher?”

To which I always reply: “Yes she was, and a good one too.” They always agree.

Rest in Peace Mom, you little Unitarian you.

Note: In the header image above runner number 444 is Christopher Cudworth. The primary competitor. In the photo at bottom, showing the race after the gun went off, the primary competitor was #211, seen in the bottom photo of this article, who led the race through a sub-15:00 5K. I won in the time of 31:52, a course record that lasted more than 20 years. 

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Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we ride

Posted on November 6, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

Over the River…

The conservative thing to do was ride along in the car with my wife and daughter. We were all headed over to “grandmother’s house” 25 miles away to make a traditional fall meal called “pigs in a blanket,” which is essentially meat wrapped in meat.

The recipe was handed down from the German side of my wife’s family, which is actually both sides. That probably accounts for the meat-wrapped-in-meat philosophy. Ever the meat-eaters, good, conservative stock like my wife’s family knows how to fix and eat things that go gravy in your mouth.

Yet the liberal side of me, the crazed Scotsman who loves raw weather and a physical challenge before eating, decided that riding my bike over to Grandmother’s House was the preferable option to riding in the car.

We Scotsman think we have to earn a meal, you see. Which explains why Scotsman are known to have trounced around the Highlands for centuries wearing nothing under their kilts in cold weather. That’s earning a meal right there: just running around fighting off Romans and the English with no underpants is a day’s work for anybody.

“So it’s een me bloodh,” you might say.

The Real Chicago

There was just one obstacle to overcome: The route to Grandmother’s House travels through some of the most dense suburban traffic in the entire Chicago region. There is a rumor that the word Chicago was passed along unchecked from the Native Americans who once lived in the region. The website Early Chicago explains it this way:

  • The name Chicago is derived from the local Indian word chicagoua for the native garlic plant (not onion) Allium tricoccum. This garlic (in French:ail sauvage) grew in abundance on the south end of Lake Michigan on the wooded banks of the extensive river system which bore the same name,chicagoua. Father Gravier, a thorough student of the local Miami language, introduced the spelling chicagoua, or chicagou8, in the 1690`s, attempting to express the inflection which the Indians gave to the last syllable of the word. 

Native Garlic? I think not. I think that Native Americans were messing with those Early Chicagoans. Chicago sounds more like “Does your car go” which is a cleaner version of and the slang version which reads, ” ‘Sher car go?” In other words, Native Americans knew 150 years in advance that Chicagoans were doomed to create a transit system that is chokebound as a wild blackberry patch.

Liberal Instincts

Knowing this to be the case, I suppressed my liberal instincts to link together a spider’s web of bike trails to make the journey and instead chose the most conservative and direct route available, aiming for a 4-lane thoroughfare called Army Trail Road. Good Olde American logic told me that since that the military originally conquered the Native Americans in the Midwest, and Army Trail Road was one of the original routes they took, then that must be the clearest route for a cyclist to use in getting to Grandmother’s House.

That’s how we Americans are supposed to think, isn’t it? Rule out the oppositional information and rule in the seemingly distinct, clear path to our objective.

The Army Trail

I embarked at 10:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, heading north to achieve my initial connection with Army Trail Road, which dead-ends at a north-south road just before a giant hill leading down to the Fox River. Apparently the Army setting out to kill Native Americans just quit at this point in the journey, the river being so wet and all.

Within a mile of starting out, it was my duty to cross that same river approximately 6 miles to the south of my rendevous point with Army Trail Road to the north. Down where I live in Batavia, Illinois, which calls itself the Windmill City because they once manufactured giant prairie windmills and shipped them around the world, the Fox River has been low this year and it might have been possible just a few weeks ago to ride even my road bike across the river bed and never get the bottom bracket wet.

We finally got some rain and thank God the river has risen so that my photo opportunity going “over the river” to Grandma’s House was not ruined by the sight of unsightly mud and rocks, which is what rivers look like when they’re not really wet. Just ask Texas.

And through the woods…

And through the woods

Continuing north, I passed “through the woods” and pretty much completed the obligatory aspects of traveling to Grandmother’s House. It was satisfying to snap that photo and realize that no matter what else I said in this blog, you’d know I was not lying about the title.

The last stretch of northerly road leading to Army Trail Road is far too dangerous for any cyclists to ride. The shoulder is nothing more than a rock-strewn ditch, while the highway curves and leans into hills in a manner that encourages cars to drive even faster than they should. A perfect place for a cyclist to get hit and killed in other words.

So I took Country Club Road instead, a shortcut over to the main stretch of Army Trail. Like it’s name, Country Club Road starts by a golf course and rolls through some expensive real estate where the newest houses are far bigger than the state-of-the-art fire

A mansion the size of a fire station.

station they just built in our formerly industrial town of Batavia. Whether the residents of these houses actually own fire engines is not actually known, since their garage doors are always closed as if nobody lives there, and the rest of the property is often obscured by giant American flags that hang from thick tree limbs 40 feet up in the air.

These are proud, rich Americans for sure. The requisite Romney signs on the lawn reminded me there was an election coming up. And I thanked them out loud, because I’d rather forgotten this was an election year, and one in which we might be picking a President like the prettiest flower from the ugly bouquet of American politics.

Entering Wayne.

Wayne’s World

Finally I reached Army Trail Road, a smooth strip of blacktop that immediately plows through the little town of Wayne, Illinois, which has fought tooth and nail not to be turned into a splatter of suburbia despite multiple attempts to expand Army Trail Road into a four-lane monstrosity that would chew up lawns, pave the front steps of cute little churches and pave over a few of the many sporty dogs that live in that fair community. It is a little horse town, literally, that has kept its quaint little bounty intact. It still even has its old Train Depot, placed by the tracks back when the Chicago Region had its own system of suburban rail transit. Then the car companies bought all the rail companies and tore up the tracks so that citizens could no longer

The ancient train depot.

depend on trolleys and the like to get around. They had to drive, now. And that’s how it’s been since the early 1900s.

The Spanking Machine

Riding a bike east on Army Trail turned out to be something like that game we called Spanking Machine as kids. You know the game; everyone lines up with their legs apart so they can slap the behind of the kid who has to crawl through the line for whatever punishment they deserve.

Because the farther I rode east, the louder and more dangerous the traffic became. Then the road narrowed and finally the once ample shoulder (that I imagined continued for much longer) simply disappeared altogether.

The even stranger aspect of this middle section of the ride was the fact that I was passing through communities that had clearly and absolutely lost their minds in terms of the political election. Candidate signs along the roadway were so thick at times they were placed every 4 feet. Seriously. And their messaging was all over the map, but the Crazy Joe Walsh signs were the funniest.

Candidate Joe Walsh. Photo credit: Daily Herald

Not that Joe Walsh. The Crazy One. 

You know him. He’s a national phenomenon for his wild-eyed Tea Party hatred for anything that spends money, especially government. Well it was ironic that so many of his signs were parked along the road, since the governments at every level; national, state, regional and local, are responsible for spending the money to build roads. So the right (and liberal) thing to do would have been to pull over and knock down all the hypocritical Joe Walsh political signs along the road.

A Wise Wind Blows

Fortunately the stiff north wind across which I was riding had done that duty already. God really is a liberal, you see. Or at least Jesus was. I think they fight about that in heaven, because the God of the Old Testament sure acts a lot like Newt Gingrich or Mitch McConnell. So we may have both a Republican (God) and a Democrat (Jesus) ruling the universe. So they balance each other out, on par. Rumor has it the Holy Spirit is a Libertarian, which explains how the Virgin Birth took place, since Libertarians seem to like to imagine that things really do just happen on their own.

Flipping the vote

Finally it go so tight riding with traffic along Army Trail road that I was faced with a dramatic decision, which was whether to unclip from my pedals when a long flatbed truck stopped in front of me, or else fall over. I chose the latter. But rather than fall unceremoniously on my side, which might have hurt, I concocted this prodigious plan to both unclip and manage to pull my bike up over the curb while I did a reverse somersault into the grass. And damned if it didn’t work perfectly.

To the guys riding by in the SUV, this was more than hilarious. But I did not care if they were laughing because they were not privy to the absolute lack of fear and wild-assed control I felt doing that maneuver. Despite my bike accident 2 months ago, I felt in complete control of my destiny doing that back somersault. That’s what it takes to get along in this world, sometimes. It was the safest, most conservative option given the sudden action of the truck. And pretty nifty if I do say so myself.

