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.)

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.

The Recovery Run

Most runners, especially distance runners, are familiar with the recovery run. For those of you who have never tried it, it’s kind of self-explanatory: a slower run, usually after a hard workout. Some call it “conversational pace,” but recently it’s been dubbed “sexy pace.” Time to take in the scenery, have a chat, work out some work problem that’s had you stumped for a while. Maybe even craft and essay in your head.

And there are more and somewhat surprising benefits of sexy pace runs. It may sound counterintuitive, but recovery runs will actually help you run faster. First, the slower run keeps you in better aerobic (read: fat-burning) zone. And as you burn more fat, you drop more weight, you can run faster. Also, these paces enable your cardiovascular system to work more efficiently, so you’re able to—you guessed it!—run faster for longer periods of time.

Well, so what? What’s the point? I could continue explaining the research I’ve conducted (no matter how minimal) on the benefits of recovery runs. I could even offer some anecdotal evidence of the thousands of miles and fifteen (or is it sixteen?) marathons I’ve run. (Yeah, it’s sixteen.) Here’s the point: In the last week, I’ve discovered a new and different understanding of a “recovery run.”

I am not, by nature, and anxious person. Yes, I see the world through a morose lens, worrying here and there about my loved ones, but I generally scoff at the notion of “anxiety.” As a God-fearing Christian, I’m not even referencing the typical Scriptures about worry, fear, unease, or anxiety. (I will, however, encourage you to read Isaiah 41:8-10; Psalm 56:3; 1 John 4:18; and John 14:27. Or just google “God’s promises in the Bible.”) 

Like everyone else in the world, I’m talking about COVID-19, which is proving to cripple society at large, sending people into seclusion (an introvert’s dream), kids away from schools (proving why we don’t home-school our kids), shuttering amateur and professional sports (I miss you, Pittsburgh Pirates). It has the potential to shutter small businesses across America, handcuff the health care system, and delay—or at least shorten—the Presidential campaign. Ok, that last one seems pretty good.

Yet in the midst of all this doom and gloom (which is a decent, if not formulaic, Rolling Stones song), I’ve continued to train for my upcoming marathon as if it won’t get cancelled. (Update: It has! But I’ll keep running.) Since I started running more than ten years ago, I’ve always noted the psychological benefits of logging miles, thinking through issues, burning off stress. But with all the unknowns surrounding COVID-19, there are few things that have made me feel human the way running has. Elevating my heart rate, breathing the air outside, seeing a hawk swoop down in front of me, sweating, praying, talking with my running crew (no fist bumps & six feet apart!)—this practice continues to reap benefits. 

I wish I could say I’ve discovered some answers; that rarely happens. Running isn’t the solution to COVID-19. In fact, it’s not even the solution to the anxiety surrounding it. If that were the case, I’d like log thousands of miles between now and the “all clear” call. (Truthfully, I will likely log a lot of miles during that time. I’ll keep you posted.) What I do know is that being active is helpful; it’s a conduit and a healthy coping mechanism. I’m not always running the sexy pace; in fact, just yesterday it was more like a tempo run (non-runners, look it up). Running in the midst of a crisis: It’s my new recovery run.

(This is not a good example of social distancing, but it's Santa Claus! I KNOW him!)

Once More With Feeling

(This is shortly before the tears really started to flow. Not a PR, but marathon #12 is in the books.)

With each marathon I learn something new, about running, about racing, about life, about a community, about myself. Most of the time these lessons have a distinct parallel to everyday life, something that will transfer to my non-running world, hopefully something that will help someone else down the road. You know what I learned in running the inaugural Youngstown Marathon? Emotion is neither friend nor foe, but there are times when it will assert itself and demand to be heard.

A few days before race day, my friend Doug invited me to go for a run, one I anticipated would be an easy three or four miles. When we met at the predetermined place, he asked, "How far do you want to go? Around the lake?" This would be a familiar route but would add five miles to my anticipated total. "Of course I do!" And off we went, maintaining a faster-than-expected pace from beginning to end. This run was important, though, because until then, I didn't have a race plan. In fact, if things had gone according to plan in Nashville (see "Run the Mile You're In") I was going to run Youngstown at an easier pace with my friends. So after reflecting on that run with Doug I determined I was going to tackle the agony of Mill Creek Park and, ideally, post a new PR.

I had confessed to Mrs. RB, though, that while the hills would be challenging (please look at the elevation), my biggest concern would be holding my emotions at bay until crossing the finish line.

Race day comes, and I don my fresh running gear: a Rescue Mission Running Club shirt, super-fly running shorts, and new compression socks. Plenty of orange in honor of my late nephew's love for the Clemson Tigers. Posing for pictures, sharing hugs, mostly smiling, celebrating our hometown marathon. But all I could think about was pushing through the first two miles, setting a decent pace, and getting into the next section of the course.

