New Attitude

---Friday, October 10th---

I tow my unmotivated, demoralized lug of self into the gym for yet another day of cardio-lameness. I’m starting to recognize the regulars. Sweatpants dude. Blonde lady with Texas flag running shorts. The 56-year-old in the Under Armour body suit. A guy who only goes backwards on the Arc Flex. Change it up, dude, change it up.

I pass a heavyset fellow I see a lot hunched over a Stairmaster.

“Here comes Mr. Mopeypants," he mutters under his breath.

I climb onto the only available stationary bike, enter all the useless information in the machine and start the plodding, my head down, already defeated.

La di da, this is lame, I think to myself. I’m so not into this.

Woe is me.

Bombarded by “The View” with the sound off on the tv in front of me, I have no choice but to retreat into my thoughts. I think about some of my recently injured fellow runners. Many of them had to stop their training, pull out, and hope for a spring marathon. A few are getting on a road bike, others are—I can’t believe I am even saying this—aqua jogging. It's so frustrating when injuries happen even though you’re in control and doing everything right. Recently a guy hobbled into a certain retail store where I work on occasion in a massive crazy looking cast up to his knee.

“What the heck happened?” I asked.

“Ruptured achilles playing soccer,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Wow, that must have hurt. What does it feel like when it ruptures?”

“Like you’ve been shot.”

“Oh. I see.”

“It’s crazy, you can’t stand up. You try, but you just fall forward on your face.”

“Yikes. How long will it be before you can play again?”

“I’ll have the cast on for 12 weeks and then I’ll start rehabilitation. At least six months.”

“Man that sucks.

“Yeah, it’s a bitch, but I’ll get over it.”

Pause

“Where are your wind chimes?”

That man is lacking a functional Achilles tendon. And here I pedal. With a calf strain. BOO HOO. Poor Robert. I have to ease up for two weeks. WAAAAH. Ooh, I think the pedaling might be hurting my calf, somebody call the wambulance.

I need an ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT.

I’m sick of this little pity party I’m throwing for myself. I’m turning this frown upside down. I am so darn lucky to have run as many marathons as I have without serious injury. I’m still headed for New York, I’ve just hit some bumps, that’s all.

I’m going to shoot for 22 tomorrow and if it works out, cool. If it doesn’t, I’ve still got three weeks to chill. And maybe it won’t be the marathon of my dreams, but it’ll be my 11th and it’ll be in New York. If I’m five minutes off my goal, I’m still a winner. Ten minutes . . . that goes in the win column too. Fifteen . . . okay, I will probably fall into a mild depression, but I’m confident therapy can pull me out of it. No, this is it: If I finish and my leg doesn’t fall off, that’s in its own way a victory.

I get so revved up about all this I increase the resistance level on my bike from “6” to “8.” After 40 minutes I bound off, and, high on my new attitude, try to lead the room in a round of “Nyo Ingwe.” There is a struggle, and people are getting it confused with the 1961 pop hit, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”

“No, the chorus is ‘Nyo Ingwe’ not ‘Wimoweh.’ That’s a completely different song, dudes.”

“ . . . in the jungle, the mighty jungle . . . “

“STOP! You are ruining the whole thing. That’s not the song!”

“ . . . Wimoweh, Wimoweh . . . “

“This is terrible. That is the wrong song. I’ve completely lost my patience with all of you. Enjoy ‘The View.’ I’m going to go work on my glutes.”

I race out of the room, passing the heavyset guy on the Stairmaster, who is standing up and crooning in falsetto, “ . . . the lion sleeps tonight . . . ."

Gazelle in Exile

---Wednesday, October 8th---

Things aren't going smoothly.

I’m way down in it and I’m struggling big time. Leg turnover is sloppy, my breathing overwrought. I’m clunky, cranky, I’m peering over the edge. Dig Deep! Gut it out! This is virtually intolerable. No sports gels, no water stops, this is crazy. I have found my limit. I’m in a dark place right now. Just keep it together. Stay in the game. I start counting down from 100. Get the pain out of your head. I really don’t know if I can make it. But I’m so close! Focus, Robert. Push on through. Crank. It. Out.