The sidewalks

But from there I retreated to the sidewalks. They were relatively smooth, except for the part where they crossed dozens of entryways to strip malls, which took over the formerly lovely passage of Army Trail Road about 15 years ago. Sidewalks also have cracks, and riding a road bike at 20 mph on an open sidewalk sets up a rhythm in those 120psi tires that can jar loose an intestinal blockage if you’re not careful. It’s like getting a colonoscopy for free.

Olde Tymes

I recall a time when Army Trail Road was one of those innocent, untouched semi-country roads where the occasional family-owned gas station still lurked on a corner. Now that’s all gone. And frankly, our family no longer even drives Army Trail Road to get to Grandmother’s House. My pathetic, liberal, sentimental instincts told me it would be alright to come this way, but it wasn’t.

All out of sidewalk. Into the 355 Star Wars Zone.

Adding insult to near-injury, even the sidewalks ran out once the road approached Interstate 355, a 6-lane Mergatroid of a road heading north south. It is the carotid artery of major transportation in the area. But the mile leading up to that road on Army Trail is basically the Wild West. The sidewalks devolve into crushed gravel that on a wet day would suck you and your bike down into Limestone Hell.

I avoided that and glancing back at the traffic roaring up to 355, made quickly off on my Felt 4C to get past the Interstate. Topping 27 miles an hour, it felt like entering a chunk of Suburban Cyberspace. Cars weren’t traveling much faster as they approached the on-ramps and negotiating their entry and exit plans was to become part of an interstellar scene like those flighty urban scenes shown in all the George Lucas Star Wars films. Which by the way is a pretty amazing journey all by itself. Lucas is donated all $4B he’s making by selling his company to Disney, and donating it to education.

Make America safer: Spend 4B$ on Driver’s Ed

So here’s a hint George: Pile a bunch of that money into real driver’s ed courses. And teach the next generation how to drive around cyclists with some respect. Because right now it’s pathetic. Here we are facing a national election and it’s clear people barely understand the basic traffic laws we have on the books, much less the reproductive regulations that will be passed if the most conservative politicians on the planet outside the Taliban get elected and started turning the country into a Theocracy Playground.

Construction zones. Side streets. Finally I made it to Grandmother’s House and paused in the front driveway to take a photo of her beautiful little villa in the woods.

Then I assumed my duties pounding meat with a tenderizer to make it thin as a pig’s skin so that we could wrap it with bacon and eat meat meat meat red meat like Americans do whether they are German or Scottish or vegetarians, who eat the meat of plants, it turns out. Yes, it’s a confusing world, except at Grandmother’s House where the meat was served and the gravy got poured and my daughter’s own Cinnamon Apple Crisp got piled onto a paper plate and

Apple Crisp in preparation.

ingested, tasting just like the Apple Crisp Grandfather used to make. But we lost him to heaven last January so we can only presume he is up there taking God’s side on all things political, because truth be told Grandfather was a Wall Street Journal-reading, Fox News watching, National Review reading conservative with a good head on his shoulders and a heart the size of a small galaxy. God likes those kinds of people just as he loves his liberal sons and daughters, God Bless their bleeding hearts.

It’s always worth a trip to Grandmother’s House, you see. We learn so much about ourselves, and God, and anything else we need to know, if we know where to look.

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A New York City Marathon to ponder

Posted on November 5, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

Midge Taylor-Good cruises past the 10 mile point of her Marathon to Ponder.

By Christopher Cudworth

When Midge-Taylor Good received texted photos of cars floating in a water-filled New York City street, she had the good sense to consider that her lifetime goal of running the New York City Marathon might not happen in 2012.

Hurricane…or Cyclone Sandy

As Manager of the Naperville Runner Company (IL.), a popular runner’s hub in one of America’s most active cities, she was literally in the eye of the storm when it came to Illinois runners trying to figure out whether to go to New York or stay home. “I kept looking at the weather systems, checking the Weather Channel all the time, and came to realize ‘This is not good.”

Yet runners can be a determined bunch, and even after Midge had publicly announced that she would not travel east because there were clearly millions of people at risk from the effects of Cyclone Sandy, she overhead people questioning her choice. “It was difficult not to go,” she admitted. “I had committed to pace one of the gals to a 4:00 marathon, and we were really looking forward to it.”

It was a difficult choice for everyone who had signed up to run. There were all those training miles to consider, the thrill of competing in such a big race and of course the money it cost to fly, stay in a hotel and eat while prepping for the race in the Big Apple.

A weathery algorithm

Then “Hurricane” Sandy blew through New York and all those factors were thrown into a new algorithm. Would the race even be held? Would the atmosphere be the same? Is it right to run in an athletic event in a city devastated by a natural catastrophe?

“For me, it became more of a moral thing,” Taylor-Good confessed. “So I started making different plans.”

Bringing the marathon back home

Once she made up her mind not to go to New York, a window began to emerge for a completely different venture. While running 10 miles with a friend on the Friday of what would have been marathon weekend, she began to realize that she wanted to run a marathon anyway. She planned a 26.2 mile course starting and finishing in her hometown of Batavia, Il., using the Fox River Trail as her course. The route she picked swung north through the towns of St. Charles and Geneva and south again all the way to Aurora and back. Weaving together long stretches of the trail took some planning, but the Fox River Marathon held earlier in September provided some foundation for her  chosen course.

Her initial plan was to run on Sunday, the same day as the originally planned ING NYC Marathon. That itinerary suddenly changed. “One of our employees had a death in the family, and they could not work Monday. I was thinking to use that day as sort of a recovery. That meant the logical option was Saturday, so I could recover on Sunday and be back at work the next day.”

Learn to run happy

With all those changes, her thoughts were mixed going into the solo marathon. Then a friend entered the picture and told her, “You know what? You need to learn to run happy.  Let this run be its own goal. Take pictures. Stop your watch now and them. When something comes up, just go with it.”

And Midge Taylor-Good did just that. She even started the day by eating waffles instead of her morning marathon routine of instant oatmeal with brown sugar.

Her friends Tom and Diane Cleary met her during the run.

“It was wonderful from the start,” she says. “There was no anxiety. No nervousness. I started north to the Japanese Garden at Fabyan Forest Preserve and right away I bumped into some friends, Tom and Diane Cleary. I wound up talking to them for 20 minutes! They just loved the concept and it seemed strange for me to stop, but it set the right tone.”

She continued north to St. Charles, crossing the newly completed bridge through Island Park in Geneva. “It had been closed all summer, one of my favorite parts of the running trail. So it was neat thing to cross over to the rest of the course.”

Gotta go when Nature Calls

As she proceeded, it became evident her plans would require some modification or adaptation as it were. “None of the bathrooms were open,” she chuckled. “And all the drinking fountains were turned off.”

Catch 22: Finding water, and bathrooms, was a challenge in early November.

Her first stop was the Starbucks in St. Charles, but she realized they weren’t too keen on runners using their facilities that way. So she moved over to the Ginger Root Salon where she gets her hair done. “I talked with the gal who cuts my hair and she said, “You’re nuts!” but it was right at the 10k point and I told her, “I’ve got exactly 20 miles to go now.”

Squeezing in a little shopping

Swinging back south, Midge Taylor-Good decided to run by the stores on Third Street in Geneva. Each time she made a stop, she’d stop her watch too. Once she’d completed a section of her happy wandering, she’d return to the spot marked by her Garmin watch and continue on her ‘marathon’ course for the day.

Going pro photo

At 10 miles she approached a pair of photographers working on a project for, of all publications, Trail Runner Magazine. They stopped her and asked if she would work with them on composing a few shots.

“So it was just like a real marathon,” she chuckled, “with professional photographers and everything.”

As she continued south, consuming nutrition gels on a schedule that would see her to the finish, water and bathrooms were still an issue. At one point she needed to get creative. “I peeked into the North Aurora Fire Station, (before I had an emergency…) and I could see they had a water fountain and a bathroom. So I used their facilities and kept on going.”

She decided not to press her luck by stopping at the Hollywood Casino.

