Mountains, Finishing, and Little Round Top

I was out for a short run this morning. 3 miles was all of it. Chat (the dog) wondered what ever happened to the 12 mile odyssey that happened last week. He really thinks that their were some chipmunks and ground squirrels that could be fomenting a rebellion. And of course he is the only one that can deal with those little creatures.

So I read about "visualization" in a book somewhere. It helps you to put yourself in the place and in the time for an event. I think that this is helpful because then you can see yourself lying in a hospital bed 30 years from now and in my case dying from nothing.

"Nurse, what do you mean he is dying of nothing?" Doctor Bob says.

"Well Doc it seems that he ran a lot, swam sparingly, gave away all the fat he could to others, and is just dying of nothing. You should go visit his next door neighbor - he has got at least ten names to what he is going to kick out for..."

The other more pressing thing is the whole marathon "thing." I mean it is 26.2 miles. That does not trouble me. It is only 26.2 miles and most of it is downhill. What is troubling is that I might not have enough oatmeal to power the engine. I might not beat the Africans that are in the race. I might not really have the solution to world peace and the worst thing is is that I might have crappy music on my pod that could slow me down. Oh the horror and the agony of listening to the "best of michael jackson" and having not put in any songs by Ozzy Ozbourne.

But, the past 15 weeks have been spent building the engine that could. The past 15 weeks have been gathering the sharpening the shovel and building up my coal pile to drive the locomotive that is me. I visualize at times my body. The feet and legs are the drive wheels of a great locomotive. The torso is the furnace that burns the fuel to power the legs. The arms pump and move to get the rest of it going. The head is where it all happens. Thinking of what is going on and what needs to happen. Guaging the distance and relaying to the rest of the body what needs to be done. Pinching off the thoughts of agony and defeat and replacing them with images of power and resolve.

I draw an image from from the Civil War. Joshua Chamberlain was a General commanding his troops from 20th Maine at Gettysburg. He was in charge of holding the end of the line. If he did not hold the end of the line the Confederates would flank the Union and collapse the line. At the very last moment he recognized that the Confederates were coming up the hill - and he ordered his men to "fix bayonets." Joshua and his men saved the union that day as numbers were against them and through the smoke and haze of battle he saw an opening and took it.

I am not yet as brave as General Chamberlain. Not by a long shot. But during this training stint I have seen the goal through the pain, fog, and uncertainty. Taking the opportunity and seizing it gives me the drive to see past mile 20 and see that there is only 6.2 left and even the most mentally unstable person would be able to get his butt in gear and go for it. If men with bayonets fixed can charge down the hill and secure the victory, then even I, Fat Man, can withstand 26.2.

The Taper Weeks....

On Saturday I ran for 12 miles.

Monday I ran for 3.

Wedensday I did 4.

Thursday I did 3.

The only thought that really stuck out to me was: Was that all?

All of them were short compared with the 20 miles I did two weeks ago and the 18 before that. Dinky little runs that get you ready for the monster run that happens two Saturdays from now.

I think it is a bit like the lull before the battle begins.

There is quiet - relatively.

Whispers of impending trauma and destruction filter among the crowd.

And then it begins.

Running, walking, moving, going.

All the preparation and the buildup is coming to a resolution. What happens is the end result is that we have run this far together and then we really get to go and do what we have prepared to do. All of the pounding, grunting, sweating, hills, turns, and twists of the run have been in prep for doing something bigger. I don't think you go out with no goals. People just don't run somewhere because they want to smell new trees.

People do things for a purpose. Sometimes the purpose is a shallow and despicably selfish one. Mine is because I like to eat food and food likes me and likes to stay in the form of fat. Another reason would be the genetics of the whole thing. I want to run further than anyone has in my family. (Save my wife). I want to become a conquerer of myself. The doughnuts help that drive.

There is a science to it. Fat = Fuel. Fuel = burnable. Burnable = not needed. It is time to figure out that the fuel I give myself is not to be horded. It is to be spilt upon the road of tribulation. Death to the fat. Fuel to the fire. Fat men store no doughnuts.

Rocky Ridge

Today and yesterday were 4 mile days. Today was supposed to be a 6 mile day but life did not start out normally and I lost some time and thus my long run is tomorrow. Chat, the dog, did not know the difference. He was just as happy to go out and run as he was to chase squirrels and hunt for deer.

Epiphany #1: Nothing is as hard as it would seem. Running up hill is never as easy as going downhill. Making the uphills hard is the job of yourself. I make it hard because of what I eat and how I train. The harder I train the easier the run gets.

Epiphany #2: This came to me while I was running up City Creek Canyon.

"This road is paved."

"Rocky Ridge was not."

"What I have now is a lot easier than what those handcart pioneers had to do."

"What is my personal 'Rocky Ridge?'"

Two years ago - or so - our church decided to truck all the youth out to Martin's Cove, Rocky Ridge, 1st Crossing, and other highlights of the Mormon Handcart Pioneer Trail. I was not involved in the pulling of the handcarts. I was on the luggage crew. Which entailed throwing bags and hauling tents. Fairly easy duty compared to pulling a heavy cart up and down hills, blisters, snakes, BLM officials, and unlimited supplies of Gatorade.

I was at the time training for a Triathlon with my sister Anamarie. She wanted to have me along for some suffering so I wanted to assist. I had brought my running shoes and had vowed that over the couple of days that I was out there that I would run a bit to get some conditioning in. Needless to say - Mike Bennetts "power beans," Blaine Overson's cooking (excellent), and the fact that I was out by my lonesome did not contribute a whole lot to getting my shoes on.

The last day of the trek is possibly the hardest one. For the youth. For the leaders it was a lot of driving and chucking bags, and driving, and chucking bags. But on the last day of the Trek I got my butt out of my tent. Strapped on my shoes and went for a run. The location of the run was along the trail of the Handcart Pioneers, Martin and Willy, respectively. I ran along a dirty, dusty, rocky trail. It was up and down and straight along a mesa/mountain/large hill. It wound all the way down to the base of the hill. And then it took a 90 degree angle. And then you headed up the hill to Rocky Ridge.