And then, finally, thank the gods, it ends. Finis. I don’t have to endure one more second. I look at my watch.

40 minutes.

I step off the elliptical trainer.

Oh my god. OH MY GOD. I can’t think of anything more unpleasant, more sanity-testing and more ridiculous than 40 minutes on a cardio machine. Bring on the 15-45-90 leg lifts! Mile Repeats! Wilke, I love you! But, by all that is good in this world, please spare me the cardio machine. Why so difficult? Because you are not moving. You are going through the motions, but you are not in motion. You are gunning the engine, yet you are in park. All of the work, none of the fun. Mt. Bonnell is replaced by a series of bars on the monitor that you stare at. Ooh, here comes the big bar, watch out! Oh no, will I make it over the big bar?! I don’t know! Rather than a view of the lake or trees or the back of a faster runner, you get a tv without sound that, in my gym, is usually turned to Rachael Ray or a show about the world’s toughest prisons. What? Earl spent 36 hours in “The Box” before overpowering his guard and starting a small gang fight? Why, that’s fantastic. I’m so glad there’s video of it.

I want to be free, to run like the wind! And yet my wings are clipped. My calf strain is the issue—relatively minor and fixable, but the timing is terrible. Over the last week and a half I have hobbled onto the trail three times with unacceptable results: 1 mile, 4 miles, 8 miles, each followed by a morale-sapping walk back to my Subaru. I missed the last 20 miler for the New Yorkers and I’m putting all my eggs in a successful solo attempt three weeks out. The folks at SPI, Pieter, Troy, Dr. Spears, Lori the physician’s assistant, Rebecca at the front desk, and the building’s janitor all implored me not to run until I was completely over the strain. Not only am I glum about losing my conditioning, but it’s like I’ve been quarantined, out of the Gazelles loop, unable to run with my buddies. I want Coach to throw a medicine ball at me. I miss that.

I walk over to the stationary bike and try to get in another twenty minutes of extreme annoyance. I start peddling and the lights on the monitor go on. Why does it want my age and weight?? Just start, let’s get this over with. That’s it, ENOUGH, I’m about to lose it! I jump off and kick the stupid hell device. Oww, MY CALF!!! That was retarded.

I find myself completely bereft of satisfying workout options. Sullen, self-pitying, I get back on the bike, but I just sit there watching Rachael Ray.

Pause.

Another pause.

Hey.

Those “hot-dog-a-bobs” look pretty good.

Counting Your Chickens

It seems inevitable that I will never catch up with these entries. Please bear with me as I continue my incredibly thorough documentation of the recent past.

---September 27th long run to Mt. Bonnell---

It’d been a couple months since my last Mt. Bonnell attempt. On the first one, I careened in one split second from gliding along 35th and chatting about Krispy Kreme donuts with Dan Hopper and Karen, to securing handholds on Mt. Bonnell Rd and pulling myself to the summit. Recalling the sight of me on his way down, Scott Miritt said he wanted to say hi, but it looked like I had other things to worry about. Indeed.

Yet today I'm riding high on three recent victories: My first pace run at 7:11, an easy-ish 20 miler nine seconds off MGP, and most recently a round of 800’s averaging 3:03. I am on track, NAY AHEAD of schedule. I’ve more or less put this cranky nerve pain to rest, and me out of my misery. I’m going into this run strong, confident and ready to throw some padding on my New York goal time.

I pull up to RunTex two minutes late. I have to, it’s part of the ritual and I don’t want to mess with it: Coffee, banana, oj, read the morning papers online, look at my watch, panic, scour the house frantically for the sports gels I bought that one time, forget to lube up, arrive late. All timed to perfection. I bolt out of the car while tying my key to my shoe and weave through the maze of runners crowding both directions of Townlake. Where in Austin are there more people awake and ambulatory at 5:45 on a Saturday morning? Dude, it’s all happening at LBL! I pass some familiar faces and by Lake Austin Blvd I’m in a rough and loose crowd with Ivi and Pat. Ivi talks about running 20 or 30 or something ridiculous while I stick to my guns and my 13.3. It’s all looking good as I take in the views cruising down Scenic.