No gambles today

Her course took her down to the Hollywood Casino in Aurora. “But I decided not to stop and play the slots. I didn’t want to press my luck.”

To her own amazement, she was surprised at her own ability to pause during such a long run and go back to running without too much problem. “Your body cools down, of course.  But one of my friends said to me, ‘This proves you’re an ultra-runner.’ ”

All the while she ran, Midge Taylor-Good kept up a stream of texts to friends and family. One of her daughters checked in with her mother by texting “You’re my hero, mom!”

A dizzying start to the year

The back story to Taylor-Good’s triumph is that she had experienced some strange health challenges earlier in the year. During an airline flight, some sort of viral bug made its way into her inner ear producing a vestibular infection. Worse than motion sickness, the affliction vexed her round the clock, producing nausea and vertigo. Initially her doctor misdiagnosed the condition, prescribing medicine that essentially made her condition worse. “I couldn’t even watch TV, or look at bright lights, it was so bad.”

It took weeks to get over the problems associated with the infection, so to be able to run again was a real joy. “But honestly,” she admits. “It occurred to me that this might be a sign to slow down a little. Heed what my body is telling me. I tend to live everything at a fast pace, even a panicked pace at times.”

Putting it all in perspective

Having already run 18 marathons in her career, it wasn’t like missing New York was going to cut her life goals in half, or completely ruin any bucket list.

Coming back through Red Oak Nature Preserve, she stopped to snap photos of a sign along the trail. “The employees at work all call me the Wise Old Owl,” she chuckles, “because I’m much older than many of them. And here was this photo of an owl staring back at me. So I sent it over to show them I was thinking about them.”

It turns out there was an ‘office pool’ of employees trying to predict her time for the marathon. Taking out time for her pleasantries, necessities and wanderings, Midge Taylor-Good took 3:47 to complete the 26 miles. “It took me 5 gels and 3 10 oz. drinks of water,” she said with satisfaction. Her plans had gone well. Technically, she actually ran 28 miles, 2 miles further than the official marathon distance. All her stops for fun and contemplation raised her total time of “marathoning” to just over 5 hours. But it was worth it.

A Sense of Wonder

“I saw the Fox Valley in a whole new light,” she says.  “I mean, I kind of took whatever came along, and enjoyed it. My husband told me, ‘What you did was nuts. Running 26 miles solo and stopping and starting like that.’ But it felt good to run without a timing chip on my foot. It turned out to be journey as well as a race. There was no sun to contend with, so the weather was perfect. And no heat. I did get chilled a couple times but that didn’t stop me.”

Midge Taylor-Good feels blessed to be living a life she enjoys with family and friends, and working 10 years for Naperville Running Company store owner Chris Hartner, who she labels the best boss anyone could ever have.

It truly was a marathon to ponder. The fact that it was not run in New York City is now an afterthought. Because life goes on. The day after her marathon journey Midge Taylor-Good rode her bike 20 miles to recover, and on Monday she goes back to work in the running store she loves, helping other people find their paths to enjoyment and success.

At the end of her 26.2 mile sojourn, Midge Taylor-Good sat down next to the giant purple mum plant where her marathon began. Her shoes were off and the sense of satisfaction was sweeping over her when another runner stopped to ask if she was okay, and what she was doing. “I just finished a marathon,” she told him. “I ran it on my own.”

The runner plucked one purple mum from the giant plant and said, “An accomplishment like that deserves a flower,” he smiled. Then he continued on his run.

She admits the gesture brought a tear to her eyes. But so did almost everything she did that morning. Missing the New York City Marathon turned out to be a peak experience she will not soon forget, and a marathon to ponder her whole life.

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Are you being followed by a Moonshadow while running and riding?

Posted on November 3, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

Jupiter and its moons.

If you live in a part of the world where fall is upon you and winter is coming soon, then you likely also feel the pressing darkness as daylight hours shrink and nighttime hours expand.

This past week, while walking out to get the newspaper well before the sun was up, I glanced up to see the moon in the western sky, hanging in blackness with its current partner Jupiter, appearing like a small star below. I took a photo as it appears in the header of this blog.

Of course those two objects, the earth’s moon and Jupiter, are in reality millions of miles apart.

The fact that the moon looks so much larger is an illusion of an almost unimaginable magnitude. And those types of illusions have cost the occupants of this world plenty over time. Our former notion that the earth was the center of the universe, for example, was one of the illusions that kept the human race in ignorance about its own, infinitesimal place in our solar system, and beyond. We are not the center of anything except our own, paltry perceptions.

We also poorly understood the context and composition of the moon for many millennia. The Christian bible essentially refers to the moon as the “lesser light,” Genesis 1:16
God made two great lights—the greater light to govern the day and the lesserlight to govern the night. He also made the stars.”

That “lesser light” is barely able to contend with the dark night sky, versus the sun that bathes our planet in supposedly whole, pure light. Many in the human race once thought the sun itself a god, riding from horizon to horizon in a golden chariot. We were wrong about that too.

Man on the Moon. 

By the time we earthlings landed a spaceship and man on the moon (which some still doubt…) we knew enough about its surface and our place in the universe to guess that its surface might be dusty, and to understand that it was the flat, consistently light texture of that dust that gave the moon its ability to reflect light back to earth with enough intensity to create shadows at night. Moonshadow.

Those familiar with that haunting little song Moonshadow by Cat Stevens likely remember some of its playful, seemingly contradictory lyrics.

“Yes I’m being followed by a moonshadow, (moonshadow moonshadow) leaping and hopping on a moonshadow (moodshadow moonshadow…)”

Stevens captures the delight in being out in the night, surrounded by half visions of shadow and light. The moon works its magic on all our souls, it seems. Yet Stevens, always the spiritual lyricist, also finds ways to catch us in mid-revelry, to reveal some other aspect of truth. And so the lyrics go on as follows…

“And if I ever lose my legs, oh I won’t moan, and I won’t beg, oh if I ever lose my legs, I won’t have to walk no more…”

Those lyrics are designed to convey the choice of spiritual enlightenment over the labors of this world. The concept of a moonshadow is one of delight in discovering and knowing that side of ourselves we too often ignore. The lyrics call us to remember that the light of reflection, especially that from an inner light, is as important as basking in the direct light of the sun.

Go out in the moonshadow, and find yourself

So if you find yourself running or riding in the dark, with the moon above you some cold night, do not feel afflicted in having to conduct your exercise in the dark. Revel in the feeling of moving fast through the night. Leaping and hopping on a moonshadow can be a real joy.

And when you are sitting inside a warm house, fearing the idea of going out into the black, cold night, give yourself a chance by sticking your head outside the door. In fact, go out into the night. It is seldom so dark or even so unimaginably cold as you might think. Even when it is, you have equipment to make it right. To make the night yours. To train in the cold and see your breath bursting from you mouth, or to makes tracks (by foot or by wheel) in the newly fallen snow is to participate in a miracle.

You have it in you to do this. You just have to let the light of your most noble ambitions come out.

Do yourself this one more favor. On a night when Jupiter is hanging in the night sky–it is one of the brightest and largest “stars” in the sky, take out binoculars and study it carefully. You will see that Jupiter has its own moons circling that giant planet! That realization shook me deeply the first time I saw Jupiter through a telescope. Other worlds. Other moons. What should we do about that, if anything?

Carpe diem: The night sky demands it

It made this world feel that much more intimate and alive. And our own moon felt much like a friend. It’s shadows are welcome in my life. You can run in the moonlight. Ride in the moonlight. It is yours to enjoy. And when the moon doesn’t shine, shine your own light. Run in its scope and glow. Make the night your own.

But when the moon does shine, I’m being following by a moonshadow, for sure. How about you?

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Should you be afraid of tarsnakes? Oh, yes. And here’s why…

Posted on November 2, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

A tarsnake emerges in search of cyclist or runner prey.

By Christopher Cudworth

Seriously. We tried to warn you.

When this blog began in August we introduced you to the danger of tarsnakes, both the literal and allegorical form, that are waiting on the open road to take you down and consume your flesh. Or at least they try to produce some road rash upon which they can feed after you scrape your body off the tarmac and keep riding. Or running. They’re not choosey who they consume, these tarsnakes. Just look at the one in the picture. Coming at you. Click on the pic for a closer look. You can see the vicious expression on its face, such as it is.

