Time Travel and the Plywood Challenge

 Most of my days I travel through time at a rate of sixty minutes per hour. And most of those days that rate seems pretty reliable. There are outliers, however, when time (at least) feels like it's speeding up. Sixty minutes per hour feels more like thirty minutes per hour; while other instances feel like each hour drags on for three. And that's where I want to start: Entering year eight of 2020.

This is getting ridiculous, right? One of my oldest (by our chronology, not his age) friends is currently on a six-month deployment, and it certainly feels like he's been overseas for three years. I'm sure his wife agrees.  Schools in Ohio went to remote learning in mid-March...but what year was that? 2015? Last millennium? Either way, today is February 2, and we're awaiting news from the Prognosticator of prognosticators, Punxsutawney Phil.

Which is why this is so strange. As indicated in my previous post, we took on the (inaugural?) Plywood Challenge in September. But that definitely feels like just a couple weeks ago. (I keep stressing "feels," as you may have noticed. Quick lesson: We can't rely on what something feels like. We have to trust what we know.) So go back with me six years to March, when the world went on pause and started cancelling (or at least reimagining) everything, including in-person running events. Over the course of that summer (probably three years ago, in July) the PWC was germinating. Then September 12 arrived.

6:30AM, in the Sheetz parking lot. We determined to meet there and ride together to the first leg, Don't Die Here. I couldn't believe it, but ST (who intended to run the first and last legs of the event) was there first! He's reliably late, so clearly this was a big deal, and possibly attributable to his infant son rousing him from slumber throughout the night. It was gonna be a big day. There are several memories from that leg. Notable: Running by REI's childhood home, and seeing this run as a sort of exorcism of the past. The Canadian Weave relieving himself near a cemetery (near, not on or in), and ST loping behind and declaring, "CW, I saw it." Nearly being hit by several trucks (clearly driving the speed limit, friends) because NO ONE IS RUNNING HERE, EVER! And, finally, the constant...um...aroma(?) that could very well rename this leg The Sewer Pipe. (Oh, and Cobra Kai and thanks to Mr. Brookes for his parking space.)

Next up: Haul Up Fifth, starting around 9:30AM. ST went home, but we picked up a few more runners and a cyclist. In addition to the growing posse, most noteworthy about this leg: Arguing (again) about fast food chicken supremacy...Chick-fil-a, Popeye's, and Raisin' Cane's (feel free to let me know your preference). Running by Our Lady of Mount Carmel where a funeral was in progress (inside, mind you). And wishing REI's eldest daughter a very happy birthday, as his family was celebrating at a coffee shop along our route. Oh, and the abundance of stroopwaffles in the trunk of my car!

It doesn't matter where you start, the McCollum Monster is going to be awful. Starting around 12:PM, after logging sixteen hilly (and, at times, stinky) miles, after cramming down food and slurping as many fluids as possible, after minimal stretching, it's that much more intimidating. I mean, we were lying on mats in the parking lot, quite a sight for the families who just wanted to visit Lanterman's Mill that sunny Saturday afternoon. My primary memory from this leg was seeing ST's brother, strolling through the park, about halfway through, which would be our twentieth mile. We stopped to have a brief idle chat, and when we started again, Tony Stark and I both noted that this event was getting tougher. The temperature was rising, and the sun was starting to bake us a bit, and we weren't looking forward to the final leg. (We'd dropped one runner and one cyclist for this route, but Sandy and Chris, who'd joined us on leg two, did this one, too.)

All Downhill from Here. What a crock! At this point, Sandy had decided to run a "broken marathon" throughout the day, but Chris had to head home. ST rejoined us. But starting to run at 2:30PM as planned was a bit of a struggle. Each time we jumped in our cars after completing a leg, our bodies immediately started to stiffen up, and by the time we'd start stretching in the next parking lot, it was too late. While our minds tried to convince us we were gliding along like Eliud Kipchoge, we really looked more like this. Our friend and her dog caught wind of our endeavor for the day, and they cheered us on a bit. (Sorry, T, for my surliness, but I was hurting.) Some of our wives jumped in with a mile(ish) to go, and that was enough encouragement for us to stumble into the finish line where we celebrated with custom tshirts, handmade "medals," and a whisky toast.

