Times change but some things still stay the same. Long runs in early September, for example.
In the early days of a warm September, our college cross country team was scheduled to run a 20-mile run. The route called for ten miles up to a school called North Winnishiek and back. We ran on the gravel shoulder much of the way, trotting along in our Nike waffle shoes or some classic Brooks footwear long lost to running antiquity.
We ran fast, averaging 6:00 per mile up the long climb from the Oneota Valley to the limestone hills above Decorah, Iowa. The conversation would be peppered with tales of debauchery from the night before. One guy was running with a big bruise on his left ass cheek because he’d gotten a little lit at a kegger Saturday afternoon and fell off the back of a Triumph TR6 while trying to hitch a ride back into town. Plop, he fell right off the back onto the road. Right on his ass. He limped a little, but kept up at the pace of the day.
Bright highways
There were 25-30 of us trucking along. Ultimately the top 15 guys separated into a lead group and the talk quieted a little. We ran along with eyes fixed on the curving road ahead. Just a white strip of Iowa concrete with even brighter gravel strips on either side. We’d go up one side and come back the other, running with traffic the whole way.
The walls of corn on either side of the road were changing from green to brown. In a couple weeks the loud, dusty combines would whip through the cornfields and strip out the crop to be sent to the big feed silos for market. Much of that would wind up in processors down in Cedar Rapids where the Archers-Daniel-Midland company would turn it all into starch and syrup. Whatever the world demanded.
Water stop
Our own bodies were fueled on the merest of calories. Perhaps a slice of toast with butter snagged at the college union before heading out for the ‘Sunday long run’ as we called it. There were no Power Bars or gels. No water belts or aid stations set up. Our main hope was that coach might put some water in a big jug and cart it with him to the ten-mile mark. There we’d stop for a few minutes in the warm morning sun, milling around with our hearts pumping and sweat pouring down our necks. We’d take a sip or two if the water or lemonade wasn’t too warm, then turn around and run back to Decorah at the same pace we came.
Bird calls
As a birder even back in college I amused myself with the calls of meadowlarks in the field, or red-tailed hawks soaring on thermals above the cliffs shrouding the Upper Iowa river. Some days the clarinet-like sound of a pileated woodpecker might clatter down from the woods, or the jabbering of blue jays tearing around after acorns.
As we passed farms, the smell of manure might waft our way as we ran past a pig farm or dairy operation. Inevitably the smells of those farms would bring fart jokes, and anyone could turn into a target for that low-level humor. It never really stopped actually. Actual farts were the best remedy of all for boredom on the run. One learned to treasure those opportunities.
Sex jokes
That and sexual jokes carried us along for miles. Anyone that had a girlfriend risked attention about the previous night’s ‘action.’ Most men of honor would mutter some acknowledgement that sex had indeed taken place. That was a far better approach than outright denying the fact, which only wrought more teasing and descriptive examples of imagined escapades.
But in fact, some of us had had sex that very morning. One might arrive for the long run on a Sunday morning with cheeks flushed from the warmth of intercourse just minutes before. Some freshman would notice the color in the cheeks and blurt, “You just got laid!” But that would generally earn a guy a pat on the back, not teasing. “You’ll run well today,” someone would whisper.
Hard tempo
For there’s nothing better than lovemaking to breed confidence in a skinny runner borne by the pace of the day up hill and down. Thoughts of those moments and the look in the eyes of a lover were sure to carry you farther. The feel of running might disappear altogether, miles at a time. The mind would be carried along by the body in those moments. Even a hard tempo felt easy.
Yet somewhere around fifteen miles the pace would ultimately get harder, for 6:00 per mile has its own unique rhythm…not quite the turnover of race pace at 5:00 per mile, nor the relative jog of 7:00 per mile when the body is trained to do 80-90 miles per week.
No, 6:00 per mile is its own little world, as if the ground is rolling under your feet. All you have to do is paw along, run from the hips, let the body do the work, and things will be okay. Don’t overthink it.
Concentration
The fatigue finally does catch up around fifteen miles That’s when concentration comes into the picture, and conversation turns to races past, present or future. Motivation seeps into the system as adrenaline wrought by thoughts of racing peaks the system. Sentences get shorter, and there is no talking on the hills, just hard breathing.