Some of you probably thought we were joking. You still blithely ride over tarsnakes thinking nothing will come of the danger, or actually trod on them with your running shoes thinking no ill can come your way.

But look at the bottom of your shoes, people. They’re just covered with tar after a run on a hot summer day. The tarsnakes have it in mind to take you down even if it takes years. They’re patient as pythons and once they have you in their grip, they can squeeze the air out of your bike tires or your expensive Nikes. They’re hungry and evil as leeches, those tarsnakes. And they seem to be on the increase, and the warpath.

Is global warming increasing the tarsnake population? 

So far we’ve all been lucky. Tarsnakes have pretty much been confined to living in the cracks of the road in temperate climates. But as global warming increases the intensity of summer heat and warm periods extend into the fall and even winter, you had better beware. Tarsnakes will begin to breed out of control. Many will be forced to go seeking new territories, and that’s where the encounter between tarsnakes and people could become really dangerous. Even deadly.

Take a look at the photos accompanying this article.  Here is photographic proof that the species of road vipers known as tarsnakes have actually begun to emerge from their dormant road-grade state to make their way up onto the actual road surface where they can cause real trouble. Some roadologists believe we could see an emergence on par with that of the 17-year cicadas, with millions upon millions of tarsnakes dispersing across the highways and byways of America. It is not known whether tarsnakes have the ability to sing as cicadas do, but some have speculated they may know a few Jerry Jeff Walker songs.

An above-grade tar snake seen from the side.

You think speed will save you? Ha ha hah haa hahhh. 

Oh sure, when you’re hammering away on your bike all summer you’ve probably run over a few dormant tarsnakes, letting your tire slip into that tar-filled groove. Even a dormant tarsnake can take you down if you’re not careful. They can wriggle like mad under a bike tire.

The road crews know all about the life history of tarsnakes. After all, they’re the ones who lay down the tar that transforms from a tarsnake larvae (shown in the header) to a living, crawling tarsnake (as pictured in these story images.)

In fact while I was stopped on the road (keeping my distance from the tarsnake of course) to photograph these live images of a tarsnake emerging from its road crack habitat, a red utility pickup truck stopped behind me on the road and waited for me to finish taking the photo.

Then the driver leaned toward the passenger side window and waved me over.

“Watcha doing?” he wanted to know.

“I’m taking a photo of this tarsnake here. We cyclists don’t trust them.”

“You shouldn’t, he agreed.  “Yeah, I used to do that for a living. Make tarsnakes. I’ve got the burns on my legs to prove it. Hey, that one looks pretty lively. Did you get a good picture?”

“Yes, I think so,” I said, showing him the image on the digital camera.

“Damn, that is like a trophy tarsnake almost! You could have that one mounted! With eyes and shit!”

“I thought about that,” I admitted. “But despite the fact that they’re dangerous, I’m still pretty much a catch-and-release guy when it comes to fish and tarsnakes. I guess the PETA people finally got to me.”

“Rrrrrooah Boy,” Big Jim muttered. “Don’t get me started on PETA people or those jerks who honk at us guys holding the SLOW signs during road projects. You know it’s hard work laying down tarsnakes. They don’t always want to stay in the cracks where you put them. You can see where we have to stomp them dead sometimes. I’m sure the PETA people would not approve of that. But what else are you gonna do with 3 feet of writhing tar out on the road. You gotta kill it. That one you just photographed is proof, right there. Those tarsnakes are out to gitcha. Sure enough.”

I thanked Big Jim for the warning.

“Well, nice talking to you to,” Big Jim said, sticking out his large hand to shake. “It’s my belief it is always good to do right by your fellow man.”

And that’s a true story. Big Jim really exists. And he was big. Filled up one whole side of his truck. The other side was filled with dirty hats and what looked like the remnants of lunch. It just might be that Big Jim lives in his truck, driving the roads of America to warn people about the dangers of tarsnakes. Don’t laugh, it could be true.

A few more minutes of sunshine and this 1000 foot creature might have freed itself to take on cars, children or other innocent passersby.

One more look

After Big Jim left I walked cautiously back to take a last look at the tarsnake. My bike lay alongside the ominous creature and I had to creep carefully around its tarry shape to retrieve the Felt 4C and be on my way.

We all should really thank God here in Illinois (or anywhere tarsnakes, exist, which is everywhere…) that a cold spell arrived in late October. Otherwise millions of tarsnakes might have emerged en masse and headed for the subdivisions to terrorize little kids on their bikes, or leap up like rattlesnakes to strike runners and joggers who stray inside the white line. And we don’t want that.

But for now, we’re safe. At least until the snow snakes emerge when winter comes and the snow flies.  Snow snakes are known to confuse the eye with twisting shapes on cold, windy afternoons. On country roads, if it’s not one type of snake, it’s another, I tell ya.

It’s getting as bad as Australia here in the States, with all these poisonous and dangerous creatures everywhere. Tarsnakes and snowsnakes are nothing to be trifled with. But at least you’ve been warned.

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Is riding or running at a “respectable pace” your worst enemy?

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

The first year I got my road bike was the best year of training and racing ever.

And that’s not a good thing.

Because in the 8 years since I bought a Felt 4C carbon fiber road bike, I’ve developed some fairly noxious habits that are holding me back, both in terms of enjoying my riding and improving as a cyclist.

It all starts with building form. Then breaking it. 

To be fair, I’m still a better rider than when I started. My form is better, for one thing. No more death grips on the handlebars, and my posture on the bike and pedaling motion are both way more efficient that at the beginning. Those have improved with time.

What has not improved is the willingness to try new things, to take on new workouts and simply ride the bike as fast as one can go.

That first year as a cyclist I tried everything. At least once. And that was smart.

Group rides and runs

Group rides were the first revelation. Having a bike that made it possible to stick with the group rather than fall off in the first 5 miles was such a joy that I jumped into group rides whenever possible. Some were better than others, of course.

Racing was the other instructive tool for learning how to ride a bike. That first year on the Felt “Red Rocket” (a bike magazine named it 2006 Bike of the Year with that nickname) I raced 8 times over the spring and summer months, even into fall.

You can accomplish the same thing as a runner by buying some “fast” shoes that you would not normally wear. Save them for special workouts where you’re going to vary your pace and try near things. Or go barefoot, minimalist. Just pick a way to go faster, for the fun of it. Be a little less ‘respectable’ and a lot more experimental.

Make your own criterium course

Between races I created my own “criterium” course measuring .8M where I could practice maintaining a higher pace and cadence. That was really smart.  It is all right turns and I can see traffic easily on all those turns. So you can really tear around that block. Those half-hour and one-hour solo races were key to learning how to ride at 20mph+ on your own. That’s sort of the dividing line on racing: being able to sustain a certain pace on your own gives you the baseline to sit in with a pack going much faster on average.

So the things I did right that first year of riding and racing were focused on one primary goal: Going more than one speed on the bike.

See, cyclists (and runners too) easily fall into a trap of training at a pace that falls within a certain category. We’ll call it the Respectable Pace. Respectable as in, “I’m not going slow but I’m also not going so fast that I can’t sustain it.”

Among runners, it can be fun to go back to your old high school cross country course and run intervals on the prettiest part of the course. Or, hit the track during the middle of a 5 miler and run one hard, clean mile. Don’t even worry about the pace. Just focus on running faster. You’ll be surprised how much it changes your attitude.

The ‘respectable’ grind

I’ve trained with teams of runners that fix in on a “respectable pace” and do almost all their running at that pace. With our college team it was 6:00 a mile. Everywhere we went, morning, noon or night, we ran 6:00 a mile. And we got fast, but we were also almost burnt out before the end of the season. Our bodies essentially were asked to develop and maintain peak form for 10 solid weeks. That can’t be done.

Cyclists commit a much worse crime by starting out in mid-March with hard rides trying to get into shape. Then the rides get harder and longer in April into early May. Group rides turn into races rather than training sessions. You get back from a 70 miler and look down at your cyclometer and it says, “AVG 22MPH.”

Yes, that’s a respectable pace. But pretty much all you’ve done is hang on for dear life unless you’re one of the leading riders in the group. And then, you probably haven’t been tested that much.