At the base of the hill is a grave. It has several names enshrined in metal of those that did not make it and perished at the base of the hill. It has a little fence that surrounds it. It is hallowed ground. Those that sacrificed everything to come to that point and much more to assist those to go beyond that point. They had fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and those that depended on them. They had hauled their handcarts further than humanly possible. Their spirits were undaunted - but the tabernacle of clay could go no further.

I took the 90 degree angle. And began my ascent of Rocky Ridge. I did not have to far before I realized that I would not be able to make it all the way up the hill before everyone else needed me to help pack up camp and move along for the day. So I turned around and came back down to the cemetery at the bottom of the hill. I paused again.

At the bottom of the hill, facing east. I witnessed a spectacular sight. It was a sunrise. It was not the normal "hey planet how are you." It was a glorious witness of God and His love for me. I understood at that point why these poor wretched souls had struggled up to that point in their lives. It was because they believed that God loved them. That the Creator loved them and that He, had helped them all the way along the plains until that point when He wanted them to come home.

I share this, because during life, my life in particular. I have found my own "Rocky Ridge." I find it at times when I don't expect it. Those pioneers did not expect to be faced with one more trial. But they persevered and took the next step. I don't know if I have the mettle that they had. The iron in the soul that is a witness of their close communing with the Almighty. All I have is myself to conquer. Shoes on my feet. A heart full of desire.

I need to remind myself of what matters. When I get all wrapped up on my menial existence. When I think my burden is too heavy. I think back to that day of the Sunrise at the Foot of Rocky Ridge. I think of the burdens so heavy, feet wrapped in rags, hands gripping the cart, wind blowing cold, snow so deep, the trail outstretched in front. I wonder what really matters. I wonder if I have the juice to keep it going. Stripping away the layers of doubt and finding out what really lies beneath.

I am not sure I know the answer to those questions. But I can take the lesson of those at Rocky Ridge. Just keep moving Dave, Just keep going.

Things to count along your Half Marathon.

Dogs. 7
Women. 29
Men. 15
Worms. 2
Babies in strollers. 3
Deer. 1 Mother Bambi, 2 baby Bambis = 3 total Bambis.

Today I set out on my own little piece of hill climbing extravaganza. While most fat men were accumulating more fat and theorizing that running might solve the conflicts in the Holy Land - I was out there proving that running actually does not solve conflict. It just pits you against a lot of hills and personal development opportunities. The UN will have to deal with the bombs, guns, and Holy Wars as I have found out that diplomacy is better left to those that don't do much but espouse avoiding conflict. I believe that is why I don't see that many politicians strapping on the running shoes and getting in touch with their inner demons. But again, I digress.

I must admit that I was supposed to be running the Top of Utah Half Marathon today - but that did not happen because I, like a typical man, procrastinated till the bitter end and then the race closed. Such is my luck. I thought I would be doing a gradual downhill grade and coasting into the finish line surrounded by those disappointed few that were expecting to see a skinny Nigerian cross the line. But alas they get left with me. A white man who has no claim to speed or skinny.

So, I thought this week was going to be easy. Nope. It was not. I had to form my own little marathon of the half. So where did I go? All inquiring minds wanted to know. I went and visited my friend. City Creek Canyon. Not downhill. Not a gradual descent. Not a gradual ascent. In fact you go from 4500 feet above sea level to around 6500 feet above sea level. And all along the way your fat is wondering where the nearest doughnut shop is, and your feet respond "Aye matey it tis be around that corner and up the hill a ways...." The feet know where you are going. The new fat on the block is unaccustomed to such arduous punishment. You see none of the old fat is there to tell the new fat that all it has to do is sit back and make friends. The old fat got kicked out last week during the 20 mile debacle up the same road. The new fat was acquired through some chocolate milk and barely got its bed made before it was called on as a sacrifice to the volcano.

You might recall that some volcanoes need a sacrifice to keep the island safe. Preferably a virgin sacrifice. Well all I got on board was the chocolate milk - nasty way to wake up and pound it out of you... But I have a marathon to get ready for and no fat gets left behind.

The week of the Bigger Hammer...

Today - the tough part was getting out of bed. Choir went late last night. Mollee had some words left over for me and wanted to talk. At 1030PM. Women's brains function on an entirely different plane than man. Women will crunch the numbers, think it through, and then BAM out comes the idea that will change all mankind.

Men grunt, swear, sweat, and then get a bigger hammer.

This week has been a week of the bigger hammer.

On Monday I arose for the 4 mile run. Yes, just four. Up the road to mile marker 1 and back to the capitol building. Not a lot of miles. But, I am on what runners call the "taper" side of training.

Tuesday was a rest day. I can tell the days are getting shorter - or I am getting older because I can get up later and still just barely get ahead of the sun.

Today is Wednesday. 7 miles. I don't think my body really wanted to go out today. I had a twinge in the lower back. I had a couple of bad pieces of cake (read fuel) last night and well I was just tired. I think that if I had a choice between running and freeing Tibet - then I guess Tibet would get serious thought this morning. My dog chat was just there. He, I believe, would get up at midnight with the chance of actually chasing something that moved.

Today was one of those - "I need to do the run, but (sniff sniff) I am fat..."
To which I replied - "I MIGHT be slower, I MIGHT add 2 minutes to my seven mile time. But BY BLAZES my fat will not WIN!"

Something Fat This Way Comes

Sometimes I think that the forest dreads my runs. I will tell you why. On Saturday - you know, the day that you get ready for Sunday, I was to embark on my 20 mile run. Now for you out there that are faint of heart - 20 miles is something that you prepare for weeks and months in advance. If you don't then you end up crippled by the side of the road and people laugh at you.

Mostly the grandmas jog past you and kick you because you should have died years ago but immunizations have kept you alive. But I digress.