Eventually, the thirst borne of distance and heat and long miles truly begins to set in. The water fountain back at the campus beckons. Runners did not think in terms of dehydration in the early days. There was either ‘thirsty’ or ‘not thirsty.’ There was no in between.
Take it easy
At eighteen miles the talking might cease for almost a mile. Then someone would sing a snippet of a familiar tune. “Well I’m running down the road trying to loosen my load, I got seven women on my mind…”
Someone else takes over. “Four that wanta own me, two that wanna stone me, one says she’s a friend of mine…”
And everyone sings: “Take it eas-eeeah, take it ea-eah-eah zee…don’t let the sound of your own wheels, drive you crazy.”
Finishing kick
Then there’s just a mile to go. Someone lets out a whoop. The college is in sight through a slot in the trees. It’s all downhill coming back into town. And despite legs that are sore from the race the day before along with nineteen miles covered on a Sunday morning, the pace picks up. Then a runner toward the back of the group surges past with half a mile to go. The entire group drops onto the bright green grass of the intramural field and there are no rules about how to finish. Some take off in a sprint and everyone follows because they don’t want to be left behind. Just ahead, a flock of crows rises from the field, calling as they go.
“Wow fun wow boys,” someone calls out, repeating ae favorite phrase of our coach. “You can’t beat fun.”
“Yeah,” comes the smart retort. “It’s like a sore dick.”
“Yes it is,” comes the laughing response. “Yes it is.”
Back at the fieldhouse the water fountains greet the group of thirsty runners. Faces flushed with sweat and hide darting eyes. “Well boys, we made it. 20 miles.”
“With nothing but warm lemonade at the ten-mile mark,” someone laughs. “Is coach trying to kill us?” “Maybe. But we made it.”
“Yes indeed. We made it.”
A 20-miler in 80-degree heat and no water. Insane? Or just another day’s work…
How times have changed.
As athletes, we might imagine that change comes about in big breakthroughs. We train everyday hoping there will come a day when the nine-miler that felt hard last weekend suddenly feels easy.
Training on hills or in consistent winds can make it seem as if you’re making no progress as well. But the minute you get on the flat, seemingly major changes take place. Actually the change was taking place all along. You just can’t see it when you’re climbing. The pace per mile doesn’t show the training effect taking place.
It is in swimming that the positive changes are often the most difficult to ascertain. That’s why the change tossed next to my goggles on the nightstand caught my attention this morning. Swim training, more than any other segment of triathlon, is like putting change in the Piggy Bank of Performance. Swim workouts are typically done in an indoor pool or one that measures 25 or 50 meters. That brand of experience does not exactly replicated the open water experience. Which means open water is an almost entirely different sensation. NO need to stop, flip or turn! Just get out there and swim!
Some bucket list items are unintentional. Taking part in the Horribly Hilly ride in Wisconsin took a place in my uncalculated bucket list. Riding up that long climb to the top of Blue Mound was epic. It was hard. It took all my concentration. That’s a bucket list accomplishment right there.
The late 60s were a heady time to be a pre-teen in America. My brothers were insightful sources of musical taste, and my 7th-grade friends were likewise caught up in the wonders of that era.
Mood of the times
It disgusts me that a beer company had the gall to put the word AMERICA on its can in the first place. In a nation where supposed patriots are bitching about confederate statues being torn down and football players are derided for kneeling during the National Anthem in protest of ugly racial politics, hardly a word was uttered against the idea of putting a popular name for our country on a Budweiser beer can.
It’s all good now. Not the young rider’s fault, for sure. During my first year of riding I was similarly trying to follow instructions when I misunderstood directions on where to turn from a experienced rider and plowed right into him. The impact knocked him off the bike and he struck the ground with an elbow. The wound bled down his arm for ten miles until the blood coagulated at his wrist. Confusion on the bike can result in accidents. But that’s what they are: accidents.
Days later my chest is still sore. I really hit the handlebars hard. Same with my right hand. The actual night of the fall my right wrist hurt like crazy. I iced it for two hours. The wrist healed up enough to do rides of 40 and 65 miles on Saturday and Sunday. But it felt like I was emerging from a chrysalis of pain.