In previous marathons I'd learned the importance of pace discipline, that exerting myself too much early would be exponentially awful later in the race. "You can't bank time in a marathon," I told myself while approaching Ford Nature Center. And it was just like the cartoons, with an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. "But you could be the first, RB. Go be the first!"

When we travel for races, there are always fellow runners who seem to know everyone along the course, sharing high fives with volunteers, spectators, and other runners. After cruising through downtown and being encouraged by the one and only Dunner, crossing the Mr. Peanut bridge for the second time, and posing for a picture for the BTF water table, I realized I was one of those people!

I started doing math around mile fifteen. "If I average X minutes/mile the rest of the way, I'll PR." But mile sixteen was looming. In fact, that's where the first wave of emotion hit hard, and I started crying.

Let me add here, in case you've missed it in previous posts, that I cry after finishing every marathon. I reflect on the accomplishment, the training, the sacrifice, where I was headed because running and I found each other. And I weep with gratitude. Mile sixteen's tears, however, were different. Primarily induced by grief mixed with adrenaline and pride (for others, the good kind), but I had a long way to go, so I did my best to stifle them.

Without going into the agonizing details (I'll happily recount them for you in person), I spent every couple of miles fighting back tears, arguing with my foot to stop hurting, screaming back at my screaming hamstrings, cursing (under my breath) people telling me I was "almost there," and generally just wanting to be done. And that "X" from the previous math equation was shrinking quickly.

With about a half mile or so to go, I lost it, weeping uncontrollably, snot bubbles and all. At least I had tears to cry, not just salt shooting out of my tear ducts. And then I heard more of my friends on the course, urging me on. I couldn't look at them, but in that moment I remembered Pete Sampras breaking down in the quarterfinals of the Australian Open. I was determined to leave everything on the course, to shed the emotional weight of the previous five weeks.

I don't remember much of that last push, but I don't think I looked at any of the spectators. I simply took my medal and bottle of water (Thanks, Adam!) and found the nearest tree I could lean against. And I wept.

 (Long-time readers know how much I love Rescue Mission of the Mahoning Valley. I couldn't be prouder or more honored to be associated with this group of incredible people. You can see in the picture below volunteers and 5k finishers. And one guy even placed third in his age group...which made me cry and laugh simultaneously.)

Be light; be Light

Much has been said, researched, and written about running mantras. Over the years, miles, and races, I have used a few. "To the end." "Finish." Even the affirmation "You are strong." At my most recent marathon, I simply told myself to "Spend it."

When I started running, as has been documented in these pages, I struggled just to tie miles together. Some of that was because I didn't understand disciplined pacing. Some of it was because I was out of shape and felt like I was going to die with each step. But the more I chased after the ever-elusive "runner's high," the more I started to consider my form, or what I later discovered was called "running efficiency." One of the factors in running form, bad or good, is the foot strike. The best, or most efficient, runners land on the mid foot. I didn't even know I had a midfoot!

(Mrs. RB, on the right, worked hard on her running form because of an injury. Here you can see her proper midfoot strike versus our friend's heel strike on the left. I know it was hard for her to change that, so I'm proud of her. Both of these women are powerhouses in every way.)

As I continued my research, reading articles and watching youtube videos (mostly watching videos), there were two things that struck me: First, proper running looking a lot like prancing. Second, these people looked light on their feet, and it had nothing to do with their weight. They are hurtling themselves forward, like a child careening toward certain doom!

So I started telling myself, "Be light."

This is something I have told the me in the photo above, from the 2017 Mill Creek Distance Classic, a beast of a half marathon. Two of the men in the photo had never completed a half marathon before that day, but they had been diligently and sacrificially training for that day since January. Leading up to that race day, we had spent several hours, and miles, together, talking about running, sure, but life in general. Navigating our way around the glorious Mill Creek MetroParks, reflecting on our experiences and learned truth. Even the night before, we shared a pre-race meal (handmade pasta is the best!) and didn't feel the least bit self-conscious about our group foam-rolling session on my family room floor.

The Great One, Roberto Clemente, said, "If you have the chance to accomplish something that will make things better for people coming behind you and you don't do that, you are wasting your time on this earth." In helping these friends, these brothers, prepare for something equal parts monumental, insane, and minuscule, like the Youngstown Marathon, I hope to do just that: to be Light. More than this, though, is my desire to be Light in a deeper sense. Surely Clemente wasn't just talking about helping athletes develop. As you may know, he died in a plane crash en route to provide supplies to victims of an earthquake in Nicaragua. He saw his life as an opportunity to help others. He he'd been blessed in order to be a blessing to others. Of course I'm flying over this, omitting tremendous details, but Roberto Clemente was Light.

This is something I hope to do: to be Light. Some days it takes more effort, which makes it a mantra. "Be Light, RB. Be Light." That's why running with people becomes important to me--we are Light for one another. If you know me or have read these entries before, you know I love Rescue Mission of Mahoning Valley, all of their work, staff, volunteers, especially the clients. They are Light in my community, helping people see and no longer fear the darkness, helping them know that the Light has overcome it. Some of the clients, my friends and neighbors, are in deep for a variety of reasons. They need real recovery, a Light. And so next month, with some help from RMMV staff and volunteers, we're launching the first Rescue Mission Discipleship Academy Running Club (name pending), helping Academy clients train for and run the 5k race at the inaugural Youngstown Marathon. So I ask for your prayers, that we might be a Light to one another.

