75 Thoughts Every Runner Has

From the I-wish-I-wrote-this files, here’s one Buzzfeeder’s “75 Thoughts Every Runner Has While Out For A Run”. So funny, so true. It also made me reflect on a runner’s stream-of-consciousness and ask important questions like: what the heck is CrossFit anyway?

1. What a beautiful day for a run!
2. This sucks.
3. Well, five miles is only two and half miles each way, which is basically two miles each way, so I’m really only running four miles. That’s not too far.

1. What a beautiful day for a run

4. It’s starting to feel far.
5. How long have I been running? A year?
6. SIX MINUTES?!
7. I can barely remember what my life was like before I started this run.
8. OK, concentrate. There are still four-plus miles to go.
9. But who counts the first and last mile? This is pretty much an easy three miler.
10. Oh, shit! A fellow jogger!
11. Should I wave?
12. I’m totally gonna wave.
13. OOOK, they didn’t wave back. Never doing that again.
14. Just keep running, no one saw. Except that old guy who may or may not be averting his eyes.
15. Man, I think I’m hitting that “second wind” thing my gym coach was talking about.
16. Wait, never mind. I’ve been running down a decline.
17. If I leap to avoid dog shit, does that make me a CrossFit athlete?
18. What the heck is CrossFit anyway?

27. I’m running five miles so I should probably eat five slices of pizza.

19. Mental reminder: Google CrossFit when I get home.
20. If I ever get home.
21. If I had a heart attack right now, I wonder who would find my body.
22. OMG, I hope I never find a dead body. Joggers always find dead bodies.
23. Bodies. Body. Bod-ay. Runnin’ all day, no one can catch … may.
24. OK, I must be halfway done by now.
25. What?! Only two miles in?
26. Alright, stay focused. What am I going to eat when I get home?
27. I’m running five miles so I should probably eat five slices of pizza.
28. Or I could buy one pizza and ask them to cut it into five slices.
29. I should probably get a side salad too.
30. …
31. Fuck the salad actually.
32. Man, what are these people doing in front of me? Walking?!
33. Is this a contest to see who’s the worst at walking? Because you are both champions in my heart.
34. Maybe if I pound my feet on the ground they’ll hear me coming and let me pass.
35. Oh, God. They didn’t turn around and now I’m right behind them. They’re going to think they’re getting mugged by the world’s sweatiest criminal.
36. You know what? Now seems like a good time to run in the street.
37. * Jumps off curb * Parkour!
38. Hi hi hi please don’t hit me with your car.
39. Pedestrian pedestrianizing over here, let me cross.
40. Thank you, Mr. Blue Honda. I’m trying to smile at you but it probably looks like I’m having a stroke.
41. Actually, I wonder what I look like right now.
42. * Checks out reflection in shop window * Yeesh.

37. * Jumps off curb * Parkour!

43. Is that what I look like when I run? What am I, a newborn deer with a drinking problem

44. Whatever, I must be almost done by now.
45. Heck yes. Three miles down, two to go. It’s all downhill from here.
46. Except for that very real uphill in front of me. God damnit.
47. Wait, is that… Is that…
48. A DOG!
49. Hi dog! You are so cute. You are now my mascot. I will finish this run for you, pup.
50. And — hello — what do we have here? Your human is pretty cute too.
51. Hope you like drunk fawns, Cute Human.
52. Watch my bambi ass prance up this hill.
53. Holy shit, prancing is exhausting. I am exhausted.
54. Honestly, I don’t even like running.
55. Why do I even run?
56. Why does anyone even run?