How to vary pace within a workout

Instead, we runners and riders need to remember to vary our pace within every workout week. Instead of going out and running 4-5 miles at the same old 7:30 pace, even a casual runner should pick a section of trail or road and pick it up to 6:45 pace. Get the legs moving. When you stop the 800 meter interval, go back to the respectable pace and see how it feels. Often it’s a little harder, of course. You’ve just gotten a new training effect. Each week you can use one workout to be a little less “respectable” about your running and add in 2, then 3 or 4 surges inside a 4 – 5 mile run. It’s that easy.

Cyclists, stop what you’re doing right now and make a vow to do something, anything other than mash away at 18-20 mph for weeks on end. That’s just stupid.

There are three things you need to do right away to improve your riding.

Learn to use the wind for resistance: Training “into the wind” is a real chance to build strength without worrying about pace. In fact, turn your cyclometer off or at least switch it to cadence so that you can watch that you’re not dialed up into “mashing” territory where your legs are at their maximum limit of wattage. Instead, increase your cadence and work on your bike position. Pick a brisk cadence and keep it there for 3 to 5 miles.

Learn to use the wind for fun: Who says it’s a sin to go really fast with the wind behind you? No one. So next time you get a 30 mph guster behind you on the way home from the tough part of the ride, let ‘er fly. There’s no sensation like building up to 35 miles per hour or faster and immersing yourself in the sense of speed. That’s good for your mind, so that the idea of going fast is not averse. You can also learn to handle the bike and play with your cadence when the chain ring is nearly maxed out. Keep the cadence fast. Pretend you’re in a sprint at the Tour de France. It’s all good.

Take a break from boredom–ride some hills: Instead of looking at hillwork in cycling like it is torture, recognize that riding slow and steady up hills is the absolute best way to build not only your climbing ability, but your hamstrings, lower back and quadriceps–the whole ‘power base’ upon which you depend for cycling speed is made better by riding hills. Riding hills won’t hurt as much as you make yourself believe. In fact after a few times up and over your local hill, you’ll often find you slip into a more efficient pedaling grooves and your pace can actually improve. Of course, sooner or later you slow down from sheer fatigue, but that’s the goal. Ride until you lose efficiency, then call it a day. But remember to come back next week!

Race. It’s that simple. Racing forces you to break out of your ‘respectable’ zone no matter what it is. When you literally can’t control the pace, you are forced to adapt and change, and as a result, find out new things about your cycling. That sudden surge? You handled it. That weird lull in a criterium. That’s you saving energy too. That long push to the finish in a group sprint. Okay, sure, you got left behind in the last 200 meters but your cyclometer showed you topped 30 on the flat. And that’s not just respectable. That’s really respectable.

Interestingly, all the things that make you a better cyclist also tend to make you a better runner. It’s simply about changing your routine every week, month and year.

So instead of being just respectable in the coming year, show yourself some respect and break up your routine.

 

 

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A maximal take on minimalist running

Posted on October 31, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

The adidas Italia. A minimalism throwback.

Let’s talk for a minute about minimalist running.

Because we all want to run as naturally as possible.

The real deal of course, is running barefoot. That puts you in direct contact with the ground with absolute and constructive feedback from your running stride.

The most efficient way for a runner to move is with a midfoot stride, running “over” the ground by transferring your weight with a propulsive push of the foot using the arch and calf to move the body forward.

Yet there are plenty of world class runners who move along just fine using a heel strike.

So who’s right?

The politics of minimalism

It really depends on your ultimate notion of reality, and how you define minimalism.

Minimalist running is equivalent to Libertarianism in politics.

Get rid of the regulations and bureaucracy and you’ll have a more naturally functional society, right?

Note entirely. It’s not that simple. Really, it isn’t.

If the Democratic shoe fits, should you wear it? 

We might admit that today’s highly technical running shoes are more like the Democratic and Republican parties.

Built upon layers of almost bureaucratic consensus that says more is almost always better when it comes to cushioning, motion control and tread function.

Trail shoes take that formula one step further, bolstering shoe construction in classic areas like the heel and arches. Trail shoes are like the Marxist party of running shoes. It’s all about control and padding.

The Minimalist Revolution

Have at it. Is minimalism is here to stay?

The Minimalist Running Revolution says bunk to all that.

And since its onset, the movement has worked hard to build its credibility by enlisting the advice of orthopedic and pediatric doctors who favor a less controlling form of footwear.

The minimalist movement has, in essence, become its own counterculture.

So, we ask: is it run by a pack of hippies, trying to shed their shoes in hopes of getting us all naked in the end? Hardly. The minimalism isn’t even like the Tea Party, created by a bunch of frustrated cranks needy for attention.

Minimalism is more than that, precisely because it is less. And less may be more in this case.

There’s truth in every movement

Minimalist running advocates really are on to something. But it might not be for everyone.

Our presumptions about the benefits of big fat running shoes really are wrong in some  ways. For the last 40 years we’ve been engaged in a giant experiment to find the perfect podiatric solution to the human condition. There have been many big failures along the way. Shoes that promise too much or do too much. I know. I’ve worn such contraptions. I think particularly of an overbuilt shoe that cost $90 and I wore for 2 weeks before giving up on that wad of useless foam and shoelaces.

But we also have to acknowledge that, inmany ways, the shoe business has succeeded in its proposal to improve footwear. You can see it in the increased comfort and lightweight solutions in dress shoes, for example. All dress shoes used to be clunky and uncomfortable to the point that they were only suitable for stamping out dangerous insects.

Now we have Rockports and Eccos and a host of other brands of dress shoes that draw on the lessons we learned from creating more biomechanically efficient running shoes. We should all be thankful for that.

You really can thank Nike and adidas and Reebook and Asics and New Balance and Mizuno and all those other shoe companies for creating the trickle-down technology (it has proven to work in technology, but not in economics…) that has made the world of dress shoes better for everyone. Even women. With the notable exception of stiletto heels. But you don’t wear those to get away from anyone.

Cycling even gets in on the shoe game

The same trickle down effect has occurred in cycling as well, where incredibly light and efficient materials and designs have been transferred from the most expensive down to the cheapest forms of bikes, making the riding experience better for everyone. Even riding shoes and clipless pedals draw on biomechanical principles learned from the design of running shoes.

Caving in?

It is foolish therefore to throw away everything we’ve learned about comfort in performance athletic shoes in favor of running like a cave-type-person.

But it’s hard to deny: The minimalist movement is seductive in theory. Getting back to a more natural way of running is a hopeful effort to produce less injuries, better running experiences and long term health.

So let us analyze the premise. It seems logical that our feet and legs become ingratiated to super-padded running shoes to the point that we lose our natural strength and flexibility.

And it makes sense that human beings evolved for millions of years without big fat shoes to help them chase down meaty prey.

Even the Huarache Indians and Greek marathoners only ran in strappy sandals, right? That’s both functional and sexy, when you think about it. But we digress.

The real question here is this: Do we actually need running shoes or not?

The answer is simple: Yes, we do. But let’s also not forget how we evolved.

Running barefoot is good for you, now and then

At the end of many a long workout, our college team would toss aside our running shoes to do sprints on the grassy infield. Up and down the football field we’d run without shoesto relax our feet and yes, increase the flexibility and strength of our bare, naked feet.

Some of us also competed in races without shoes. That worked fine until you got stepped on by someone with spikes, or the acorns fell thick and fast from the oak trees on the upper campus. That slowed your ass down in a hurry. Most of us ditched the barefoot racing idea as a result. Blood and bruises did most of the talking in that category.

We would also never have supposed to run our 10-milers on gravel roads without shoes. My college roommate and I once even begged our fraternity brothers to let us wear shoes when they stripped us otherwise naked and dropped us 12 miles out of town with a case of beer and said, “Good luck, we’ll see you back at midnight. Ha hah. Have fun.”

We ran back to town in just over an hour’s time and infuriated them by locking our doors before they even got back from the bars.

But we didn’t do that barefoot. We might have been naked, but we were not crazy. The same trip barefoot in the dark might have taken 2 or 3 hours, mincing down the washboard and gravel surface, watching out for broken bottles. To hell with minimalism at that point. Being practical sorts, we also left the beer behind in the ditch to pick up later.