I like to run, and I prefer to run long distances. So when people tell me they want to start running, I usually ask a few questions (about shoes, goals, time commitment) that regularly ends with an invitation to join me on a run. After some years and thousands of miles, I know that running breaks down inhibitions, and group runs often can turn into hours of silliness as well as intense conversations, sometimes pseudo-psychotherapy sessions. A friend recently added "reluctant friend" and "preferred hermit" to my list of titles as we discussed the idea of my ever-expanding qualifications, and the necessity of an accordion business card. I've learned, though, that people keep showing up, and I've been charged to be Light. So however reluctantly (and, honestly, the intensity of that depends on the day), I'll keep going, I'll keep saying "yes." After all, whatever blessings I've been given are not solely for me. They're for my family, my friends, my running partners, my community, even complete strangers.

And when their bodies feel heavy, I'll tell them to "be light."

(Above: heel strike. Below: the heavy impact of that heel strike.)

Nobody Cares (About Your Medals)

Standing in line to pick up our race bibs, my friend motioned to the woman behind the table and asked, "RB, should I tell her?"

"You're going to anyway, but she's not going to care. Nobody cares."

I'd been telling him the same thing for years, from the time he fretted over wearing what appeared to be a snowsuit to his first 5k, held on the last Saturday of the year. I told him when he started to get a little more serious about running and his psychosis nagged about what he'd look like if he wore his Camelbak on race day. Even on the morning I showed up to run a half marathon in space-printed tights. So this was just the latest.

"I'm going to run this half in Vibrams. You know, the toe shoes?"

The poor woman could only feign interest, muttering, "Oh really?"

"I told you she didn't care."

Aside:

{While at first that sounds mildly dismissive, I actually meant it to help my friend break some sort of mental shackle, that anyone was paying attention to him or worrying about what he looks like when he runs. And if we zoom out a little bit, that's perhaps a mantra anyone considering adopting a fit lifestyle could use. Nobody cares. When you're at the gym, sweating your keister off, or modifying a push-up/plank/bench jump, nobody cares. In fact, most people are likely unaware you're even in the room. So just keep working, and show up the next day to do more work.}

When I first started running a little more seriously, it took everything in my power not to bombard everyone I talked to about my workouts. "I started adding speedwork." "My times are dropping." "I might consider running a half marathon." "I had to buy new pants...again." (Actually, that last one was annoying even to me because it seemed like I was buying new pants every few weeks as my waistline continued to shrink.) People are kind, sometimes, so, like the woman at the race expo, they would feign interest for a little while and mutter, "Oh really, RB," hoping I'd take the hint. They didn't really care.

My aforementioned friend, the toe shoes guy, recently asked me, "Why do you run?" In no particular order, here were (and are) my answers--though not an exhaustive list:

• to see Creation
• to be Creation
• meditation
• health
• prayer
• community
• joy
• peace
• gratitude
• a clear head
• time to think
• to set an example
• to inspire
• to be inspired
• praise
• compulsion

He noted that only one of those, and not the first on the list, was health. And that's truly why I keep at it. Sure there are reasons I continue to plunk down hard-earned dollars to run races (see: community; add: travel), but running makes me better at what I already am. Thanks, in part, to running, I'm a better husband, father, friend, son, brother, uncle, neighbor, mentor. Thanks, in part, to running, I pay more attention to my neighborhood, community, park, fellow man.

And with that, I'll do my best not to allow running to define me. Yes, I am a runner, but that can be (and has been, thanks to injury) taken away from me. If it defines me, when it's gone, there's nothing left. Essentially, if we chase something that's empty (say, buying a Volvo), when we achieve it, our lives cease to have meaning. (I know I'm getting a little deeper here, but that's also what happens when I run.) My friend, C.S. Lewis, has this to say:

Most people, if they really learn how to look into their own hearts, would know that they do want, and want acutely, something that cannot be had in this world. There are all sorts of things in this world that offer to give it to you, but they never keep their promise. The longings which arise in us when we first fall in love, or first think of some foreign country, or first take up some subject that excites us, are longings which no marriage, no travel, no learning can really satisfy. I am not speaking of what would ordinarily be called unsuccessful marriages or trips and so on; I am speaking of the best possible ones. There is always something we grasped at, in that first moment of longing, that just fades away in reality. The spouse may be a good spouse, the scenery has been excellent, it has turned out to be a good job, but "It" has evaded us.

So let's go for a run and hash this out a bit more, huh?

Some of these medals mean more to me than others, but I remember something about every race so they are all meaningful. Truth is, though, they hang in my closet...because nobody really cares.