We ran. We walked. We shuffled. We laughed. We cursed. We had a blast. And we can't wait to do it again next year (we think).

(This is just before the second leg. You can see more photos on PWC's instagram. For the record, I ended the day with just over thirty-three miles. And we'd all love to have you join us next time.)

Plywood Challenge

 In 2019 a couple of my local running friends and I joined a team of people from North Carolina to run the Blue Ridge Relay, a beautiful 200+ mile relay through, you guessed it, the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was quite an experience: lots of laughter, miles, memories. (Actually, you can hear us talk about it here.) And we eagerly agreed to run again in 2020. Well, you could probably figure how that plan turned out.

You, faithful reader, will remember that when coronavirus-related shutdowns began, and my spring marathon was officially cancelled (well, rescheduled, deferred to 2021, whatever), I determined to run every day. (I write this entry on day 200 of the streak, and I celebrated as I did back on day 100. You're welcome.) And so, with official road racing events cancelled, rescheduled, or moved to virtual, my BRR friends (plus a new recruit) decided we needed to do something. As usual, during a regular daily run, inspiration struck, and so was birthed the Plywood Challenge. (Why "Plywood Challenge?" The event is 4 x 8 miles. As a friend pointed out, "A sheet of plywood is 4' x 8'." Yes, it's just that simple...and stupid.)

The specifics of PWC are simple: Each of four runners designs an eight-mile route. All four runners to complete all four routes together over the course of one day. All runners are self-sufficient, providing whatever nutrition and hydration they need. Each subsequent route begins approximately one hour after completing the previous route. Difficult? Of course. Insane? Maybe, depends on who you are. Attainable? Yes.

The purpose of PWC is a bit more nuanced. See, like a lot of runners, we like to enter and complete races, and 2020 is a curious year for this sort of thing. So one objective was to help focus our running, to put something on the calendar, to have a tangible goal. Since we had no aim to create an official event, there would be no clock. No clock means this is a running event, not a race. And so we determined to run it together. The four of us (RB, Hollywood Paul, the Canadian Weave, and the Ironman) could train for and complete a marathon, so thirty-two total miles didn't seem so ridiculous. Challenging but attainable. And I hope to inspire others to tackle a personal challenge. Therefore, we invited other friends to join us for any part of the inaugural Plywood Challenge. And some accepted, with others covering one, two, and three+ sections on the second Saturday in September.

(Handmade "medal" for the 2020 Plywood Challenge. I will post a recap of PWC in the near future.)

Day 100 Had the Sweetest Taste

I knew the day was fast-approaching and some preparation was necessary. Some days I enlisted my friends while others were solo efforts. I knew, though, that all the work would pay off, would be well worth the work during the buildup. If you were there, it was certainly a memorable experience. If not, you'll likely be a bit envious. And while you, dear reader, may think I'm discussing the dulcet tones I generated along with friends and family (thanks to TonyN, AJ, KN, and Mrs. RB) at a recent wedding, I'm actually referring to day 100 of my current running streak, which took place Father's Day 2020.

When I started this daily run streak, the marathon I was due to run at the end of April 2020 had been postponed (see you April 2021, Kentucky Derby Marathon!) on account of our common enemy. So for my mental health, I decided to get up and run every day. (You can read about that, including my self-imposed parameters, here, to see that I had not specific number goal in mind.) My longest streak before starting the 2020 edition had been forty-three days, set between Memorial Day and Independence Day 2019, but I hoped not to attain that this time around. So as I neared day seventy around the end of May, the century mark started to come into focus. What? 100 straight days of running at least thirty minutes? I had to do something to commemorate the milestone.