There’s a difference…

…Between losing your shoes on purpose to add strength and flexibility to your running program and forsaking use of regular shoes altogether. Using minimalist shoes and running barefoot have a solid place in any runner’s training program. Consider it weight training and stretching for your feet and legs.

The fact is you can transition to the amount of minimalist running that your body and training program will tolerate. But be cautioned: No amount of theoretical application and desire to get back to basics will help if your body exhibits profound biomechanical issues like flat feet or other functional flaws.

A world class example

World class middle distance runner Sebastian Coe had flat feet. I know this because I met him in person at the podiatrist in the United States he consulted to help him avoid injury. Coe engaged in one of the world’s most sophisticated and yet most training programs for distance running you can imagine.

His father was his coach and the Coes worked for weeks using simple training techniques like bounding, hopping on boxes and strength training. This built a complete athlete. Coe was 5’7″ and 132 lbs. Yet he could leg press 700 lbs.

That’s real strength. Sebastian Coe engaged in a well-rounded training program. Yet he kept getting injured because even his prodigious strength and muscular balance could not compensate for the genetic flaws in his feet.

Remember: In full stride Coe was a work of beauty. He ran 44 seconds for 400 meters and 3:47 in the mile. Not too shabby, right?

Yet the base distance training Coe needed to do for endurance could not be accomplished running on his toes as he did at full speed. Coe actually supinated (foot tilted to the outside) as he used his midfoot to propel himself across the ground at world record speeds.

To compensate for his biomechanical flaws, Seb Coe used orthotics. He didn’t trot around in bare feet to build endurance because he would have been crippled as a result. Coe used good, basic running shoes with corrective orthotics specifically designed to managed his basal pronation and allow his foot to progress through a neutral footplant while training

Minimalists might contend that Coe had it all wrong. It was the shoes and the orthotics that caused him the problems. But they would be wrong. His Olympic medals and world records are proof of that.

The right course, and the original item

The fact is, running shoe technology was developed in collaboration with orthopedic experts, podiatrist and running coaches who knew the intimate facts of running injuries. It took a decade or so to make the absolute connection between running shoe construction and injury prevention.

Among runners who were training and competing in the early 1970s, before the running boom occurred and even before Nike rolled in to change the face of footwear forever, running shoes were indeed somewhat minimalist.

Most modern day runners are unaware that the running flats of the early 1970s were simple canvas affairs with gum rubber souls and just the merest layer of heel. That was it. All you had on your feet to cover the ground was a canvas slipper with a gum rubber sole.

Track and cross country athletes wore these minimalist shoes to train on the cinder track, in cross country, on roads and fields and sandy beaches. It was minimalism at its best, and worst.

Because for some runners those minimalist shoes worked just fine. But others developed shin splints, plantar fascia problems, pulled hamstrings and calf muscles and myriad other injuries brought on by a combination of unrestricted pounding and lack of biomechanical control.

I know. I wore those shoes. And while blessed with generally good biomechanical makeup early in life, and a practiced, efficient running form that still earns compliments to this day, it was tough training in those minimalist shoes.

Don’t get me wrong. On many other days we ran and trained in track spikes, a quite minimalist form of shoe in their early derivations.

Yet the secret to our generally health approach to running was this: Very little of our actual cross country training or running for track was done out on the roads. We ran on grass, doing intervals most days, not long slow distance. Much of what we did was quality, up on our toes. In minimalist shoes.

 The next generation: adidas Italia. 

Then adidas came along with a model called the Italia. These were a slightly more built up running shoe than the black gum rubber souled shoes. But not by much. The white leather Italia had a basically flat sole, no lifted heel. The tread was a repeated texture of starlike patterns, but they were not much good in wet grass, where we often ran.

World class distance runners such as Marty Liquori have written that the Italia might have been the perfect running shoe. Just enough structure to provide protection, but not so much that it constricted your natural stride.

 The next Next generation: adidas Country

Then came the adidas Country. Which, you guessed it, had a much more elevated heel to them. That was the real start of the arms race, because Nike and Bowerman then issued the Cortez and the Waffle Trainer. Each subsequent model incorporated more heel until the late 1970s, when the Nike LDV came out with its huge, fat heel and flared rear sole. That shoe was a freaking monster. Running in LDVs was like plopping a moon pod down on the surface.

For a long time after that, minimalism was dead.

Minimalism is like sex. A part of life. But not all of it. 

Yet here we are in 2012, trying to get back to our roots, as it were, and run (or ride) in shoes that do enough to help us, and less to hurt us.

You’ve no doubt seen the toed-shoes that look like Hobbitwear. Nike alone has thrown plenty of models out there over the years that tried to strip down the modern day running shoe to its essence. Strap it on with what amounts to lycra flesh and get out there. Minimalism is like sex. A part of life. But not all of it.

Good sex is a real joy. It can make you happy, feeling fulfilled. You can even use sex to make babies if you want to. Imagine that!

But sex has its function, and so does minimalism in running shoes. It can make you happy and help you to the path of personal enlightenment. But you can’t promiscuously poke your way to a PR any more than you can train 100 mile weeks in minimalist shoes and expect to get by without hurting yourself eventually. Your vital parts are not necessarily prepared for such rigorous use, shall we say.

Get your mind out of the gutter, for God’s sake. I’m talking about your feet and legs here. What did you think I was suggesting? No one likes to be accused of minimalism down there anyway. Not the guys at least.

Conclusion: Minimalism has its place

Let’s just agree that minimalism is beautiful, in its natural sort of way.

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Have you ever been a Full Commitment runner or rider?

Posted on October 30, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

By Christopher Cudworth

On the Red Rocket, Felt 4C

Cud racing in a crit.

You working people think you have it all figured out, making a living and all, and still finding time to run and ride. Well, God Bless You.

Knowing where your next paycheck is coming from is a normal, natural thing to want from life. That’s called security.

But if you really want to know what it’s like to be alive and live on the edge, try running and riding when things aren’t so secure. Become a Full Commitment athlete.

There was a time when runners would partner up like mice in the feed barn to live together, sharing costs of rent and food so they can train and race, full time.

It seems absurd to some. Yet it is still more common than you might think.

Even in today’s economy (or especially…) many a runner or cyclist learns to sleep on borrowed mattresses in strange towns in order to follow the racing circuit around the country.

Here’s a fact:  takes a certain kind of guts to run and race when you’re unemployed or underemployed, chasing a dream of becoming the best you can be at your sport.

As a Full Commitment runner or rider, you quite literally put your life on hold for a while. A month. A year. Or more. Your family and friends question your motives. Only your training partners seem to understand. They see your improvement, watch as you get faster, move up in the pack, prepare for the Big Day.

No menial task

Some athletes trying to make their way in the competitive world either refuse to work or slave away at menial jobs that do not interfere with 100 mile weeks for runners or multiple 100-mile training days for cyclists.

You can’t really focus on much when you’re banging out those kind of miles. Maybe wash some dishes. Work as a janitor. Clerk in the back room of a law firm, where no one asks you questions, because you’re too tired to answer anyway.

Is romance dead?

Or are those romantic days of living for competition and training gone in this new economy—when the risks seem much higher, health insurance is almost required to survive and even menial jobs are hard to find because they’re already taken by people providing for their families?

It used to be almost noble to scrape along the bottom of the barrel of society when you were training for distance running or cycling. Friends might criticize your dumpy apartment, but they could not argue with your 10k PR. And that was acceptable to do for a year or two in your early life. Don’t worry about the future, except for the next big race.

A little bit of $ goes a long way

Athletes lucky enough to land some severance or a bit of family money when a great uncle died could really immerse themselves in training. Twice-daily workouts were commonplace. Then you’d show up for a 10k and there’d be 10 other raggedy looking characters, some in team running gear or sponsored kits, digging at the line to get started.

The conversation in the first miles could be pretty interesting among those full commitment pioneers.

“So, did you eat this week?”

“Yeah, mostly frozen waffles, green peas and Triscuits with cheese. But I feel pretty good. How about you?”

“Awesome. I’m living on Ramen noodles and French Toast. I’m starting to think that’s all I need. What was that first mile, 4:53?”