Even experienced riders can fall badly at very slow speeds. But when you ramp up the pace to 35 or 40 miles an hour, things get hairy in a hurry. Watching Richie Porte 
So the human hand is a remarkable structure but not infallible. Even without a break, the resultant soreness from the crash last Thursday left my hand in a tender state. That led to a hard wince after shaking hands with a cyclist I met at Rocket Bicycle Studio. The guy was a physical specimen in that tanned, fit, muscular way only cyclists seem to achieve. On top of that he was a former professional polo player from the nation of Jorden. He gave off the vibe of an athlete through and through. And when he shook my hand after our conversation he gave a hard grip and I thought I was going to crap my pants. Instead I laughed, and explained why I almost jumped out of my skin. He said, “Ahhhh, I get it.”
Then Sunday morning we rose again to ride 65 miles in the flatlands of Illinois. Sue’s fifty-plus friends insisted that she stop at 52 miles in celebration of her 52nd birthday and hoist her bike over her head for doing a Birthday Ride. On the day, we averaged about 18.5 despite some fatigue in our legs from the hills the previous day, and that completed the Weekend of the Century. 105 miles. And it was good.
In May of this year, I married the woman I met through FitnessSingles.com. If that sounds a bit cold or commercial, be assured the story behind our relationship is much warmer.
On the second week that we were dating, I drove up early on a Saturday morning to watch her do the Racine Half-Ironman. She linked me up by phone with her sister Julie, a breezy counterpart for the day, and we shared histories while sitting in the sun and shade as Sue competed. Julie is a cancer survivor who also competes in triathlons. The two sisters would ultimately complete their first Ironman race together in Madison two years later.
What a perfect symbol for so many things in a relationship. There were weekends where I did not feel my best either. She is a strong rider and sometimes I could simply not keep up. That meant we needed to develop a fair and honest dialogue to cope with our ‘in the moment’ differences. That too is a symbol for how relationships grow and change.
I saw her in the same state for different reasons. During her Ironman year, things kept going wrong. Some were little. Some were big, including an incident in which an Escalade driver ignorantly parked herself in the middle of country road forcing Sue to ditch her prized Scott tri-bike to avoid crashing into the white hulk blocking her way. The bike was trashed due to fractured rear struts. That forced Sue to substitute bikes. One training ride in Madison turned into a desperate slog. But she got a new bike at virtually the last minute…
We’ve learned so much together and had so many moments of laughter and joy between. Our children have gotten to know each other and our families have blended into a support system all around. From loss has come gain. And from gain we draw hope.
In late summer when the sun goes low in the sky, the shadows thrown across the road by trees or other structures can produce a flicker that seems to reverberate deep inside your mind.
Perhaps you’ve seen video in which a computer screen is lit up in the background. The screen flickers and pulses. A computer screen is not what we think it is. It is granular. The light inside is all broken up.
In between, we run the race laid out for us. We try to run it well. That is true both literally and figuratively. Here is what the King James Version of 2 Timothy says about that: 
In the end it is that embrace of self that keeps faith intact throughout many flickering moments of doubt and joy and pain and happiness. Through those sequences one must simply reckon with the present. As we run or ride along, we have a chance to do just that. We learn to calm ours mind and soul with the thought that it is still good to be alive.
While doing my strength worth this morning in our home fitness room, I turned on the television to watch the morning session of Day 10 in the World Track and Field Championships. And there was a sport that I’d forgotten about. Racewalking. 
As a result, racewalkers move with exaggerated arm movements. They are the exact opposite of the Ninja runner that we witnessed in the women’s marathon. She ran with both arms straight down at her sides and very little hip movement at all.
There is no danger of running into one another during the event, because they’re not running. They’re walking fast. There is plenty of time to merge after water stops, and competitors still traveled in race packs that broke up like meteors re-entering the atmosphere after an hour or two.
I don’t exactly buy all that. When Bolt got the baton, he was already far behind. He’d gotten beat in the 100 meters earlier in the meet, and knew he had no chance of running down the athletes ahead of him. I think he “cramped” in order to avoid another disgrace. That may seem cruel and cynical, but I don’t blame the man. He likely regretted coming to the meet at all. He accomplished so much in so many amazing ways the last meet of his career was bound to be a letdown. 
So the fates are certainly fickle when it comes to who survives in this world. Most of us try to avoid ugly circumstance any way that we can. I personally grown more cautious on the roads the more I run and ride.
