Run the Mile You're In, Even When It's Slow

I had grand plans, friends, to write this blog. In fact, I've been taking notes about this entry for months. I was going to return from Nashville, triumphant from having set a new marathon personal best, with a new Western hat and funny yet poignant stories about my friends and travel companions. I was going to tell you about how the things I love to do, some of my passions, mostly involve taking my time. Marriage. Marathons. Brewing beer. Bread-making. Baseball. Relationships. I was even going to quote David Bowie ("Time may change me/But I can't trace time.") But to misquote my friend Robert Burns, "The best-laid plans of mice and men go often awry." (As a former high school English teacher, of course I know the line is actually "The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men/Gang aft agley".)

See, within ninety minutes of arriving home from a terrific trip to Nashville, my mother called to tell me my 18-year old nephew had been killed in a car accident.

And now time grinds to a halt. The kindness of people continues to overflow (truly, thank you all) when they ask what they can do to help. My answer is always the same: Speed up time to get to the easier part. Of course that's not possible, and while it's beautiful to see friends and family support one another with presence and prayer (again, thank you all, which doesn't seem sufficient), our heartache continues because we love Evan.

Just this morning a dear friend called me, and all I could talk about was my family's faith, our faith in Jesus, in the Comforter/Advocate that is the Holy Spirit. "It seems so incongruous to say we know God will sustain us, and yet we remain so heart-broken. But these things coexist within us all. And praise God for it. And dammit." All at the same time.

And so maybe these thoughts all work together, after all. During the race in Nashville, a spectator held a sign that read "Run the mile you're in." Most days I would say that sounds trite, too simplistic, and maybe a little corny. But just like persevering through what was a difficult marathon, maybe it's the best way to mourn my nephew, my buddy, an inspiration to many, little Genghis Khan, a young man of God. Rather than speed through this, we need to be present and run the mile we're in.

(Like all good uncles, I love to tease my nieces and nephews. These are two of my favorite pictures, from Evan's fourteenth birthday. I'm sure Mrs. RB and I gave him a "real" present, too, but this was a good prank.)

If you would like to help, you can make a donation to Evan's school for their new gymnasium project. Find more information about that here. Or you can send a check directly to Greenwood Christian School Gymnasium Fund, 2026 Woodlawn Road, Greenwood, SC 29649.

Guest Blog: Pure

Friends, as I prepare to run the Nashville Marathon this coming Saturday (with all the physical and psychological energy I need to put toward that), I figured it might be appropriate to have a guest blogger. Toe-shoes Guy is a dear friend, a man I love like a brother. He continues to encourage, aggravate, question, inspire, amuse, and positively challenge me. Like any one of us, his story is yet incomplete. Here's a chapter:

I run in the foothills of the Sierra Estrella Mountains. 

Trails are raw and unforgiving. Climbs are brutal. Views are nothing short of breathtaking. The foothills draw me in like sirens. Everything in this Sonoran paradise is poised to kill me: cacti, scorpions, rattlesnakes, rocks, and most of all the sun. But, there is something that happens to you out there. Something primal. Something profoundly spiritual (keep it light -RB)

My first race was the Jingle Bell 5k in Canfield, OH. It was cold. Too damn cold. I wore a sweet pair of lined workout pants, long underwear, a few top layers, a fashionable activewear jacket, winter gloves and a nice warm hat. I had my new Nike watch on, I had to know how fast I was. This was going on Facebook! I was a badass! I'm running a 5k! 

"Nice snowsuit." (Thanks RB) 

I had no idea what I was doing. I took off with the surge, sloshed my new $120 Sauconys in a puddle, overheated, and got passed by almost everyone except maybe a stray smoker who stumbled onto the course. I ran the last tenth in a dead sprint, high hands and all. That race sucked. I sucked. I was done (right after posting to Facebook) 

Father's Day 2014, days before heading west, a few friends and I ran the Mill Creek Distance Classic 1/2 Marathon route together, unofficially. 

If you are not familiar with the race. Run it. I dare you. The official race is held early March. In Youngstown, OH, in Mill Creek Park. 19 hills to climb, I believe. It will take things from you. Big Bear may break you. If not, the Three Sisters will. 