Before we get there, let's back up just a little. My friend Bruce hosts a podcast, Youngstown's first running-centric podcast, in fact. And I've had the honor of acting as both guest and co-host a few different times. During Ohio's stay-at-home era, Bruce took to inviting more widely known members of the running community to appear as guests. (Deena Kastor, Ken Michal, and Dave MacGillivray--on the day 2020 Boston Marathon was officially cancelled--to name but a few.) Early in May, Bruce asked if I would (virtually) co-host an upcoming episode, and I immediately agreed, seeing how everyone's calendar had effectively been cleared. And when he told me we'd be interviewing Bart Yasso, I was elated. I mean, aside from popularizing what has become known as the Yasso 800s, this guy had recently retired from the greatest job in the world. (If you're reading this, anyone from Runner's World, I'm available to fill that vacancy.) Now, when I get the opportunity to interview people, I hope to ask something that very few, if any, have asked in previous conversations, and I knew just what I wanted to discuss with Bart. In addition to inviting him to run the Youngstown Marathon and go for pizza afterward (he accepted!), I remembered that Bart had written about running a 5k at a nudist colony. (I'll let you read about it and listen to the episode where he advises me to "Don't tell people what you're going to do; tell them what you did.")

And so, with day 100 approaching, coinciding with Father's Day, I began to make my plans: I was going to recruit a couple friends, drop my shorts, and streak for one mile.

My biggest concern in preparing for this adventure was encountering a woman along the way. It's not that I was worried about another person seeing me naked, I simply would hate to generate fear in any person, let alone a woman, in the gift that is the Green Cathedral.

We arrived at our arranged meeting place separately that morning, and the first words I said after getting out of the car were, "It's a lot brighter at 6:30 than I thought it would be." My friend REI got out wearing only shorts and his running shoes which caused the third and final member of our party, ST, to say, "Wait, is [REI] streaking, too? Am I streaking, too?!" I responded, "If you're here, you're streaking. Get ready." As we heading down the (fairly) secluded road, I noted, "These houses are much closer to the road than I remembered."

About a quarter-mile into the run (which we started and finished fully-clad), I stopped, and the three of us stripped bare, but we left our shoes on because we're not weirdos. It may or may not have been the fastest mile I've ever run (probably not, because I was prepared to sprint in the opposite direction if we happened upon another soul), but we finished running it, shorts in hand, sans clothing. During the naked mile, REI even screamed, "FREEDOM!" unnecessarily drawing unwanted attention to our antics. (Thankfully, either no one heard or no one responded.)

Since telling that story a few times, even to people I didn't mean to hear it (sorry to my kids...sort of), some folks have asked if I felt terror. Others have asked if I felt exhilarated. The truth is neither, maybe somewhere in between. I mean, we didn't commune with nature or get arrested, and neither of those things was the goal. It was an odd sense of celebration of an accomplishment, something silly to do with my friends. And my sweet wife continues to say she's glad I did it. After all the stress over the last few months, being penned up in the house, wondering and more wondering, we refused to take ourselves too seriously and found an act of much-needed catharsis.

(Answers to a few questions I've received: I'm not ashamed of having run naked through my park. I'm glad we didn't get caught. I have no plans to do it again, but I wouldn't immediately reject a repeat performance. Chafing is real, but you can prepare for that. And what's weirder than three grown men streaking in the park? One man streaking in the park.)

Warring Against Apathy

As we approach day forty of the stay-at-home (or quarantine or lockdown or whatever-you-want-to-call-it) era, I've noticed a bit of a shift. Maybe you've noticed it, too.

Remember a few weeks ago when you received regular text messages, phone calls, invitations to video chats, and the like? Maybe you even created a schedule for checking in with friends and family. This, of course, came after the initial panic subsided. Remember the panic days? The "oh crap, people are going to start rioting over toilet paper" days? When you probably started looking around your home to see what you could use as currency when cash or debit/credit stopped being an option? No, you moved beyond that and could start thinking outside of yourself, making sure your loved ones had what they needed, including some semblance of mental health.

So part of your routine included these check-ins. We've become familiar with Zoom, Google Hang-outs (or Meetings), Microsoft Teams, Skype, et cetera. My wife and I have participated in a couple virtual happy hours and even a virtual game night (thanks to Hollywood Paul, not Paul Hollywood).

My hobbit friend (you may remember him as the guy who called me at mile twenty of his first--and only--marathon, walking in circles, doubting he could finish) recently asked me how I was doing with the pandemic and staying at home. After a moment or two, I responded to his text with "warring against apathy."

