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.)

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.)

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.

I'm Going Streaking!

I'd heard about it for years. I even read some articles about the exhilaration. In fact, I have a few friends who have done it. They say it is exciting, challenging, even psychologically beneficial when you factor the boost it can give your self-esteem, the mental currency you can call on when times are rough. "If I did that, I can surely do this." They also say it has disadvantages, that it's dangerous, that you can get hurt. Yet on December 31, 2016, after the Youngstown Jingle Bell Run (a race, by the way, that I will run every year until my body breaks down because it was the first race I ever ran...on purpose), that I decided to do it: I was going streaking.

But there were some things I needed to consider, particularly as a Youngstown Marathon Ambassador:

• Would I get arrested?
• Would my body respond properly?
• Could certain body parts get hurt?
• Isn't it cold in Ohio in January?
• What would the Lovely Mrs. RunningWithRB have to say about it?

Yet here I am, twenty-four days later, and I'm still a free man. Nothing hurts more than usual for a 40-yeard old man in my condition. The weather this month has been unseasonably warm (except for one day...more on that later). And while the Lovely Mrs. RB isn't thrilled about the idea, she's accepted my decision with the understanding that I won't get too carried away with it.

Obviously, friends, I'm referring to a daily running streak. (After all, this isn't called "NudityWithRB." That's a different site. Wait. Don't google that. Seriously.) As noted in a previous post, we're all somebody's crazy running friend, but we also recognize that there are people out there a little more...um...committed (committable?) than ourselves. And that's how I tend to see folks logging miles day after day, with no rest (which most can agree is essential). Yet I was so terribly curious after crossing the finish line at the Canfield Fairgrounds again. Maybe I should just see what I can do in January.

And so for self-imposed rules.

1. At least one mile every day.
2. Preferably outside, but allow yourself flexibility.
3. You want to end this of your own accord, not get forced into it (by injury, sickness, irritated family) so listen to your body (and your wife and kids).

The first real test came during the first week of January when, because of single-digit temperatures, I determined I would likely run just three miles (after a series of 4s, 5s, and a 6+). That plan changed the minute I stepped out of my car (in the glorious Mill Creek Park, by the way) and was blasted with frigid air. My body yelled, "Six degrees, RB?! What is wrong with you?" I relented and ran my fastest mile of the year.

The crazy thing about this, of course, is that usually between marathon training cycles I just run when I can, for however long my schedule will allow. And I'm essentially doing the same thing, but I'm making more time in that schedule. As long as my body holds up, I fully intend to keep this up until the end of the month, with a planned rest day on February 1. But who knows? My training plan for Nashville and Youngstown doesn't start until the middle of the month. Maybe I'll keep streaking.

This is from the 2013 Akron Marathon Relay. I don't remember our aggregate time, but it was a blast. Let me know if you want me to be part of your next marathon relay team.

Three more things, faithful readers. First, for the record, during this streak I have logged over 128 miles. If I continue to hold that average (about 5 1/3 miles/day), January 2017 will hold my personal record for most miles in the month.

Secondly, the other day I asked a couple friends (who are eagerly anticipating their first marathon, at Youngstown) whether or not they would ever consider running a naked 5k. They both, fairly quickly, declined, but when asked, I couldn't have possibly offered my "Yup" any faster.

Finally, I ought to confess here that, on occasion, I have mooned my friends and family during a run. Fear not, though, because unless I know you well and no one else is around, you won't likely see these cheeks.

What's in a Name, Or: Where are the Flags for My Car?

Of course when Bill Shakespeare put those lines, "What's in a name," into Romeo's mouth, he was making some existential statement about sworn enemies and love, right? As for me, I've been reflecting on the names I've been known as over the last year:

• Dad
• Boardman man
• Former Oberlin High School teacher
• Captain
• Servant
• Local runner

And now, I get to be an Ambassador. More specifically, I will serve as an ambassador to the inaugural Youngstown Marathon, to be held Sunday, June 4, 2017. Now I hate to stress this too much, but the role of ambassador is awfully serious. At the very least, the folks at Merriam-Webster considered me a representative, and whatever it is I'm representing, I hope I do it well.

So let this initial blog post serve as an announcement, dear reader, that I intend to represent Youngstown and its running community well. Over the next few months I'll agonizingly share my training experiences as I prepare for both the Nashville and Youngstown Marathons, all the while serving as a proper #runtheyo ambassador and helping a few friends train for their first marathons (at Youngstown). But what I really want to know is when do I get ambassador flags for my car? And where is the embassy?

And if you're a regular Running with RB reader, eagerly checking back often to see what I've been doing since May 2016, rest assured that I'll write more detailed updates over the course of the coming weeks.

This is soon after I completed the 2016 Richmond Marathon where I ran a PR. (That's my daughter's arm, attempting some bunny ears on me.)