So you get your oatmeal ready in its two cup Pyrex measuring cup. Get your water bottles filled and loaded into your pack. Shoes ready. Smelly socks from the week are OK. Shoes should be polished up from the previous week. Visor. Tunes. Could not find my sunglasses. Oh, and Mountain Dew Goo for those tough moments betwixt mile 15 and mile 20 when you body now believes that insanity has set in. You start to look for things that you could justify as an honorable death. Falling into a stream. Eaten by a cougar. 14 rattlesnake bites. So you eat the goo and your body feels better. Again I digress.

So I ran from the capital building - up 11th Avenue, down Virginia, up Federal Heights Blvd, and ended up over by Primary Children's Hospital. Then I turned my lard booty around and went back the way I came. I had a brief conversation with a guy wearing "five fingers" running moccasins and then continued down 11th Ave - took a right into City Creek Canyon, and then just when my body figured out that I might go home and take a nappy. But, no. My body knew that there was more pain on the way. Yes, the mind wanted the body to obey. The body however knew that the mind was full of ambiguity.

You head up into the gaping, laughing maw of City Creek Canyon. And yes you run run run. And you keep going and looking once in a while at your watch. Seeing how far you have gone and how much you have left. At one point my mind did not do the math and could not add 15.93 and 4.0 together and come up with 20. I had to stop, think about it, and begin running again.

20 miles is not the fascinating part of the goal. It is the fact that once you get there - you have done something else that other people cringe to think about. I should know - when my wife would go out running when training - I would cringe and go back to bed. Now, I cringe if I miss the run - and the run cringes because I, fat man, have come out to prove that I can do it again. That is why the forest dreads my run. Determination cuts through despair and pain. The fruits of that determination are the finished product.

"It's a grind in there," he said. "You have to be a tough kid ... You've got to be strong, got to be stout."

Today was 8 miles. Chat saw a ground squirrel which knocked off a few seconds on my time. Also he saw a kitty luxuriating on the bench on the way to the run. Lets just say Chat had an entertaining time.

The quote from my day comes from Redshirt freshman D.J. Tialavea, a Defensive Tackle for Utah State University. (You can now hum the Scotsman)

"It's a grind in there," he said. "You have to be a tough kid ... You've got to be strong, got to be stout."

Life is a grind sometimes. This morning the air inside the bedroom was cool and calm. No painters, contractors, lions, tigers, or bears were stopping by. No tornadoes to whisk my now-gray home away to Oz. Quite peaceful. I was almost lured into the cuddle - when the run came knocking. Oh, if you a runner, which some fat men claim, the run waits outside your back door. It patiently hums your death march and looks in the window to smile as you peacefully sleep away your fat accumulating life.

When you arise - the run is angry - angry with you because you waited - angry because the sun is coming up and it can roast you alive. Oh yes - the run wants to dominate you. It wants to slow you down. It wants you to stop and smell the roses. You have to beat the run. It is your nemesis. I had a tool on board that helped me this morning.

You might ask:
"Was it the shoes?" (Homage to Spike Lee and Michael Jordan)
or
"Could it be his dog?"
or
"Might it be his attractive running socks?"

I would say to all of those. No.

It was the cake.

Not a normal cake. Caramel Triple Chocolate Fudge cake with Chocolate Frosting, Duncan Hines of course.

Man needs food. Cake = Fuel. Fat men run on that of which they partake. Sushi is OK for the normal man. But give a fat man a piece of cake and thus he has the wings upon his back to beat the miles back and keep on coming.

Or so the cake box claims.

Sponsors.

I have been thinking about what companies sponsor my fat. I mean really. Lets think about this. Is it Pizza Hut Stuffed Crust Pizza? Check.
Hostess (fill in the blank)? Check.
Twizzlers. Check.
Black Forrest Brand Gummy Bears. Rodger that.
Any thing with "Gummy" in the name? Bingo.

I think I will make shirts to run in that have a bunch of corporate logos on the back and claim that they have encouraged my fat to fuel my runs. It is a symbiotic sacred relationship that most Americans will agree with, let alone set down their Hebrew National Nally Chilly Dog with Extra onions and Sauerkraut to give me an Amen.

I don't think that any of the aforementioned brands claim to cause instant skinniness by partaking of them. I don't think that Hostess Raspberry filled doughnuts cause weight loss... Pick your poison and it will get stored somewhere on your body, and in my case be sacrificed to the flaming pit of desire to run faster harder and reach the end of the run before the ambulance or the Twinkie The Kid lookalike.

This morning was a glorious gut run. I was wondering what good thing I had done, or old person I have helped that allowed me to go 5 miles in under 50 minutes. But I must have been good. Mostly because before the dawn cascaded over the mountains and filled the canyon with a blaze of glory, blue flowers, miniature yellow sun flowers turning their heads toward the dawn, there was a fat man. Not any ordinary man - one powered by desire to conquer himself.

To sit his flat cracker butt down in the chair of the running tutor and learn about himself. How deep is the well of his desire? How much power can you push from your soul into the rubber on the pavement? Only the fat man knows. Each step is one closer to meeting his own personal goal. Dig down. Dig deep. The run awaits.

18 Miles. 3 Hours - 10 Minutes

The key to running long distances is to keep moving.
Movement entails the accomplishing of a goal.

This Saturday was the second of my 18 mile runs. 18 miles is something that is daunting to mere mortals such as I. It entails movement for a solid three hours. I don't think that I move that much between the fridge and the sofa.

I think that the mental game that happens on the run is as important as the physical one. I don't think you can just pop off an 18 mile run without doing the physical preparation first. The same goes for the mental run that you are doing while in motion. My track for the 18 miles was over to Shreiner's hospital along 11th Ave, and then back to City Creek Canyon for the up hill, down hill, and twisting roller coaster that finishes the run. This run took a bit of mental toughness because some of the run your body is leaning away from the entrance to the canyon, just as a normal man would turn away from the Kraken.