On a family walk in our beloved Mill Creek Park, my teenage son and I were discussing this very thing, kind of reflecting on our mental states. As he tried to articulate his emotions, he looked at me and said, "Is 'apathy' the right word here?" "Exactly," I responded. (I'm regularly impressed with and proud of my kids, but sometimes they really get it.)

See, we're all--like, the entire world--working through the stages of grief here. Everyone is mourning a loss, after all, whether it's the loss of a loved one or simply the former way of life. And I believe most of us are currently in the depression stage, the place where we feel numb, exhausted, and certainly empty. Maybe you even feel hopeless, maybe helpless. It's the stage where people withdraw, hole up somewhere, and wonder whether or not it's worth charging ahead. (It's mile twenty when you call your friend from the marathon course.)

But I say charge ahead, friends! What you feel is not always true or reliable. Take up those text messages and phone calls again. Schedule another round of virtual game night. Take a walk or go for a run (by yourself or only with the people in your home). After all, when asked several years ago by a nascent runner what I do when I don't have the motivation to run, I answered, "Discipline is motivation."

You Say It's Your Birthday...

You know the rest.

A great and good friend reminded me that I'm a "man with crazy resolve," ready to put my head down and do hard work (even, I suppose, if that means repeatedly running into a brick wall). I like to set goals for myself, and I learned many years ago that measurable goals are the best kind. How else do you know if you've attained them? So running makes a lot of sense: it's full of stats like mileage, pace, heart rate, breathing rate, VO2 max, et cetera. (In the last week, I crossed two mileage goals off my list. Usually I aim to run some distance associated with my age, so I set a goal of forty-four miles for the week--I ran 50. Also, last Saturday I realized I was close to my PR for miles in a month, and Sunday I saw that I was awfully close to 200 miles in March, with two days to go. So I set a new PR by running 200 miles last month. Oh, and I ran eight miles today...4 + 4.)

Most of marathon training (at least mine) works backward from the race date. When designing a training plan, I usually start with race day and start inserting workouts for the previous twelve-fourteen weeks, often with a goal finish time in mind. And all (or most) of the workouts have that finish time at the heart of them. Establishing and maintaining base fitness is important for speed workouts. Speed workouts are designed to build fast-twitch muscles so I can run faster for a longer time. It's easy to get swamped with all the data, but there's another side to it all: feel.

I had trained well for the 2019 Houston Marathon, even feeling like I had a chance to post a new PR, something I hadn't done since November 2016 in Richmond, Virginia. During the Houston race, I wrestled internally as I crossed each mile marker. "Too fast. Not sure I can maintain this." But I felt great, so I kept knocking out miles. My body felt good. I mean, my legs got tight, my back hurt, and I slowly got dehydrated--I was running a marathon, after all. But I didn't feel like falling apart. For some reason that day, blending the data with how I felt, I could continue to move forward. And I crossed the finish line with a fresh PR, by seven minutes.

It's taken over a year to recap and write about that race. (And I'm sure I haven't done it justice. I'll have another go at it in the future.) So why today, on my forty-fourth birthday? I guess it's easy to get overwhelmed by all the data. How much time have you spent in the last few weeks tracking novel coronavirus? How many articles have you read? How may podcasts have you listened to? How much news have you watched? (Frankly, I can't wait to stop talking about COVID-19!) I can't and won't encourage you to rely on feel through this. In fact, just the opposite. We have to rely on what we know is true. Conjecture can lead to misunderstanding which can and does lead to panic. And that can cause us to devour one another. Please, don't get overwhelmed by the data, but don't rely entirely on your feelings. Instead, try to blend the two by taking what is true and praying your feelings follow. And breathe. It's better when you breathe.

(My friend A & I celebrated the completion of the 2019 Youngstown Race Series. He is going to be an incredible runner. He already is one, and I'm proud to know him--and his brothers.)

P.S. I turn 44 today, and that makes me think of Hank Aaron. If you haven't thought about Hammerin' Hank for a while, look him up, and be inspired.