That day in June, I ran with three amazing men, simply for the purity of the run. The weather was much more pleasant; the course was not. Just a pair of shorts, a shirt, and my Nike watch (if I don't post this to Facebook, it didn't happen). I ran barefoot ("nobody cares" -RB) I let everything else go. Along the way, our wives shuttled support. They set up hydration stations and cheered us on. One of the guys enlisted a flautist to play along the roadside. 

(RB here. We did not all run barefoot because 75% of us have some damn sense.)

I ran The Mill Creek Distance Classic course. 

A year later, and 2100 miles away from my beloved Mill Creek Park, I was prepping for a trail run in my new found Estrella foothills. Weather app says upper 80's, nice! So, let's see, Spyridons (stupid toe shoes - RB), headband, shirt, shorts and hydration pack. The 2 liter bladder with Gatorade should be fine, it's only 6 miles. Where's the Body Glide?!?! Headphones. Playlist? Speed metal. Can't crush these rugged foothill trails without Metallica. Oh, and my TomTom GPS (if I don't post this epic trail run to Facebook, it didn't happen). 

St. Anger, Metallica. I'm killing it! Weaving in and out of these foothills. Up There -> Up Yours -> Climbing like a beast!  Quick glance at the TomTom... 13:22 pace. 

Dead stop. What!?!?! Can't be! This sucks. I suck. I'm done. 

When I finally made it home after an epic Sonoran temper tantrum in the presence of cacti, God, and the Sierra Estrella Mountains, I revisited the rant to my wife. 

Kim smiled and said, "Like Peter, you looked down at the water and began to sink. You lost focus. Once again, your experience changed based on perception, distraction and noise. (She's good with Jesus stuff) Get rid of the watch. Leave the headphones. Forget everything else. You love to run. So, just run." 

I run in the foothills of the Sierra Estrella Mountains.

(RB again. Go visit this guy. He's needy and fun. His wife and kids are a joy. You'll have explorations in cheese and smoothies.)

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.)

And...Exhale

Bob Dylan once referred to the writing of "Like a Rolling Stone" as "this long piece of vomit, 20 pages long." Something was building, and it was time for it come out. That's where I am and possibly how this will read.

Going to bed the night before the race, I told my wife, "I've done all the things I don't care for--newspaper and television interviews, speaking to groups of people, public attention. Now that's over. Tomorrow I get to do the thing I really love to do." And so I triple-checked that my alarm was set, a little before 5:AM, knowing full well I'd wake up before it could go off.

A short walk to the train station in order to get to Copley Square where I need to check in around 6:30. And the waiting begins. Of course I'm fidgety, just ready to run this race, but my wave doesn't start until 11:15, and with my corral I probably won't cross the starting line until close to 11:30. But this is the Boston Marathon, so whatever gripes I may have don't linger. In the fundraiser tent on Copley, I eat some breakfast and alternate among coffee, water, and a little Gatorade. Then some volunteers tell us it's time to load the buses and head to the starting line in Hopkinton. The bus ride is close to an hour in length, and I just wish the gentlemen behind me would stop talking. Please stop talking! Let a guy be quiet with his thoughts and maybe take a nap. Oh well.

We arrive around 8:15. Three hours until the start. That's agonizing, but I have no choice. A little more food and hydration, but at least I find a bench in a hallway inside part of Hopkinton High School away from most of the chatterboxes. So I wait, take a few trips to the port-o-johns, mostly stay off my feet. My friend texts that he and his brother of arrived at the Athletes' Village and I decided to try to find them. Now, I've never been to a refugee camp, and I don't mean to be too careless in discussing this, but after displaying my bib number for security and wading through a multitudes, smelling the football field-sized line-up of temporary toilets facilities, I come upon this. And this. And this. And this. And rather than wait in line for the toilet, there are some runners opting for the fence line. And I'm not talking just for #1, friends. Sorry, fellas. Run well, and I'll see you later. I head back to my secluded bench.