The key is to keep moving. All runs eventually end. Just as my mother-in-law says "All bleeding eventually stops." The longer you keep moving the shorter the run is. So what you see on the run is the opportunity to discuss with yourself the end result. What do I want to accomplish? How fast do I need to go? What should my time be? Why don't they allow roller skates on my marathon? All deep questions that need to be answered.

The real question that I get to answer each and every day of the run: Am I willing to go the distance and finish the course?

Damn The Torpedoes... Full Speed Ahead...

So sometimes life just comes upon you. At times you get to go to work to earn money. At other times you get to do home renovation projects. This is a week of home renovation projects. Painting the house, grinding concrete, smoothing down walls. So what happens to the runner with all of these things happening at once? He runs early, runs hard, and packs his whole run into a shorter amount of time than he would really like.

A usual week comprises a Monday grunt run. This entails dragging ones booty out of bed for the beginning of much running in the week. This happened to me on Monday. I hope it happened to you also. Five miles. 50 minutes. Not Dead Yet.

Tuesday is sort of a rest day in which you recoup what sanity you bled out onto the road on Monday and hope that Wednesday gets better. Tuesday was no rest. It was 8 miles - 1 hour and 20ish minutes. Grinder run. More brains and sanity lost along the pavement of what we quaintly call life.

Wednesday is traditionally the longer of the runs in the middle of the week. This actually was this morning and it was 5 miles again - and in 50ish minutes. My dog is not quite up with the fact that he is a pawn in my evil scheme to dominate City Creek Canyon. He does however lament that he did not get to chase a black kitty into the bushes on the start of the run on Monday. I believe that he echoed Don King - "I was Robbed!" or something of that vein.

Thursday is tomorrow and I am banking on not having to run tomorrow. Unless I have "crazy leg" syndrome and I am itching for my 18 miles. But I feel somewhere down deep that the sanity will prevail.

Friday is traditionally the rest before the storm. Your mind is now in full control of your body and you get itchy and twitchy. You ruminate upon why world peace is not really possible and indeed why it might not be the right solution. Your psyche starts to store up the needed gumption to run. It begins with putting ideas in the head such as: "you are an IT guy and you don't work that hard - 18 can't kill you." Followed by: "Were you born this slow or did you devolve into this pile of loose flesh and macabre fascination with Twinkies?" "Why don't you just hang up the shoes and buy insulin because that would be the easy way out..."

My response comes from Admiral Farragut: "Damn The Torpedoes! Full Speed Ahead!"

18 Miles - 3 hours - 10 Minutes...

Some things can kill you. Bad deer meat that the Chinese Buffet got off of the highway. A Tsunami in your bathtub when you left your rubber duckies in the other room. Gang Greene when untreated with whiskey and bullets. Believing that mullets are really in style and not having the cars up on blocks in your front yard to match. All of these things can get you killed in normal course of living while clinging to this mortal coil.

18 miles does not kill you. It does not come close. In fact it only makes you regret a few things in life. One is having stupid music on your Ipod. The other is not having teammates that you could have helped pull you up the tough parts in the course. In the course I ran on Saturday there was one constant that reverberated throughout the course. Hills. Oh there might be a slim downhill on the way up - and there might then be a small respite of moderate decline in the elevation. It seemed to me in the untreated eye of a novice runner that around every turn there were more hills and all of them laughing at you. Taunting you and daring you to: "Come on over it is fine up here, there is enough cement for you to spatter on. There is always room for one more."

What did happen during my run is that I had to stop - literally - and reconfigure my run. It was sort of like taking a snow globe that was a chaotic storm and then allowing the flakes to settle and then the scope of what you are trying to conquer. Of course the image would not end up revealing an Alice in Wonderland, more like a tableau of a burning English village with the Vikings boarding the boats.

The key to this run was to begin again after the end of the run. What I mean is that after you have stopped running - to begin again to reach your goal. Even though you stop you can start again towards what the original goal was. Reaching the goal, although paused, is still reachable. Although this goes beyond just the fat burning melee that occurs while running - it helps to get past the brick wall that occurs when your body begins to realize that your brain is unbalanced and needs to stop for a couple of Twinkies so as to regain your balance.

Evil things. Feather pillows and cyclists.

This morning my pillow magnetized to my skull and we got in a fight. Mostly over how long could I logically stay in bed and still get my five miles in. My pillow wanted to be my friend and help me through this difficult patch in my life. He wanted me to join a support group to get over this "running thing." He even offered to help me explain to all of you why missing just one run won't hurt. But, pillows don't have thumbs and thus don't get a vote or have any power to keep me in bed. The only thing that keeps me horizontal in the morning is me. Who keeps me from the run? I do.

So I arose and began my run. Chat seemed to be more interested in sniffing the pavement for dead squirrels and watching the hills for loose deer. Alas his wants went unfulfilled as there were none of the bambies or smashed rodentia. Usually the first mile is the wake up mile and the in between miles are something that grind on you a bit and the ending mile you want to go as fast as you can so that you can beat the clock. Merciless being that it is. Marching onward without a thought for your well being. This morning I figured out something. You might call this an epiphany - but then that might spark people to make pilgrimages to my house and I only have one restroom. So let us call it a spark of enlightenment.

All seconds and minutes measure how fast you are going. The ones in the middle, end, and beginning all compound into one large number that is either good or bad depending on how hard you worked. The goal is to work hard all the way through the run and not to let up for the uphills or the downhills. If you are consistently working at it you will be faster and it will be far more fulfilling than before. Working consistently and methodically through each step of the run is what will get you to the end. Not letting up on the hills - pushing yourself is what gets you to the end faster. If I want to go faster - then I have to be more consistent. I can't take the first mile leisurely up the hill - I have to do it as fast as I want the last mile to be.

This binds to life. If you want to be the best possible person you want to be you have to have iron and steel in your soul to be consistent and compete in the race we call life. After all - in the battle against fat - be it the fat of the body or fat caused by inconsistency in life - the deciding moment is when you begin to run instead of walk and run instead of fainting.

Easy was never worth it.