This time I know what to expect on Mt. Bonnell— ungodly incline, little break, another ungodly incline. Accelerade at the end. Possible vomiting. I chug away up the first pitch, slowing but strong, lifting my legs, planting and toeing off like I mean it. The group spreads out, but I’m holding my own. We level off and my body thanks me for the break. I’m actually thinking twenty yards ahead this time and I prepare as the second wall approacheth. A few seconds later, I lean in and start lifting.

Ouch. Whoa, that hurt. What was that? My left calf doesn’t approve. I power on, churning upward, banishing the pain from my consciousness. Out, out, damn pain.

I top out and slog to the water stop with much more composure than before, reaching for a paper cone cup with authority. That’s right, I’m throwing down today. But, lo, who do I see floating, or better yet, skipping up the road to meet us? It would be the tall, lanky ones, they of the extremely long stride, Dan and Karen.

I follow their steps to the true summit and take in Lake Austin in all its development-choked majesty. Aah. Memories of my undergrad days. Except in college we’d be here with book bags full of Shiner and a cassette tape player, jamming to Jane’s Addiction. Oh my god we were so cool. Perry Farrell was speaking to us!

Dan suggests the long way down and we all follow, rockhopping back to the road. He shoots ahead on the asphalt and I try reeling him in. I find I’ve got the lungs for it and I catch him. A RARE MOMENT. But something’s wonky. In fact something’s been wonky for the last twenty minutes.

My calf pain’s not going away.

Karen and a few others catch up while Dan calls out a 6:50 mile. I am keeping up, but this pain is significant. It’s sharp and gets more defined with every footstrike. Like someone's grabbing my calf with both hands and wringing it out. I am favoring that leg considerably now. I stay with the group for another mile.

It continues to get worse. To soften the blow I try running on my toes. A BAD idea. At mile 10 I decide that it’s not worth it to push this and I let them go, slowing to about a 9:00 min/mi. After a few minutes with no improvement, I stop altogether.

I walk the remaining three miles back to RunTex. It takes about 50 minutes. I’ve missed stretching, so I head straight to the Annex. I down some Accelerade and pull a Clif Bar from one of the boxes inside.

I don’t even want to think about what this means right now.

I get in my car, go grab some tacos at Torchy's on South 1st, and drive home.

Failure to Communicate

Monday morning I walk into the office I share with Lindsey and Allison, a bit of a half-spring, half-limp in my step.

“Good morning, ladies.”

(Overlapping)

“Morning.”

“Morning, Robert.”

I place my travel mug on my desk, pull my Polar Bottle® out of my bag and settle it next to the mug, and in conspicuous fashion nonchalantly slide an energy bar over to the keyboard. I stand and survey the office, reflecting on the day ahead. Feels good.

Lindsey pulls her eyes up from the monitor and stares at me for a second.

“Wow. Pleats.”

“Yep. Thought I’d move my wardrobe into 2008, know what I mean?”

Lindsey and Allison share a look. Lindsey slaps the palm of her hand on her forehead. Allison laughs.

Yeah. Clearly they are impressed.

I settle in, turn on my computer, enter my password.

Waiting for it to boot up, I clasp my hands behind my neck and kick back.

Sigh.

“7:33. Yep. 20 at 7:33. Those are my numbers.”

Lindsey looks up, confused.

“Are you having password trouble?”

“Nope. That’s what I did this weekend. 20 miles at 7:33.”

“You drove 20 miles?”

“No, Lindsey, I ran 20 miles.”

Pause.

“Well, I guess what follows is the obvious question. Why?”

“Why? Why?! How do I even begin to answer that? “

Pause.

Lindsey does not take this as rhetorical and waits for an answer.

“Because, Lindsey, it’s . . . . it’s just awesome, that’s why. “ Flustered, “I . . . I can’t explain it. “

“I see. What’s the big deal about 7:33? Why run at 7:33 in the morning?”

“Oh my god. Lindsey that was my pace. My pace. And the reason why that rocked was that it was a mere nine seconds off my MGP.”

“Uh . . . . MGP?”

Oh my god. I feel so alone.

“Allison, can you help me out here?”

“Don’t ask me, I do Pilates.”