After hours of more waiting and a brief conversation with a John Hancock employee about to run his first marathon (hope you liked it, Jimmy!), they call my wave, and I begin the 20-minute walk to the starting line. Finally! It's shoulder-to-shoulder the entire way, and people along either side of the road are offering shots of sunscreen because the sun is already high. One last port-o-john stop, and I find my corral, filing in with thousands of other runners. This is when I get very quiet and simply pray, "Let this run glorify you, Lord. Thank you."

Now a general fly-over about the race. Because you're likely to become bored if I detail each mile.

A quarter-mile in, I see a few dozen men duck into the woods, regretting not hitting those port-o-johns near the start. Despite the number of participants (27,000+ finishers that day), I'm able to hit my stride early and settle into a decent pace. Around mile 3 my body says it has to make a pit stop (just #1), and I tell it, "If you still have to go at mile 10, I'll stop." Seems a reasonable arrangement.

I've adopted a practice from a friend of mine who prays and crosses himself at each mile marker. We're both Protestants, but it makes enormous sense to me. In fact, I see running as an offering, as another way to show my love for God. So at each mile I cross myself and say, "Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Thank you for that last mile. Give me strength in my legs and breath in my lungs to honor you with this next one."

Mile 6, Framingham, is very cool. Families are out in full force, cheering on the runners. The smell of barbecue and the sound of music fills the air. That party seems fun, but I have several miles to go.

I'm wearing my custom-made OHIO singlet, knowing full well this will elicit some specific cheers from the crowd (which "they" estimated around 750,000 that day, I think). "Go Ohio!" "Yeah Ohio!" "Hey, Ohio is a swing state!" I couldn't help myself when I heard a guy around mile 8 yell that, and I responded, "Your mom is a swing state." Yeah. I really said it.

Mile 10 comes and goes, and my body reminds me of my promise. As soon as I stop running, I start counting, to note how many seconds this lasts. When I hit 15 seconds, I've starting again. I'll double-check my splits after the race. And this is so wild because it feels like the miles are flying by.

Mile 14 is the infamous Wellesley Scream Tunnel. A thousand or more Wellesley College students screaming for and kissing (if accepted) the marathoners. It was deafening...and maybe a little annoying.

The Newton Hills (which culminate with Heartbreak Hill in mile 21) start around mile 16, and this is where my wife and our friends had planned to be on the course. I don't see them and continue to look for them at each subsequent mile. Having prepared to run hills, especially late in the race, I determine to make sure I'm actually running up them, even if it only feels like running. It's psychologically important for me to knock down some roadkill (a classy term for runners you pass during a race) on these hills.

Around mile 19, I let myself think about my friends and neighbors at the Rescue Mission because it is seven miles from my house, and I have just seven miles to the finish line.

By the time I near mile 20, I figure I'll just meet up with my crew at the finish line, that transportation was difficult, so I likely won't see anyone on the course. As I check my watch to see my overall pace and determine what the final 10k might look like, I hear someone shout, "Rick Blair!!!" And it's Cakes. And there's my wife holding up a sign that reads, "I love Rick!" And there's my friend Dave, shouting. Shouting? Dave? I've known Dave for more than 20 years, and I've never heard him shout. (He later tells me that he's been saving it up for that moment.) What a boost!

There is no sign indicating Heartbreak Hill, but when I'm halfway up what I believe is the legendary s.o.b., I think, "God, please let this be it. Because this just sucks." At the top I see a homemade sign: "You've reached the top of Heartbreak Hill." Hallelujah. I'm tired.

My prayer around mile 23 changes ever so slightly. "Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Thank you for that last mile. Give me strength in my legs and breath in my lungs to honor you with this next one. And oh s#%*, God, this is hard."

The famous Citgo sign is near Fenway Park and is the place where runners know they have just one more mile to run. The problem is that you can see it for a mile and a half before you actually reach it. Torture, but I keep pressing on. This landmark is also where it all sinks in, that I'm running the Boston Bleepin' Marathon. That I'm going to finish the Boston Bleepin' Marathon!

As I turn onto Boylston Street, I remember what Doug told me on Friday: "You're no long running; you're flying." And it's true.

Several people have asked me since then how I felt after finishing. The only honest answer is "Grateful."