I was out running this morning - with my faithful dog and the goal was 8 miles. I came in just a tad over 1 Hr and 20 Minutes.

As I was running up the hills and around the twisting lanes that God has laid out for my personal potential ER visit - I came to a conclusion about life in general.

Nothing Easy Is Ever Worth It. Kids are not easy, but are worth it. Free hot dogs or food just to lure you into buying something - not worth it. Twinkies by the case at Costco. Easy - and really not worth it in the end. Going up and down hills and pounding along beating the concrete into submission - is not easy. Is it worth it?

I would vote in the affirmative of that action. You see I don't think that easy things ever produce much. Walking is easy - running is not. 1 mile runs are easy - 26.2 miles is just a touch this side of insanity - but still worth it.

It was easy going to Carl's Junior - swiping the card - downing the burger, fries, and the shake to go along with it. Easy my friend. It was not quite easy bleeding out through my pores this morning that was not quite ideal. I think it is amazing that your intake tube is so much more forgiving than the output. Squeezing a burger, fries, and a shake out through the pores in your skin is not what I would call enjoyable.

So I dare you to come up with something that is both easy and worth it. I once went upstairs of an automotive dealership that I worked for and found free stuff everywhere. Hats, BBQ sets, American Flags, denture cream, and streamers. All of it free - all of it junk - except the American Flags.

Although I cannot monetize the worth of the run - I can tell you that when the run begins it starts the fire - churns the thoughts - cleanses the inner voice - creates solitude - and in my case panics ground squirrels within a 500 yard radius.

Beating Back the Sun....

I was out with the dog yesterday - and believe it or not he was not that enthralled with getting up early to go out for a run. Go figure. Monday runs are possibly the worst designed thing on the planet. You might ask me why? Well let me tell you a few reasons.

One. Late night concert till 10:30PM. The concert was not bad - Mary Chapin Carpenter. One of my wife's favorite musicians. It might have been the fact that there were Hippies everywhere. And some of them had a drinking problem. Off balance, inebriated individuals trying to dance and sing is somewhat entertaining but in the end all you lose is equilibrium.

Two. 11PM fruit salad. I am not complaining about fruit, or salad. Just the timing of it. I knew the run was creeping towards me at dawn. I knew it was coming. It was marching steadily each second ticking away till the grand vista of tomorrow stormed into existence.

Three. Bubble bread. Now for all of you novices out there - you take Rhodes Rolls, roll them in melted butter, then in a cinnamon sugar mixture and then lump 30 or so of them into a Bundt cake pan and let it rise in the fridge. Bad news is that when you get up in the morning it will not have risen as it should and you have to leave at 545AM to get in five miles before you get to go to work.

It would seem to me, Dear Robin, that my run was screwed up and backwards before it started. I felt like Vin Diesel outrunning the burning planet in the Chronicles of Riddick. Quick quick run run before you get vaporized by the dawn. My fat did not know what hit it - Pushing it all the way and hoping you get home to bake the product before all chaos reigns, cats and dogs live together, Armageddon in the streets.
The fat waits for none of those.

The Fat that cries first loses!

I was on my long run today. I had to figure out 16 miles to go and how to get there. So I began at the Capitol and then went over to 11th Avenue, then up to the fire station. Then I turned around and then went back down 11th and then straight up City Creek Canyon all the way to the bitter end of the Rotary Park picnic areas, #30 to be exact. I looked at my GPS watch and it said 10 Miles. Nicely done Dave. So now it was down hill and back to the capitol building.

Inspector Clouseau was in my mind - with his Franch Accent and was lecturing me on the finer points of overshooting your goal distance. He was right. On the way down the canyon I got to Mile Marker 3 and an epiphany struck. "Dave." my thought started out. "do you realize that if you add three miles to the current mark, plus the one that you run back to the beginning stop sign that you will not run 16. Y0u will actually go further than planned." The thought was right. I ended up with 16.6 miles.

So are you ready for my running thoughts for the day? My first one is that sweat is just fat crying out for help. Each drop is like a little plea for help. SOS from that pork chop with the extra gravy. DOT DOT - DASH DASH - DOT DOT DOT DOT DOT (translated "Good Hell he is running again and all we have left down here is this Lemon Meringue Pie from 99'") Your body is scrambling, searching, digging, and discovering new little gems that have been overlooked for some time. I think my body found the secret Reese's Peanut Butter Cup that I downed a few weeks ago and sacrificed it to the furnace of desire that fuels the run.

Each drip powers another step and each of those steps draws you closer to the goal. When I was at my goal distance I found that there was a little bit left in the tank. I was already out there and running anyway. What is another 0.6 miles when your body is on fire, sweat flinging off your visor, and your legs have given up their protests because they know you won't listen anyway? That last 0.6 of a mile takes the last full measure of courage to keep the feet going, digging for that last ounce of desire. After all - you can do whatever you want for 0.6 of a mile. And when I ask myself what I want to do for the last 0.6 - I might as well run because the fat fears me.

Grinder Runs

This morning I was doing what comes natural to fat men everywhere. Trying to justify staying in bed because it was nice. My wife was asleep, I was asleep. My fat white cat was asleep. It could have stayed that way but no. No, in the back of my mind I looked at the clock and the clock is not merciful at all. The longer I stay in bed the longer it takes for me to get out and run. Longer it takes for me to put on my shoes. Procrastination of the highest degree takes hold and then you start to dream of going down to the breakfast buffet and drinking a gallon of maple syrup just because you can.

The minutes that you waste now beat on you every step of the run later. I have found this out. In the winter training portion of life it is all good to wait a few minutes because it may warm up from negative 32 below to actually a livable temperature. In the winter your body goes into shock when you step out the door and the temp is not quite San Diego.

In the summer it is a totally different thing. What happens is that if you wait a minute it does in fact get warmer and warmer. It is a little known fact that death waits for us all if we run too late in the day. There is a reason that birds and squirrels hide out in the middle of the day. It is because it is too hot to actually live.