43. Is that what I look like when I run? What am I, a newborn deer with a drinking problem?

57. Why are we even alive?
58. OK, let’s not go down that road.
59. Focus. Focus on that sweet, delicious ‘za waiting at the finish line, calling your name with its cheesy breath.
60. Wait, less than one mile to go? I am KILLING this run.
61. I AM THE SWIFTEST GOD OF ALL TWO-LEGGED CREATURES.
62. YES, including ostriches.
63. Honestly, I should sign up for a marathon.
64. What is it, like 30 miles?
65. That’s just 15 miles each way, which is practically 10, and 10 is twice five, and I can run five miles EASY.
66. That’s it, I’m doing it. Thirty miles.
67. Thirty-mile marathon…30-mile marathon…30 Rock marathon.
68. On second thought, I’ll probably just binge-watch every episode of 30 Rock. That takes a lot of dedication and I will be winded from laughing so hard.
69. But I could probably do a marathon IF I wanted.
70. OK, almost home. Should I shower first and order pizza or order pizza and shower before it shows up?
71. Yep, definitely ordering first. I earned that shit.
72. Oh, no. Oh god no. Another runner. Should I wave?
73. No, be strong! Do not get burned again.
74. OMG, SHE waved first! Hello! Yes! We are both runners! Look at us run!
75. I guess running’s not so bad.

View original post on Buzzfeed at 75 Thoughts Every Runner Has While Out For A Run

 

[Imagine Clever Title Here]

We were talking about lewd books.

“There’s this one, mostly from a teenage boy’s perspective, that was just so frank, and it was written in the 1960s

so it was this big controversy. Damn, what was it called …” My story trailed off into nothing. The conversation moved on. But I had tuned out, desperate to recall the very memorable book with a terribly unmemorable name.

Portnoy’s Complaint. No wonder I couldn’t remember the title. Portnoy is the protagonist’s surname of Philip Roth’s celebrated 1969 novel. But several years after reading it, “Portnoy” had lost all meaning, and the title too, was lost.

My apologies Mr Roth, but I feel like your title failed its most important role. It didn’t provide a convenient hook to rest your art. So when I wanted to pull your book from my internal library, I had nothing to grab. It remained on the shelf, dusty and untouched, when it really should’ve been shared.

Good books deserve good titles. Firstly, good titles have to be memorable.  But they also have to lure the unsuspecting shopper in the book store, satisfy the reader afterwards and, I guess, work with Search Engine Optimization in mind. Some say titles should be 70 characters or less, others say there’s power in a three-word title. Use key words and an active voice.

I can think of fabulous titles that break each of the above rules.

Goodreads’ Best Book Titles list is rife with quirky titles that immediately pique curiosity. Like, for example, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.

Then there are titles that are 80 per cent normal, but an unexpected turn of phrase or twist in syntax, averts expectation, and hence the unforgettable Love in the Time of Cholera, Something Wicked This Way Comes and Owls Do Cry.

The cleverly titled Eats, Shoots and Leaves win points for its puns, while simple alliteration in Pride and Prejudice helps commit the title to memory. And then there are titles that are just so apt that you can’t imagine anything else. Like The Slap, which covers the novel’s central issue while its snappy sound evokes the sharp, succinct sound and action of a slap. There’s no way that novel could have a long-winded, curious-incident-of-the-night-time, sort of title.

To labour over tens of thousands of words and then pick just a handful to summarise, incite, imply and entice, I imagine it’s not a decision that’s taken lightly.

And on that note, this blog entry needs a title. Something clever, quirky, and 70-characters-or-less. Umm … ahhh … Hmm. I’ll get back to you.

Where have all the runners gone?

Good morning! Love Vancouver

It’s cold and dark. It’s 8am and I’m still in bed having ignored the three alarms that told me it was running time. Welcome to running in the Canadian winter, where actually, you just don’t.

OK, so I’m in Vancouver (4 degrees) and not Edmonton (-24 degrees), but still, it’s not easy to muster up the motivation to hit the road when you’re this close to the Arctic. On the few occasions when I’ve gone out before or after work, I’m surprised to find that I’m not the only one struggling to run through winter.

The 9km loop around Stanley Park, usually teeming with joggers and strollers, is all but deserted both pre and post work. These days I’m lucky to see 5 other runners while out for a 90 minute trot.