Let's Go Streaking (Again)!

I started 2017 with a daily run streak, when I ran at least one mile every day. It lasted thirty-six days and came to an end because I chose to take a rest day. (The day after the rest day, I went out for eight miles.) That was the first time I intentionally did a daily run streak, although I didn't really commit to it until two weeks in. At that point, I was considering the 2018 Dopey Challenge at Walt Disney World, so running every day seemed like good preparation.

Last year Runner's World encourage readers to run every day from Memorial Day to Independence Day, which would be thirty-nine days. My middle-aged self determined to carry that an extra four days to equal my age. I ran too many miles during that streak, averaging over 5.5 miles/day, so I was pretty gassed at the end. But it felt good, and I was fit, ready to participate I that fall's Blue Ridge Relay, which is where I met a streaking master--McBeast, who has an active run streak of over 3000 days.

That brings us to today where I currently have a ten-day streak going. In fact, I started this entry after returning from a quick five-miler (I love you, Lake Newport!) during which I inhaled a bug and spent a mile or more coughing uncontrollably. Sorry to the neighbors who wondered if a coronavirus patient was lurking in their backyards. Last week I chronicled the benefits of exercising regularly in the midst of trauma, discovering a different perspective on recovery run. Every time I go for a run during this pandemic I feel like a human, accomplishing a goal, concentrating on one thing for an extended period of time. These are tasks that have become more difficult the last week or so of unprecedented stress. Therefore, I've made a commitment to keep streaking, at least until I can sit in one of my favorite local coffeeshops to sip and read (or write about the end of a streak?). And considering my (inherent and probably inherited) rebellious nature, maybe I'll punctuate the closing of this streak by streaking. Who's with me?!

(This is the medal haul from that Dopey Challenge.)

The 5k Marathon

(This is a tree-face I regularly pass during my runs. It has nothing to do with this post.)

Standing at the starting line, my friend looked at me and asked, "What are you trying to do today?"

I replied, "No idea. I haven't been doing any speedwork, but I figure I can suffer for twenty minutes or so."

The starting horn sounds, and 200+ runners go charging through. My heart rate immediately shoots up, but my lungs and legs feel good. I even start to sweat within the first half-mile, despite the temperatures in the mid-30s. I realize early on that I'm employing a strategy I'd only read about: drafting. See, I'm what is commonly referred to as a "citizen runner" (not Yuki Kawauchi), someone generally in the middle of the pack, periodically taking home an age group award, but (almost--it happened once) never on the podium. Therefore, drafting isn't something that usually makes a heap of difference to me.

But this time was different. Although several inches shorter than me, Jimmy was the perfect guy to draft off of. We're friends; he's super-fit, so I knew he could hold a quicker pace; and he's an experienced runner. And as a fun detail, he sold me my first pair of running shoes. Ideal candidate. We press onward, even with the cold air punishing my lungs about halfway through, just in time for Jimmy to duck behind me. (Which, I'd like to add, is no fair, even if it is protocol in friendly racing to share the load.) Nearing the final stretch, I remembered a few years earlier when Jimmy told me he no longer had much of a finish kick; so on the final turn, I aim to leave everything on the course, crossing the finish line before my friend with a new (official) 5k PR.

As I often ask in these pages, so what? (I mean, really, no one cares much about a runner's PRs.) Why this memory today? The answer is that this is exactly the mentality several people are working through in the midst of the COVID-19 crisis. We're facing this with a 5k attitude, balls-to-the-walls, if  you will. Heart rate is sky high, breathing is taxed, mental stamina is mostly high alert, and we may even feel a bit panicked. But the problem is we actually have a marathon's distance to run. (Worse, we don't know how many miles we have to cover to the finish line.) And that's unsustainable, friends. As usual, I don't have many answers to this problem. Yet I'll do my part to slow things down, live more intentionally, prioritize differently, and encourage you to do the same.

There are tangible behaviors to enact, but you've probably read all about them and hopefully even started practicing them. In the interim, set up virtual meetings or happy hours with your friends to laugh, cry, tell stories, or just look at one another. And please remember, this is a marathon, so stop sprinting.