Today is what I would consider a "grinder run." Let me explain what that means to me. A grinder run is one of those runs that has to be done and has to be completed or you will die later on a longer run. All runs count and all are accounted for in the muscle memory. A grinder run is one of those runs that you don't really want to do. But in the end you do anyway because the consequences are steep.

You run because it matters, you run because you need it, you run because your psyche needs to be cleansed, you run because you have addicted yourself to the slapping, ticking, marching, and deliberative addition of numerals that mean something and only mean something to you. Your fat needs the run. Just ask it.

"I have not yet begun to fight"

John Paul Jones - in response to a British taunt in the midst of a naval battle "I have not yet begun to fight."

That is how I felt today. I realized that anything worth attaining is all uphill. I was running in City Creek Canyon - and if you have run in there before I will tell you how it goes. Mile 1 from the state capital to the ranger station is mostly flat - and at times uphill. Mile 2 is uphill. You wind through the trees and wonder when the marker is coming along. I think at times the rangers move it and hide in the bushes laughing at me. Mile 2.5 is up a roller coaster of hills. Mile 3 is up a steady incline. Then more climbing, twisting, garbled running and then you think that you might be going downhill a bit and then BAM more uphill and then you reach mile 4. Luckily God decided to have some of the return trip on a downhill instead of changing the topography randomly to torture those of His Running Sons.

So - to revisit the point. Nothing that is worth anything is ever given to you without a fight. If something is given to you then you don't appreciate it. Think of my dogs. If they fight over breakfast they like it better. When I am running up a hill that bugger is making me work for every foot. I have not yet found an escalator to take me to the top. All personal effort. I also have not run into anyone that is going to operate a rope tow to get you to the top. All you, all your power, all of it fed right from the brain to the bottom of your shoes.

Giving up makes you slower. Stopping is not an option. Guts, dredging around in your desire every day to make up the difference in distance between where you are and what you want to be. How deep is the well of your desire? How hard do you grip the ropes on your ship of life and yell out to your opponent no matter the situation and if you are winning or losing: "I HAVE NOT YET BEGUN TO FIGHT!"

When the watch fails, and it is all on you...

This morning I got up at 545am and started on my run. It was only going to be five miles. Only five miles that would kill a normal man. But not the Fat Man.
So on my way out of the house I grabbed my GPS watch and turned it on. It said low battery. Great. Low battery sometimes means it will go for 30 minutes or for an hour. So I just went with it. Chat was with me because he gets lonely if I don't take him with me. In fact he is quite put out that he does not go out with me to find new things for the day. He might miss Bambi or thumper or some other woodland folk that he might want to love with his mouth. But I digress.
So on the way up the hill the Fat Man looks at his watch and realizes that it has shut off and thus he cannot time himself. NORAD (North American Aerospace Defense Command) tracks Santa (http://www.noradsanta.org/) but they also track me on a secret site. They like to see how fat moves and in which directions. It is apparently part of some secret experiment to see if they get Osama Bin Laden fat enough he might die of heart disease and thus quit recording messages for the CIA to get confused about. "Send the jelly doughnuts on the second yak... the bird flies at midnight." But I digress.

The liberating thing about not running for the numbers is that you are just running for the fun of it or in my case to keep Doug the doughnut from recruiting evil allies. Chat and I went up the canyon in record time because we don't quite know how fast we were going. Sometimes I look at my feet and try to figure out how fast I am going by my form. Mostly my feet curse at me and wish I would die painfully while delivering poisoned Jelly Doughnuts to Osama.

But today the numbers did not really matter because it was just me, chat, the birds, some ground varmits, and the air around me. Sometimes running is not about the numerals quietly pounding away on your wrist. It is about the journey from point fat to point not.

When the Drips Return....

So this weekend I had a long run in St. George, Utah. Some would question the sanity of the whole thing. But, when the run beckons all with shoes, socks, and adequate water must answer the bell.
Thursday night I was wondering which way I would go for 16 miles. I thought that I would just run up to Cedar City and back but that was too far. So I looked at www.mapmyrun.com and plotted my destiny.
The run began at my in-Laws home in St. George - and went out Sunset - then through Santa Clara, then past all of the old Pioneer homes, Jacob Hamblin (who I might add should have bartered harder with the Indians) and then it went up this hill, past Ivins, and then continued on for another three miles into the desert.
I think that the drips returned sometime between mile 5 and 8. And then they continued till the very drawn out, up hill battle to the finish line.
I think the drips, which originated in my head - and then traveled out my visor, and then splatted on me, the concrete, or sand were my past fat visiting me. You see every time you eat something that your body really craves - like a jelly doughnut. It is stored as fat. Which is then lurking there, clinging to your bones, waiting to clog your heart. The only way to get rid of this is through the sometimes painful dripping process.
Some drips get pried off with a crowbar, and others fight to the bitter end. At mile 12 I think I shed a doughnut that had been lurking in my posterior for several years. Something like that gum I ate in 3rd grade. I will call the doughnut Doug. Doug and I have been friends for some time. But now Doug had to go. He was not needed anymore. The fat man needed Doug. But this time it was for the furnace of affliction that happens sometime between death and dripping to death. Doug was sacrificed to the furnace. Doug was my friend. Doug will not be missed.

Things You Might Not Think I Think About

Today was a 7 mile day. 1 hour 11 Minutes.
You might be wondering what would get you to the seven mile mark without thoughts of suicide or worse, Oprah episodes while strapped into a chair and unable to leave. Which I might add is a violation of the Geneva Convention, and the Man Code. But I digress.

My friend Sally told me of a way to distract yourself while running. It was to count things. You can pick the thing that you count. There is not a guide book "How to Count things to distract yourself from the pain shooting up through the bottom of your feet and ending in your brain stem." So since there is no guide she began by counting dogs. Sally is a dog person, loves dogs, thinks dogs are good and holy things that help you. I tend to agree with all of that. So she counts dogs.