But the hard core runners soldier through. I can tell because Van City Run Club still offers at least a dozen group runs a week to its 2335 members. In hope of finding some motivation/will power, I picked the brains of club organizer, seasoned marathoner and local legend Jerry Kroll.

His first tip to running through winter: run with friends.

“You’ll be tempted to skip a run if the weather is a bit nasty,” he says. “But if you’ve got peer pressure and fun people to run with you’ll follow through and feel great about it.”

Reward donut! Because Jerry said I could.

He also suggests:

–          Have your warm gear laid out ready to go

–          Take immune system boosting supplements

–          Reward yourself “a latte, special cookie or whatever winds your crank”

–          Stick to well lit, safe neighbourhoods when it’s dark out

And my favourite: “If your finances and schedule can afford it, plan for a week or two of a holiday in a nice, sunny place like Arizona during the winter. Almost every elite runner in the world trains in the elevation at Flagstaff Arizona during the winter months, and a week or two of this sort of luxury can totally change your fitness level.”

Yes. A week’s holiday somewhere warm is all about fitness.

Left: bad snow, Right: good snow

Winter running is also about knowing your snow. We don’t really do snow in New Zealand. Not in the cities and certainly not on my running routes. So when a whopping 11cm of the white stuff blanketed Vancouver recently, I squeed! in excitement, put on my trainers and expected a good, frolicsome run.

The reality was like trying to run in a slushy machine, punctuated with patches of slippery black ice and puddles of melted snow. Not ideal.

So for those runs, let me pass on my own expert advice: Hard, crunchy snow good. Slushy, sinky, puddly snow bad.

And no run at all? Much, much worse.

Alleyways, grottos and towers of books

There’s an episode of BBC’s Black Books where Bernard turns his dingy, dusty, attic-like second hand book shop into an ultra-modern store. There is ambient music, oversized sofas and a coffee machine that pumps out soy-mocha-chai-bambaccinos.

When his customers leave en mass because Bernard doesn’t serve lunch he panics: “We can’t give them reasons to leave! We’ll do lunch and dinner! We’ll build a pool and a gym and an Egyptian-style casino. No that’s getting carried away, but the food! If they could eat, they’d stay and buy books all day.”

He later realises he’s sold out and returns to his musty, fusty, original style that unashamedly offers one thing: books.

Sometimes I’ll walk into a book shop of the shiny chain store variety and be immediately mesmerised. After half an hour I’m carrying: an artsy magazine, a beautiful coffee table book that’s 50% off, designer stationery, a scented candle, and quite possibly, a paperback. Common sense kicks in before I get to the counter. I know I don’t need any of this stuff. I just want it because it looks pretty. And the shop is just so nice. It smells like cinnamon.

In other words, I’ve been wooed.

Then there are book stores like MacLeod’s in Vancouver. I found MacLeod’s quite by accident and my first thought, after I opened the heavy door and stood awe-struck, was: “I think … I’ve just found heaven”.

There were heaping mounds of books. Internal alleyways of books. Grottos of books. Books piled in towers and books upon books upon books.

I had to remember to breathe.

There is order to the chaos, according to the very affable staff member Joseph. He says the layout is deceptively organised, in a way that is perhaps less obvious to customers. Luckily, the staff know their stuff. Name a specific author, or title, or enquire about Nordic crime novels and chances are they can tell you on the spot if they have it in stock.

I can’t explain why this dishevelled assortment is my ideal. At a guess, it’s book loving in its purest form. No gimmicks or subliminal messages necessary. And, if I’m going to get all poetic about it, MacLeod’s bares the same physical hallmarks of a much cherished paperback. It is worn and faded and scuffed from years of too much love. Furthermore, English literature is built on centuries of history and tradition. Shops like the 50-year-old MacLeod’s respect that tradition by adhering to a style more

reminiscent of an English Tudor library, and eschewing the latest in clever marketing ploys. MacLeod’s treats books and its customers as they should be treated: honestly.