Totally frustrated, I retreat into the computer screen.

Lindsey tries a different tack. “No really. I think that’s a great accomplishment. Just chill, okay? Work with me here. It sounds incredibly difficult.”

I loosen up a bit. “Yeah, it was hard, but I was in control. I didn’t have my GPS, so I didn’t know where the miles were, but I think I had a negative split.”

“Oh, man, sorry.”

“No, negative split is good.”

“Oh.”

Pause.

"And at mile 18 I dropped the bomb."

"That's disgusting. Thanks for sharing."

"It's running terminology, Lindsey."

"Whatever you say."

Pause.

“Are you, uh, sore at all?”

“You know, I don’t feel that bad. Left leg is bothering me a little. Lingering nerve thing I have. And I got some major chafing. I was so worried about getting out the door on time I forgot to lube up.”

Lindsey, startled, with a bit of panic in her voice, “Uh . . . you . . . ‘lube up!?’”

“That’s it, this is pointless. It’s like we’re on different planets, Lindsey! I’m going to go talk to Todd. He’s in Rogue. He’s one of us!”

One Word. Alka-Plex.

A preview of the Sept 20th 20-mile long run route on Google Maps left me worried and confused. This was simply way too complicated for someone with my special challenges to remember. I awoke in a sweat that night, dreaming I would end up in Pflugerville. One of my most frightening nightmares in recent memory.

Behold how dorky I can be:




Yes, turn-by-turn directions in 8-point font that I folded up and stuffed into my running shorts pocket with my sports gels. It may be a 3M Half/Motorola/AT & T fusion route, but, when you run in those, unless you are Gilbert or Bernard, there are actually people in front of you and you just follow them.

The morning begins auspiciously with the commute to the starting line, when Pat generously lets my late self join the 17 other Gazelles in his minivan. It is official: We are a clown car. We have legitimate difficulty climbing the 183 flyover. I move a leg away from my face to see the speedometer sputter downward and bottom out at about 30. Ivi looks visibly concerned.

The opening steps under the streetlights on Jollyville Rd. scoot by pleasantly enough. As usual, I fret over my pace—Kevin Rowe’s crew is too fast, but the next group is exactly 3.5 seconds too slow. Afraid to commit, I find myself running alone. I stumble through the darkness over bottlecaps on the curb along Burnet. An apt metaphor. For something. Finally, Julie takes pity on me and asks me to join her. We run together for a few miles and, you know what? We’re making it work! We talk about settling down and having kids. I’m serious. I marvel at how she fits such disciplined training into her crazy two-kid schedule. I have challenges watering my plants.

Julie’s friend (Matt? Sorry if I got it wrong!), catches up to us after a stop at Jack-in-the-Box for taquitos, and we three are joined by a fellow named Glen. Glen is mysterious. Not a Gazelle, he says he’s “from San Antonio.” I think he might be a spy from Rogue. Sure, have us believe you’re from San Antonio, Glen. And that’s actually a water bottle you’re carrying and not a camera. I guard myself.

The next six miles fly by as we run and chat with ease. It’s like we’re going downhill or something. Julie and “Matt” split at mile 13 and head south, while I soldier north to complete the full 20. Glen joins me. As we disband, Julie calls out, “Don’t let him talk your ear off . . . “

Sage words.

On our little journey Glen and I discuss running, triathlons, Boston, the Gazelles, fish oil, deep tissue massage, Austin, San Antonio, the Hill Country in general, Austin Tex-Mex vs. San Antonio Tex-Mex, the future of light rail, Sarah Palin, offshore drilling, Will Ferrell movies, adding a deck to your home, Van Halen with David Lee Roth vs. Van Halen with Sammy Hagar, the ascendancy of China in the global market, Bush v. Gore, Dancing with the Stars, Al-Qaeda and plate tectonics.

Then, at mile 14, I ask, “So what do you do?”

“Heart valve salesman.”

“Aah.”

This is getting surreal.

The discussion quickly moves to a new product he’s got back in his car called “Acid Zapper.” Apparently, it’s a pill that flushes lactic acid from your body so you feel refreshed and ready to damage it again on another 20-mile jaunt. For several minutes he extols what’s in it.