Vikings count other things like: Towns that they have been to, but not plundered. Pretty low count and thus it would not distract you from the possible breach in your lungs. Second one to focus in on is Stink Bugs. You may not think that there are many Stink Bugs on the run up to 12 miles, but I will witness to the fact that without a magnifying glass I was able to count 110 Stink Bugs on one run. That is a lot of Stink Bugs. I did not count them on the way down for fear of ruining my very accurate statistical count. Some of them were squished so I counted them too. Some were mating - but I counted them as two because it was a two-for-one Stink Bug day.
So a few days ago during a mild-long run I began to count pill bugs, or rolly-polly bugs or little oblong bugs or whatever you call them. I got to 55 of those. Some were squished too but I counted them. None were mating. And I did not count the bugs on my way out because that might have resulted in double counting of bugs. Not good.
So today on my seven mile run I was thinking of things to count. Did the pill bugs. Stink bugs have all gone into hibernation for the year. Bicyclists make me mad and I scream at them. I did see three cross country skier people. One male and two females. I thought - "how bout you count the blue flowers on the side of the road. Bad idea. I started to count and had three - and then came across a least a billion of them so that was trashed. So I guess that was good and distracting to figure out that I could not count anything today. I could have counted how many guys are old, should not be cylcing with their shirt undone, and look to be about 80 years old. But that would have been only one.

As in my previous posts you find that no matter if you count things or listen to your ipod - dwell on world peace - it is all just you. The other guy on the trail can't run for you and you have to do it yourself. It is an individual effort with the trimmings of personal sacrifice and pushing it until you beat the black numerals for your personal best effort.

Two Drips on The Visor of Life

I was out running on Saturday. Earlier would have been better. Sans Dog because where I was going would not have worked for the four-legged friends. Something about city ordinances and the fact that nobody likes an outdoor peeing mammal.
I decided to go up the canyon. I needed 14 miles to get my limit of the "Airborne Shuffle" for the day. Going up the canyon is a bit tricky for fat men. Some of the skinny runners I know just plow up and over the hills and up and over into some far off nirvana that only skinny people know of.
The Fat Man does not know such nirvana. I hearken back to the quote from Gladiator "If you find yourself riding in green fields with the sun on your face, do not be troubled because you are in Elysium and you are already dead!" I have figured out step by step that things don't kill you.
When I played high school football I figured out that I was not going to die out there on the practice field. I may have wanted to after doing several dozen wind sprints. But I was not going to die. Humid, 98%, with 100 degree heat. Does not kill you. So 14 miles in the 80-100 degree range would not kill you either.
So back to my two drips. About 3/4 of the way up the canyon I had sweat through my little visor and it began to drip on me. First the left side, then the right side, or both at the same time. I got all the way up to where the Sidewalk Ends (omage to Shel Silverstien) and discovered that I was beyond where normal runners go. Normal runners run past the same garden gnomes that they always go past. This was an Undiscovered Country (not as bad as the same movie by Star Trek) and I was about to go beyond it. Rattlesnakes, bears, moose, and something else that was unsavory waited beyond.
Drip Drip I went up the trail and into the unknown. Across a few bridges and then my watch told me to turn around. It was a long way back home from there. Drip, Drip, Drip Drip Drip.
I don't know if the drips had names - for they came unbidden from the deep dark wells of fat and moisture. Maybe the fat cells screamed out "OH NO THERE GOES BETTY!" as they were dragged into the furnace of my affliction. Betty Deserved it.

before the break of dawn.....

So I was thinking of the fat man running. Early in the morning - when a Viking like me is on the cusp of waking. My mind is a blur of weird dreams and interesting thoughts. When the dawn comes you either run or you don't. It is that simple. What you have is either the desire to go out and explore the depths of your psyche and mine the lower levels of your desire - or you don't.
I have gone through somewhat of a change mind you over the last 7 months. In the beginning I was a slave to the run. If I did not run then I knew that the end of the equation was a crushing mass of pain, anguish, and misery. In the middle of the training for Big Sur - I experienced a loss of a whole week of running. The demons were lurking, laughing, craving the broken bones and weeping soul.
I survived the Big Sur - the bucking, twisting, curling, 95% grade.
Each day that I run is a good day. Some days are better because my mind is wrapped into what I am doing. The trash is getting taken out and disposed of in a prompt fashion. Things click and lock into place and the miles melt before you, until you are at your goal for the day and you are done.
The race is before you and you know that you can do it. Your demons have been put into a rest home and are sipping out of straws because of the beating you have administered on your way to reaching your goal.
That is the glory of the run, that is the road of gold paved in the burnt shoe rubber of the every day run. That is the brilliant streaking fireball of desire that grows with each step until it is all consuming.
Snatching, grabbing, clawing, sweating, goo-eating, rubber burning, muscles screaming, pedal to the metal, grinding, exalting run.
That is how the fat man does it.

In the quiet pounding of feet...

Running is a release for me. Sometimes it is a burden. But when you scrape away the harsh reality of going many miles at a time there is solitude underneath. I am not one to invite friends along with me to run. I got smoked by both Paul Welsh and his wife running in the canyon yesterday. I once even had a very in depth conversation about life and goals and direction with my wife Mollee as she and I ran from the capitol building to the Firehouse on 11th Ave.
Although the road is lonely and at times reclusive, I think that is what I really need. Time to sort out what I need to do and what really needs to be done. Once in a while I will look at my watch and realize how the seconds and the minutes have slipped away and you cannot gather them back up. That is when I begin to run in earnest and pound harder. I am not competing against you or anyone else - just myself and the men in my head. One of them says "Quit being a baby," The other says "what else do you have to do today that is harder than this?" A new guy started to roost yesterday while Chat and I were burning calories and time. He was saying "you can do anything you want for 10 minutes, how bout you cut that mile down to 8 minutes?"
The running, organizing, debating, trashing, moving, rubber burning waltz of the run continues as does the Fat Man in running shoes.