Maybe that’s it. Or maybe there are all sorts of metaphorical connections I haven’t even considered.

Then again, maybe I’m just a little bit old school.

Running Solo

Beware of wildlife

The good thing about running solo is I can dictate when, where and the speed. Ahh, the freedom. Sounds good, aye? The bad thing about running alone is it’s a terrible way to make friends. The only interaction I get while out for a trot is the occasional smile from another runner. The small moment of solidarity from a kindred spirit adds a disproportionate amount of awww-fuzzy-feel-good to my run.

The social factor, or lack of it, is something I’ve rarely thought about in the past. I have plenty of friends, and running was simply the part of my day where I was happily alone. That all changed four days ago when I up and moved countries.

Now, as I go about settling into my new Vancouver home, I’m on a mission to make new friends.
This morning, I went for my morning solo run around the popular runners’ circuit at Stanley Park. I got a couple of smiles of acknowledgement. I think. But on second thought, they could have been bemused smirks as I diverged off track to give the placid, but very large, Canadian geese a wide berth.

That’s it. That’s the extent of social interaction from my beloved sport. Can I strike up conversation with a stranger on the run? Maybe. But it’s not guaranteed to be appreciated. Solo runners probably enjoy their freedom. Plus, I don’t want people to think I’m a creep.

And so I joined a MeetUp group for runners. A couple of times a week, someone will advertise a group run on the website, and anyone from the group is invited to turn up.

I haven’t yet built up the courage to go to a meet up. I’m a little anxious, as I won’t be able to  dictate when, where or the speed. But on the other hand, I will have people to help me fend off Canadian geese. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll make some friends.

NOTE TO SELF: run with camera

>

Searching for sub-10 happiness

Nineties supermodel Linda Evangelista once said she wouldn’t get out of bed for less than $10k. Smug bitch, everyone thought. I too won’t get out of bed for anything less than 10k. Kilometres that is, not dollars. The difference is, I know it’s an unhealthy, unhelpful attitude, and one I’m trying to correct.

I’m a slow-burning kind of runner. Unhurried, steady, and I’ll need a couple of hours. It’s time-consuming and worse, it’s not doing a thing to get me back into my skinny jeans.

I should be doing interval training sessions, sprints, short’n’sharp runs. Those are the things that will get my heart pumping, improve fitness and burn fat. The thing is, those runs? They’re hard.

When my alarm goes to do a leisurely pre-work 13km jog, I think: “yes, lovely, let’s roll”.

When my alarm goes off to do an 8km fartlek run (bursts of sprinting and jogging) and I think: “nooooo! Bed. So Nice”. I roll over and go back to sleep.

It’s hard to overcome this way of thinking. Running is my happy place and why would I want to spoil it by adding pain? Oh right, the skinny jeans.

OK, so running Jo Style is better than sitting on the couch. But really, the 12+ hours I spend running each week could be more efficiently squeezed into 6 hours if only I worked harder. I wouldn’t have to get up so early, and heck, I might even develop speed for race days.

And so I’ve signed up for the 8km Powerade Challenge. Throughout May and June you can run the 8km waterfront course and time yourself with a personal timing chip wristband. Your time is recorded online and potentially Facebook. I’m scared. I will be slow. It may hurt. It will be public.

But hey, at least I’ll be getting out of bed for less than 10k. And that’s something, innit?

WHAT HE TALKS ABOUT WHEN HE TALKS ABOUT RUNNING

I can’t write this blog without mentioning Haruki Murakami’s What I talk about when I talk about running. For those thinking Haruki Who? Then let me introduce you to one of Japan’s top novelists. Author of quirky surrealist novels Norwegian Wood, Kafka on the Shore and The Wind-up Bird Chronicle.

Murakami’s has a gift for story-telling. He’s a master of surrealism. Personally, not my cup of tea but his straight-talking autobiographical What I talk about when I talk about running IS my kind of brew.