“And finally, there’s the secret ingredient. Wanna guess what it is?”

“Uh, cocaine?”

“Nope."

"What, then?"

"One word. Alka-Plex.”

A hush follows this disclosure. It’s like in The Graduate when Mr. McGuire tells Benjamin where the future is headed.

“One word. Plastics.”

I consider adding the pills to my regimen of about 20 other things I do everyday to keep myself ambulatory. Whoa, what’s this? Do I detect a surge? At 18, I’m feeling unnaturally strong, like a superhero. Glen, who, as much as I kid is actually in monster shape, graciously suggests I take off and offers a swig of his Acid Zapperade. I accept, thank him for his excellent pace and enlightened discussion, and launch myself up San Jacinto. His voice fades into the distance, "This is your year, Robert. This is your year!"

At AT & T last February I crumbled on San Jacinto, but today I put it behind me with ease. Only Capital Metro buses interrupt my smooth ride down Congress. I, predictably, get completely confused as to how to get through the construction and onto the 1st Street bridge. Panicking, I run back to cross the river at Congress, turn west on Riverside, and finally shut it down over my improvised finish line at Hooters.

It’s got to be over 20, but I call it that and work through the numbers in my head.

Time: 2:31:03
Pace: 7:33.

Holy BQ, Batman, I am a superhero. My MGP is 7:24. I just ran 20 miles—strong but still in control while holding a political roundtable with Glen—at 7:33. Unrealistically easy course, yes. But I could have run the old Motorola today well under BQ time.

This gives me a lightning bolt of confidence as I head into the final two weeks before the taper. I wander over to RunTex and wait for Glen.

I need to get my hands on some Alka-Plex.

Stat.



***Update: It has been brought to my attention (see comments below) that Julie is actually the proud mother of three children. Will the wonders never cease, Julie! Nice job. And “Matt” is actually "Colin." Apologies. When you see me from now on, Colin, feel free to call me “Dave.”

Trip to the Sunburnt Country

Here’s a forgotten workout, from way back in August. What a difference five weeks and 10 degrees makes.


---August 14th---

Work and personal beeswax keep me from the Wednesday morning class, so I salvage the week by hauling through rush hour to Thursday afternoon. I step under the RunTex Annex awning at 5:30 and into a strange and exotic world! It’s like I’ve entered the Australian Outback. Dudes and ladies in this class seem tougher, salty, leathery. I’m waiting for someone to pull out a can of Foster’s and a machete and brag, “Now, that’s a knife.” They aren’t stretching, they’re lounging, conserving energy, waiting until the very last moment when they have to dive into the oven that surrounds Town Lake.

It’s 101 and we will be doing eight 800’s at Austin High. Run with Joy!

I impress myself by making it all the way to the track. The trail exit opens to an expansive, shadeless plain. Dingoes wander the football field. I hear a faint didgeridoo. A breeze cools it down to about 99. Refreshing. Half-assing the warm-up drills while sucking in air from a hair dryer, I have to laugh at how insane this is. The only thing that could make this scene any more absurd would be if Gilbert forgot the Accelerade.

“Hey Coach, which one is the Accel . . . “ trailing off as I head for the coolers. “Hmmm,“ I start rocking them back and forth. “Maybe . . . it’s not mixed very well . . . or . . . (then, in slow motion) OOOOOH, NOOOOOOOO!”

I feverishly down as much water as I can while Gilbert gives the obligatory heat caution and divides us up. I’m nowhere near the front of the pack with these vets and I start in the 3rd or 4th group, pairing with Andre who seems to be a good sport about the fact that I am pacially challenged.

The first 800 yields a slowish 3:13 and a slightly disapproving stare from Coach. Hey, it’s a little toasty! Round two we speed it up to 3:10. Whew, six and a half minutes of running and I’m ready to call it a day. But, no! For the 3rd repeat it’s my turn to pace and I fumble. Rounding the last turn and looking at a 3:10, this fellow—this Mario character—pulls a Zola Budd and runs right next to me, uncomfortably close, matching my stride and staring at me. What the hell is he doing? Does he want to tell me something? Is there a booger in my nose, what? He speeds up and I, totally flustered and in some kind of must-not–lose-to-the-strange-guy reflex, chase him in to a 3:06.