Who Beats Whom

4 Miles - 39.x1 minutes.
Today I think I outran my GPS satellites. I will have to talk to Garmin about that. I just kept running and my watch never beeped - Chat just kept going (but the secret is that Chat will just keep going and cares not for the beeping watch that the foolish human wears).
I have figured out one thing about running in general. Every day it is you versus you. It does not matter if I am out running in the middle of the night or at the break of dawn. The person I am always competing against is me. Sort of simple. No grader is as hard as I am when judging how fast, how long, how quick, how lazy, how springy my step is, or worst of all - if I am loafing through the first mile and then have to catch up in the home stretch (which does not happen most of the time).
Think of it as you running against all the times that you have ran before. Ghost images of yourself running the same path and going the same distance and eventually getting to the same destination. All of these mirror images constitute your running form in different conditions, cold, hot, snow, or rain. But all of them are there and you compete against them each and every time. It is like you wake up in the morning and all of your past "you" get up too. They strap on their shoes and grab the dog collar, walk up the hill (rain or shine), and you begin to run. When you begin the run you are all together for few strides, and then the pack begins to break up and spread out. The "you" from six months ago and five pounds lighter pulls ahead and begins the ascent leaving the current "you" lagging.
I think that some of my fat selves lie gasping at the bottom of the hill wondering if they will ever climb to the top and see the view.
The "me" is already there.

The individual

6 Miles - 1:01:30.
Today was my mid-long run of the week. Running goes along with training and the training builds from short, to medium, to short, to a long run on the weekend.
Chat came with me today - no deer up in the canyon for him to love.
I use running as a time to puzzle things out and to get things sorted into bins for the day. I think about work, God, family, and processes and not in any certain order. I think today was one of those picturesque, thoughtful days. I began at the stop sign by the capitol building and began my run up the canyon. Past the rangers station, and up to mile marker two. In the morning, in the winter, you start in the dark and end in the less-dark time of the day. It is also 25 degrees and if you don't move you freeze. But I digress. In the summer months I have found that you start in the nearly dark, almost dawn, and end in the full blaze of the early morning. Which is not bad. Going north into City Creek canyon, right about mile 1.75 past the gate I saw something that was fairly beautiful and was really moving. I was headed north, and at mile post 2 is where a large field opens up. But it was not quite there. Like I said it was .25 short of that. The sun began to show directly onto the road and it was if the road was golden in color and drenched in flaming fire. I won't compare it to the Wizard of Oz because that would be just sacrilegious, but it was close.
Running on a golden road of sun and earth you wonder if there could be anything better than that.
My wife has a quote about "peak experiences." All along the way in life you need to strive for those peak experiences and really put your all into it.
The Golden Road day was one of those sublime experiences that would never have happened had I stayed at home and not gone out to get that experience.
Even Fat Men running have good days.

Fat Man June

When I was growing up in Missouri - Springfield to be exact - TNT had this great idea. It was to put all the great Kung Fu movies of all time into their lineup. They called it Kung Fu June. So since that is in June - then so is my first run of the week.
4.12 Miles. 10.02 m/hr average - best was 7:26 m/hr.

I ran this morning from the stop sign by the Capitol here in Salt Lake City. To the Ranger Station in City Creek. Mile 1 - up to mile marker 1 (two miles) then back to the Ranger Station (three miles) and then back into the canyon and back to the stop sign, past the stop sign and the to Cortez. 4.12 Miles total. 41.23 blissful little minutes of me puffing up and down hills, taking my faithful dog Chat (who wanted to chase the Mule Deer in the canyon) and then home.

I sometimes wonder if the pavement is laughing at me. Taunting me. Asking if I would like to take a seat and wait for the fire trucks to come rescue me.
Not this fat man.

Where do two feet begin?

So, you can look at the title and see what the content is going to be about. Fat Man Running. Of course Blogger said I could not have the title but there it is so who is to fight it?
I am David Lamb - and I run.
Those are two things that really would have not gotten together in a sentence in a very long time. Running and Lambs just don't mix. If you know me, and you are likely to know a lot more about me - you will know that I was never much of a distance runner. Distance was measured in the length of my foot connecting with the pavement and thus propelling me forward. The goal was to get to another place different from where I was or maybe the same depending on my mood.
Lets talk about running. Running (or for purists - jogging) is something that would not be entertaining or theraputic.
I have found out that it is both.
I have found out that there is something found amongst your soul - when you are out on a trail or a road and you are just with you.
I am not talking about the running club or the training group. What you meet out on the road of the run is you. You.
I meet myself every morning when I roll out of bed strap on my non-"Five Fingers" shoes of which I cannot remember the actual line but it comes to be that it is "Brooks Adrenalin" and we go off on our way to another distance. We is me - and the only one that can beat me is me.
I live in Utah - so it seems that one would find runs wherever he might happen to take his clothed feet.
That is truth. Running is everywhere you look.
I think that I can put most of the responsibility on me. I realized that when I was fat - and how that felt and how was I going to deal with me. I could let the pants out, visit the doctor for cardiac drug, start with the insulin pump, and eat red meat to my hearts content.
Or.
I could do something about me. I could do something about what I was and what I wanted to become. You see I am responsible for me and you are not. I am the one that is vested with my interest. You are not. It is the same for you as it is for me. I have no power over what you do and what you become. That is your trip and you are the pilot. So getting back to me.
I figured out that if I could go and run that that would be good for me. Nobody ever told me that running was good for you and I had the same thoughts you have. "That guy is running in the: A. Rain B. Snow. C. Both D. Heat or in Utah E. All of the above. And it seems that he is enjoying it and has lost all connection with the real world."
That is all true. You see me and I see you but the difference is that I am with me and I am telling myself that I should: "Quit being a baby" or "hey if you push it a little bit around this corner for the last mile you might crack a 7 minute mile."
I might have done some things in my short trot on earth - but running is not one of them that I can take back.
So if you are willing to sit with me for a bit I will tell you some tales and bring you back some stories of myself. I don't intend to inspire or to help you in anyway. I am getting this off of my chest - out of my head, and onto a medium that you can read.
Welcome to Fat Man Running.