Murakami is also a long-distance runner: at least a marathon a year, a 100km ultra under his belt, dabbling in triathlon  … It’s fair to say then, Murakami is living my dream.

As I dream of one day adding ‘novelist’ to my CV, I’m heartened to know Murakami didn’t start writing until his thirties, when he just up and sold his jazz bar and thought he’d give it a crack. No need to despair just yet, then.

His book got me thinking though, are writing and long-distance running related?

Obviously both are long, solitary activities that require commitment, mental stamina and an attitude to ‘slog it out’. Both imbue a ‘chipping away’ sort of approach in order to reach the end.

Those sort of values obviously match some personalities. I’m never going to be someone who sprints through life. I’m never going to run a sub-2o 5km and I’m never going to be the kind of writer who whips out 5000 words a day. I once spent fours hours on a paragraph that didn’t even make the final cut.

Slow, methodical, I’ll put in the hours to earn my reward. Especially if the reward involves cake and a lie down. I’m also an independent type, and both writing and running rely on no one but myself. They’re both fairly organic processes, and in the right mood, provide quality time to contemplate life’s daily dilemmas.

So what do I talk about when I talk about running?

You’re reading it, baby.

As for the rest, you’ll have to wait for the book.

Mere mortal to half iron woman

I don’t know whether it was recklessness or just plain stupidity, but I pressed the REGISTER NOW button and signed up for a half iron man. Big deal, you say. Triathlon is the sport du jour and hundreds, no thousands of New Zealanders compete in half iron man-distance triathlons every year.

Photo: Katie Cox

But I’m a normal person. And as a rule, half iron man athletes aren’t normal. You can tell by the way their calf muscles ripple in the sunlight. You can tell from the permanent tan lines high up on the thighs and the distinct smell of chlorine as they lean over your shoulder.

A half iron man consists of a 2km swim, 90km cycle and 21.1km run. That’s just one person completing all three disciplines, ideally before lunchtime.

I paid my $275 entry fee and joined the Port of Tauranga Half Facebook group, which soon informed me I’d be “racing” the country’s top Iron Man athletes, Joanna Lawn, Cameron Brown, Terenzo Bozzone, etc.

And the crazy part? I entered just eight weeks before race day, giving myself two months to transform from a casual back-of-the-pack triathloner into a half iron woman.

Gulp.

First, a disclaimer. I can run. Slowly but surely, I can whack out a half marathon (21.1km) on a Saturday morning no problem. Other than that, I’m a terrible swimmer, barely a cyclist and enjoy chocolate far too much to ever have the lean physique of a real athlete.

I also proudly maintain a homemade form of “training”. No coaches, no swish gadgets, no specialist gear. And that way, there’s no pressure to do anything other than splash, cruise and plod my way to the finish.

Eight weeks didn’t give me a lot of time. I figured it was too late to join a swim squad or cycle group or any of that malarkey. Forget downloading an online programme to steadily build speed and stamina. As for a coach, *snort*, pull the other one.

Sticking to my homemade tactics, I devised a simple, yet cunning plan. Beyond work, I would run, swim, cycle and sleep.

The first of my three alarms would tinkle at 5:15am every weekday for some form of training. Then, three out of five weeknights would be another hour or so, energy levels and weather pending.

Weekends were dedicated to whopper sessions. Typically, after four or five hours on the road, I’d return home, scoff some carbs, cancel the afternoon’s planned social activity and fall asleep before I even peeled off the Lycra.

After a few whopper sessions I realised I’d crossed the line. I was becoming a not normal person.

Normal people don’t wear spandex in bed. Normal people don’t consume gel shots and call it “nutrition”. Normal people don’t wonder whether the extra weight of nail polish will impact negatively on their cycle time.

I couldn’t hide my new, bizarre lifestyle. For starters, I’d yawn my way through social outings. At work, my business clothes were complemented by chain grease on my leg, and goggle marks around my eyes.

Though it was the emotional guff though that I threw me. I couldn’t for the life of me cope with training and the daily hiccups of life.