If that kind of lifestyle doesn’t sound romantic to you, then you simply aren’t cut out for the rigors and sacrifices of the Full Commitment Athlete. Somewhere out there today, there are runners and riders living that lowbrow life, trying to get better at what they like to do.

A true anecdote

One former Division III national champion in cross country took to working as a janitor the year before the Olympic Trials. He trained like a maniac, but never once mentioned to his “superiors” at the building where he did his janitor thing that he was anything special. It wasn’t until he led the first 10 laps of the Trials 5000 meters that some of them recognized his true talents.

That fellow faded to 5th or 6th place in the Trials, missing out on his chance to run in the Olympics.

Another true Full Commitment Athlete. Who got screwed. 

A running club teammate trained almost a full year, working only enough to make ends meet, then ran in the Olympic trials marathon. His time was something like 2:19:20, and the qualifying time was 2:19:11. The Olympic committee would not give him a break.

I was never that good. But as a Full Commitment runner for a year, it was possible to achieve a few goals and close some motivational chapters in the athletic world by winning some choice races, training with runners better than me to try to reach that next level; national class for me. World class for some with whom I ran and raced.

Today’s crop of Full Commitment Athletes

The blogs from the younger cyclists on the pro side of the cycling club in which I ride often talk about the austere conditions in which they train and race. It’s no glamour sport at even the lower pro levels. You bust your butt sometimes, clinging to the front of the race for hours only to get dropped when the person directly in front of you in the peloton has a mechanical and forces you off the road with no choice but to stop, walk your bike around the mess and get back to pedaling. By then the breakaway is 200 meters ahead and there’s no chance of catching them. So you pedal in with dignity, but nothing to show for the long weeks of training, the long drives to the race and the exhausting attempt at staying “in the money.”

Back to reality. Impressing the hiring manager. 

There isn’t even much glory in having turned a chunk of your life over to competitive riding or running. One would think that accomplishing something unique like a sub-31:00 10k might have some value in the work world. Then the hiring manager somehow digs into your interests, asking you about your running and riding with a big smile on their face, and a question: “I like to (run/ride) too, what’s your best (10K)?”

Some tiny fleck of fight or flight flickers through your brain, telling you not to answer that question honestly. Then you think about all those hours training alone, living on little income and even less food, and it wells up inside you that you should take pride in your athletic accomplishments. So you blurt out, “I was a pretty decent runner. My PR was a 2:26 marathon…”

The hiring manager’s expression goes flat. They’ve just spent the last year training like crazy with 65 other people in a Team In Training group and just barely managed to break 4 hours. They were so proud of that accomplishment. Now you’ve made them feel like stale turkey meat. The interview comes to a sudden close.

You don’t get the job. You’ll never know why, for sure. But you do have the sneaking suspicion that your hard-earned marathon time offended the hiring manager somehow.

In the end, the Full Commitment athlete really is better off keeping their mouth shut.

There really is no way to explain on your resume that you took a year off in your mid-20s to train full time and get as good as you could at running or riding.

Corporate hiring managers see that kind of commitment as a character flaw, not a credible reason to hire you. Others think you’re just a braggart for being honest. And that’s pretty ironic.

So even if you won half the races you entered during a year of two of Full Commitment running or riding, best keep that to yourself. The real, sane world out there does not understand. They really can’t understand. Or they won’t try to understand.

They simply refuse to understand that someone could go that nuts and be a Full Commitment athlete, training and racing with no income, no health insurance and no future except the next chance to compete to win.

And it’s too bad. Because Full Commitment people are loyal. They will often work hard for less, and never need cigarette breaks or dawdle too long over lunch. They’ll actually time how long it takes to make a delivery, write a whitepaper or complete some other assignment because deep down inside, the Full Commitment athlete is still a competitor and always will be.

You should hire one sometime. You’ll be pleasantly surprised. And you’ll probably never have to buy them lunch. They’ll be out running or riding instead.

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When nature calls, we all face a tarsnake of how and where to go

Posted on October 29, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

Face it. We all gotta go sometimes in the middle of a run or ride.

We’ve all been there. 3 miles into a 6 mile loop and wham! The urge to go strikes with a vengeance.

It can happen to anyone.  Like the poor woman I encountered crouching behind the thin cover of leafless hedge in late March a few years back. It was too late for either of us to react with any courtesy or dignity. So I diverted my eyes and yelled back as I ran by, “Don’t worry about it! Been there! Done that!”

I’m sure that was a complete comfort to her. Kind words are almost always helpful. Not.

The urge to purge

If you run or ride  enough the urge to go is sooner or later gonna catch up with you. Most often these events seem depressing at the time, yet over the years they can grow to be legends and even funny. For example…

The True Legend of Dumpy the Distance Runner

It happens that sometimes unexpected events become part of one’s personal history. While running with our college cross country team one of the group announced he had to go “really bad.” So he sprinted ahead on the twisting country roads where we trained, hoping to take care of his business before we caught up with him again. But the roads on that loop were quite hilly and it was hard for a runner in front of the group to build much of a gap in ahead of the 6:30 pace we were running.

When we came around the corner of a precipitous turn where a guardrail prevented cars from rolling down a steep embankment, our teammate had positioned himself there with both hands gripping a guard rail, trying his best to relax and let it fly.

He was backlit by the western sun, and as we climbed the hill his entire arse seemed to explode in a violently giant circle bright spray. Obviously he was experiencing more than the usual intestinal distress. The dramatic flare of fireworks that appeared to come out of his butt reduced us all to a howling mass or laughter and tears. Guys literally fell down on the road with glee and amazement. Cries of “Oh My God!” and “Holy Crap!” erupted from our group of runners, many of whom were bent over in laughter so strong they could emit no sound, just fits of snorting and merciless laughter.

The poor guy making the emergency stop was a freshman of course. He had to live with the nickname “Dumpy” for the next four years of his college life. Which was entirely unfair, but circumstances sometimes do make the man. In retrospect, I’m rather surprised the team did not erect some sort of sign at that curve in the road. Something to pass down through the generations of runners who would run that road long after we were graduated and gone. “Site of Dumpy’s Releif” the sign might say. And as a first person witness, I can testify the event was definitely worth commemorating. Wow.

When itching to go, the gals definitely have it worse than guys. 

It is generally much more difficult for women to deal with bathroom issues than men, especially relative to #1.

Yet a female marathoner training who led our women’s team in college thought she had it figured out while joining the men’s team one morning for a 20-mile run. Somewhere around the 10-mile marker she discreetly dropped behind to drop her shorts and urinate in a ditch out of sight from the road. But as luck would have it, she plucked a handful of poison ivy with which to wipe herself from front to back.

The oils of that poison ivy invaded her body inside and out. That poor woman trained all that fall with bandages over her hands. The itching and rash was so bad she had to take medicine to keep her from experiencing breathing problems. Her face and arms broke out first, then her legs and everywhere else. None of us really dared ask what was going on down below.

We did however respect her raw courage in continuing to train with us on long runs every weekend. Her goal was to run and place in one of the early versions of the Chicago Marathon. To her endless credit, she finished 3rd overall still wearing bandages on her hands. Now that’s a tough woman, for sure.

A peak experience

During a training trip to South Dakota, a group of 13 runners ran through the forests to the peak of Harney Peak, an overlook with a clear view for miles around. The round trip running was 13 miles total. There were no bathrooms at the fire tower where the team had stopped for a breather before heading down

Then one of the runners announced he had to go to the bathroom pretty badly.

“I dare you to take a dump off Harney Peak,” one of his teammates challenged. “We’ll hold your arms and you can lean out and let one fly. It’ll drop a thousand feet.”

Astoundingly, he accepted this ribald challenge. Several team members grasped his arms as he leaned back from the fire tower above a cliff and its 1000 foot vertical drop. Straight down. The world’s deepest porta-pottie.

Very few people in the world could relax under those conditions, yet this runner composed himself enough to take what must have been the only dump taken off Harney Peak in history.

That was amazing enough. But something else happened that would live on in the legend of Harney Peak even more. That runner had smartly carried some toilet paper with him for the run, just in case nature called on the 13 mile run, round trip. After he wiped, he tossed the soiled toilet paper out over the cliff. And it went nowhere. The draft was of a precise measure that it kept the crap-stained toilet paper floating right in front of everyone’s eyes. Here they were, on a fire tower overlooking 50 miles of terrain around them, and the toilet paper would not leave. It hung there like a stained white raven in an Edgar Allen Poe tale.