I usually find a groove with repeats and the middle few end up the easiest. No groove today. Nada. Ixnay on the oovegray. Before each one I pour water over my head, pull my cap lower, and pray. Still, through the misery, Andre and I haul in 3:08’s and 3:09’s over the next four.

Gilbert floats the suggestion of dropping the bomb and a sub-3:00 final repeat but says I’m under no obligation, which of course makes me feel guilty for even considering not dropping the bomb, and so I decide to drop the bomb. Brilliant mind game, Coach! At 200 meters, Andre says to me, “No way I’m doing this under three,” and falls behind. But, little do I know, Andre is actually pulling the time-honored racing strategy known as “the fake out.” With half a lap left, Andre surges forward almost effortlessly and cruises in about five seconds ahead. Getting all Usain Bolt on me, he looks backward, pounds his chest and shouts “Jamaica RAAAARRR!” I stagger in to his taunts at 2:58.

And yet I thought it was all over. Oh how naive I can be.

Gilbert stops me on my way out the gate and hands me his video camera. “Robert, I videotaped you running. I want you to watch yourself so you can see your form.”

Are you kidding me?? That’s just what I want to see, video of me looking like I’m having a heart attack. I ruefully stare at the damage in the viewfinder.

“Oh my god!”

“See what I mean?” adds Gilbert.

“My butt is huge!”

“No, your form, look at your form!”

And there it is, my weird form, caught on video. I’m leaning to the side, my head bobbling sort of back and to the left and my arm slightly . . . sashaying, or whatever that is.

“Be right back. ” Coach G runs to his Tacoma and opens the cab door. Pulling out random items and rearranging them—including an African drum—he finally emerges with a three-foot-wide medicine ball. What else you got in there, Coach, a mariachi band?

I follow him past the track and into the endzone.

“We’re going to work your back and your glutes. Lie down.”

“Urr, all right.”

“Stick your legs up.”

Before I can even raise them, Gilbert throws the ball at me.

“What the . . . give me a sec!” I shout, deflecting with one leg.

He throws it again.

“Now kick it back.”

I oblige, but to his disapproval.

“Higher, kick it higher.”

“All right, you said it.”

On the next throw, I launch the ball well over Gilbert’s head. Surprised and pleased, he runs back to retrieve it calling over his shoulder, “Good!”

We continue this pattern for more than 10 minutes—Gilbert throwing, me kicking, Gilbert scrambling backward to pick it up and breaking into a sort of half-laugh in the process. This is so ridiculous. It’s like we’re five or something.

Eventually, the sun decides to spare us and set. The didgeridoo swells, the dingoes begin their howl, and I can’t think of a more hilarious end to a more uncomfortable day.

The Office

I amble into the breakroom of my office job and spot Bill digging through the non-dairy creamer options in the cupboard above the sink. We meet at the Senseo® machine.

“Hey, Bill.”

“Hey, Robert, how’s it going?”

“Not bad.”

Pause.

“Bill, can you grab me a Hazelnut Waltz?”

“Whoa, that’s a good one. Here you go.”

“Thanks. What are you drinking?”

“Boca Sunrise.”

“Nice.”

Pause

“Hey, Bill, could I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“I mean, I really need you to be honest.”

“No problem, Rob.”

I look around, lean in and speak in a hushed tone, almost a whisper.

“Does my butt look big to you?”

Pause

Bill fidgets, starts rearranging the sweetener options. “Aw, no, not at all! No. You look . . . fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really, I wouldn’t lie.”

“See, I’m doing these exercises and I’m worried about . . . the overall size.”

“No, man, you’re cool. I haven’t noticed a thing.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

Pause

Bill opens two packets of Splenda. Picks up a coffee stirrer. Takes a quick glance my way.

Pause

“I thought those black chinos the other day really worked for you. Maybe if you wore those more often.”

“Okay, that’s a good idea.”

Pause

“Have you tried pleats?”

“What would that do?”

“I don’t know. Pleats are kind of poofy. That might . . . . give you more room.”

Long pause

We stare at each other.