A malfunctioning brand new laptop threw me into utter despair. I was forced to forego what felt like a crucial swim session, to deal with the misbehaving gadgetry. I combated the frustration with junk food. Guilt, exhaustion and an overwhelming sense of failure rained down on me. I think I cried three times that day.

But I didn’t feel like a real athlete either.

I was doing everything wrong. I shouldn’t have been eating scones and chocolate for dinner, but darn it, that’s what I wanted. I didn’t have time to fix my training or nutrition plan, and I stubbornly clung to the challenge of doing things my way.

When the big day finally arrived, so too did the panic. I was surrounded by bronzed, well-muscled people in very serious, very streamlined, sports gear. No doubt about it, I was out of my league.

Ten minutes before the start, I got chatting with Kat from Hamilton. This was her first time too, and was a touch nervous. She was a swimmer, and was dreading the run.

Then I got talking to some older ladies who were trying to locate the buoys that marked the swim course. No one seemed

Photo: Katie Cox

bothered we couldn’t spot them, in fact they were laughing.

The more I spoke to the athletes the calmer I felt.

Calm. That’s good when you’re face down in the water and have people swimming over top of you.

The water too was calm, and unlike my training spot in Wellington Harbour, free of jellyfish. My only dilemma was locating those darn buoys to swim around. Not such a minor detail as hoped.

Before I knew it I was on my bike, aka “The Tank”. I pedalled my little heart out and was passed by yet more people. People with bigger quads and smaller bikes.

After a solid 4 hours, seven-time New Zealand Iron Man champion Joanna Lawn was running the final stretch of the half marathon, and at the same time I was pulling in with my bike. The crowd cheered her/me on: “Go Jo!”

I beamed.

Photo: Helen Williams

The run was my time to shine. And I did, once I got through the first 16km. That’s when I realised I was going to survive, and soon, very soon, I could have a lie down and a medal.

I finished in 6:15. Elated, sunburnt, chaffed and a bit wobbly on my feet. Now I felt like a half iron woman.

This article appeared in the Sunday Star-Times “Sunday” magazine (3 Feb 2013). For the published article please click see the two PDFs under the same title in the “Flash_Widgets” sidebox on the right-hand side of this page.

RUNNING WITH SNAKES

My friend Rachel told me not to worry about the snakes. She ran those hills in Phoenix’s northern suburbs most days and had never encountered one.

She said if I was that worried about it (I was), then I should carry a small rock. If I saw a snake while running, I could throw it between me and the snake. Snakes are ‘fraidy cats, apparently, and feeling the vibrations they will slither away in fear.

That settled, we head out for a quick early morning “snake run” near Rachel’s house. It’s desert country. All red rocks, cacti, adobe houses and (potentially) hungry reptiles lying in wait behind every boulder.

When I wasn’t looking out for said snakes, I was gawping at the landscape. Even the sky looked different. Surely it’s not that high up back home? Is it always so far away? And while gazing skyward I’d stumble on rocks and remember where I was. Snake country. Watch out.

Despite the alien countryside and the fact I was sweating fear, there was unusually, also a sense of “ahhh, home”. It had been non-stop donuts-for-breakfast-pizza-for-tea since arriving in the States a week beforehand. I’d been on token runs since – around New York’s Central Park, up and down Washington DC’s Constitution Ave – but nothing substantial to even begin countering my calorific USA Holiday! diet. And certainly nothing as wholesome and outdoorsy as a trail run.

I felt I was back on familiar ground with my beloved sneakers on my feet, and pacing out that ingrained rhythm of one foot in front of the other. My heart was pumping and I was taking in lungfuls of early morning desert air.

It was such a boost to my energy and mood levels. I won’t start preaching here. If you’re a runner, you get it. But as usual I started wondering how people could NOT start their mornings like this. I saw a warning sign at the start of the trail. Oh yeah, the snakes. Got it.

Mandatory pre-run reading

That be my concentrating face.