Some visitors had just arrived and were plunking their way up the steps to the top of the tower. Everyone was laughing and several were hanging onto the tower structure to keep from falling off in their mirth.

When the visitors arrived at the top of the tower, the toilet paper was still floating merrily around in the air before them. Surely they could surmise the situation. But perhaps not. There was no ready apparent explanation unless you calculated the insanity of the acts that led to a wad of soiled toilet paper  floating in the breeze, mid-air above South Dakota.

Nature breaks

Most “nature breaks” as Phil Liggett likes to call them while announcing the Tour de France are much humbler and less dramatic, shall we say, than those listed here.

What male hasn’t made the mistake as a cyclist of hitting the Porta Pottie only to forget giving the unit a shake before pulling up the bibs or shorts again? Then you’d better splash a little more water across the front of your team kit or risk revealing that you’ve just partially pissed yourself and are going to try to get back on your bike and dry the heck off before it’s your turn to show up at the starting line.

That’s the only reason this rider hates bibs. They can make a nature break almost impossible to accomplish, especially when on the move. I always try to at least wear a full zip down shirt when riding with bibs so you can at least get the shirt off and get the bibs down without a major projection.

Running in tights can create similar problems. And don’t be a fool and try to pull off your tights without zipping them open. They’ll only get stuck on your shoes and cause you worse problems.

The Catch-22 of hydration and food

We’re all taught to hydrate and (for cycling) eat well when we run or ride. But what goes in, must come out, and the inevitable bad timing events are bound to occur.

If it happens to you, the only thing to do is be inventive in finding the nearest tee or ditch if you can. But try not to use the neighbor’s yard the morning of a race. People don’t take kindly to you peeing on their prized roses, or pooping behind their garage.

It’s far easier and more respectful if you can manage to wait in line at the Porta Johns even if it means crossing your legs or dancing in place.

While out training there is not always a toilet handy when you need it. Again, let’s hear for the ladies who have their work cut out for them in many circumstances. Some women just learn to hold it forever rather than suffer the indignities of public relief.

Men are often not so proud. Not runners. Not cyclists. Most just pick a spot, whip it out and get back into the groove, hoping that no cars come or that no one is peeking out any nearby windows.

The wobbly tarsnake of indecision

Because when nature calls, it really can be a tarsnake of wobbly indecision whether you can hold it until you get home or risk a calamitous accident somewhere further down the road, or holding a guardrail, leaning off a mountain or wiping with poison ivy in a ditch.

Some are choices. Others are necessities. The tarsnake of nature calls us all eventually. In the end, it isn’t really how you go, just that you go that really counts.

Can we get an Amen to that?

Are you bold enough to share your ‘nature calls’ story with We Run and Ride? Leave your comments below. No pun intended. 

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Is cross country running the purest of all sports?

Posted on October 27, 2012 by Christopher Cudworth

A girls cross country competitor sails over the ground

By Christopher Cudworth

The air is more than crisp on a late October morning. A chill breeze seems to slide down out of the clear blue sky to the north. It is cross country weather.

140 athletes line up before a backdrop of team and fan busses. There may be 2000 fans in attendance to cheer on their teams. The crowd lines the course before the start, practicing using their aim with their iPhones and digital cameras. Then an  announcer with a handheld loudspeaker makes a call for the athletes to gather.

20 teams in an entire spectrum of colors jumps in place nervously before the gun. A whistle blows. The runners set. The gun goes off.

The crowd erupts in both organized and disorganized cheers. Of course no runner in the bunch can really hear their home crowd at this point. The noise is so loud the dogs all seem to spin on their leashes. The pack of runners flows by, their spikes clacking across a short section driveway. A few of the best runners surge to the front. The others queue with teammates or with competitors. The most important skill of all: finding your pace.

Dude, really. This is supposed to be a pure sport.

In both the women’s and men’s races, the scene is the same. Excitement. Enthusiasm. Mothers and fathers cheering on their children whether they are first or last. Lines of guys without their shirts show up to cheer on the female athletes.

Many in the crowd wait patient and cheer for the runners at the tail end of the pack.

When the last runner passes the final part of the crowd makes its way to the next viewing point. Masses of people lean into the running corridor marked by white lines in the newly green grass. It has been a horridly dry summer. Three months ago the same course looked like a scene from West Texas. One half expected a tumbleweed to come rolling by.

Rains in late summer and early fall finally changed all that, transforming the cross country course to a mixed footing of soft, muddy earth and fast stretches of grass. Runners have been competing on this course in its variegations since 1973. This writer knows well, having been the first to ever win a race on these grounds back in high school.

The sport has changed in some dramatic ways since then. The most positive shift is the participation of thousands of women in the sport. Cross country meets have been transformed by the presence of women runners, whose approach is no less serious, but there is something lighter, more considerate and cheerful now about the mixed crowds of men’s and women’s runners cheering each other on. Call it a sporting grace.

The boys show speed as well.

To a longtime observer, runners really haven’t changed a whole lot in 40 years. Most are thin, but today’s cross country runners do tend to have a more muscular build overall, the product perhaps of weight training. There is plenty of serious competition, yet the intensity in some ways has been dialed back. Cross country teams no longer compete three times a week in duals and triangulars as they did 40 years ago. Most teams today have a 10-12 meet schedule whereas the old schedules called for 15-20 duals meets and 8-10 invitationals. That was a lot of competition, and it toughened runners to repeat races, but it could also result in peaking too early or burning out on the sport.

Why cross country greats really do matter

Great runners continue to come out of the high school ranks, the most recent male star in Illinois was a kid named Lukas Verzbicas, a phenom who nearly broke the state meet course record set by an eventual World Cross Country Champ (America’s only such victor) Craig Virgin, (click to watch Virgin win the 1980 IAAF WCCC title in a thrilling race!) whose 13:50.6 time for 3 miles in the Illinois state meet has been approached but never broken.

I was present to watch Virgin win that race. My eyes were wide in amazement watching Craig Virgin crank out sub 4:40 miles around that cross country course in Peoria, Illinois, where the state championship is still held. It is both remarkable and smart that the course has remained the same. Cross country runners can not only test themselves against their fellow competitors, but against every state meet runner for the last half century. And most significantly, they can test themselves in direct measure against the high school times of the greatest cross country runner the USA has ever known.

Why cross country is the purest sport

Cross country is simple and direct. The runners on each team self-select their spots on the varsity through their own effort and based on their own times. If you can beat someone consistently, you’ll most likely get the chance to run.

The courses vary, but the goal is the same. Fine out who can run 3 miles over the same course as everyone else in a faster time. There are no judges to affect the score. No other events to wait for, as in track and field. No drawing off competitors into 1500, 5000 or 10000 meter races. Cross country is everyone together. Just pure, simple competition.

The crowd is part of the purity

The crowd senses this unity, and becomes a form of unity itself, shouting so loud that only the coaches seems to be able to penetrate the wall of sound.

The coaches therefore typically retreat to clean, quiet sections of the course, calling out splits and target objectives. “Stay together. Get up to that (guy/gal) in front of you. Stay smooth.”

There’s really nothing much you can tell a cross country runner other than to try to relax and run faster. There are no lanes to control the racing, but there are hills. There are also trees and roots and clods of dirt, roads and gravel paths and lumpy hard trails. And that is what makes it so pure. Cross country is not perfection, but it is a somewhat perfect test of endurance and will in running.

Cross country throws the natural elements from wind and rain to snow or sleet at you like a real-life video game. Perhaps more people should try the sport for that reason alone. No need for virtual reality when you’re living it.

All these reasons make cross country the purest of all sports. An exciting reason to appreciate human endeavor.

Footnote: Recently this writer received a phone call from a former competitor. Their teammates had kept in touch and were discussing their best rivalries in high school. Finally they decided to call up their biggest rivals and ask them to come run with them at some local forest preserve, to celebrated the wholehearted competition we’d all once enjoyed, and how much it meant to us to be involved in pure sport and competition. In a future blog, we’ll cover what that event was like, what stories emerged and why the rivalry was so hardfought, and so special. 

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