This Ice Palace is for the Birds -- December 2002-February 2003

We've seen the return of real winter weather to New England. Bone-chilling temperatures, biting winds, snow piled high--these are the commonplace things of this winter. The past couple of years we had mild temperatures; snow, when it came, tended to melt quickly. Not this winter. It's been tough going.

Plenty of birds hanging around the lake and river this year. The ducks, swans, and geese huddle at the edges, toughing it out. A bird watcher pointed out an owl to me in the trees by the beach. A couple of bald eagles have been so conspicuous that a picture of one made the front page of the local weekly.

Despite the rough weather, I've been able to keep up my regular schedule of Tuesday/Thurday/Sunday, except for one week in which a cold knocked me down. Spring can't come too soon.

One thing that really frosts are those bad citizens who make no efforts to clear their sidewalks. Sure, I accept that in these conditions I will spend a greater percentage of my time in the streets. Sometimes it's a hard choice: slogging through the inconsistent muck, a frenetic balancing act that eventually leadens the legs, or skirting the ice-narrowed streets always alert to sun-blinded, speeding, chatting drivers that barely concede a footwidth of icy puddlespace to the haggard jogger.

It's not just for myself that I complain. Consider the pedestrians trying to make their way to the bus stop, the senior citizens pulling shopping casts, the young parents push baby carriages. You may ask, "Why don't they drive?" You might just as well say, in the spirit of Marie Antoinette, "Let them burn gas." Indeed the worse offenders seem to populate the "better" neighborhoods, their palacial abodes well set back from the riff-raff of the streets. The absolute worst are those who shovel neat little paths from their doors to their driveways and who plow their driveways clean, piling up huge mounds that further impede the sidewalk, defeating the effect of their neighbor who did the right thing about this sidewalk. Shameful!

Nor'easters devalued / Subjugation of Ego -- mid-November 2002

The weather forecasters are describing waves of Nor'easters this fall. Doesn't seem fitting. Nor'easters are traditionally winter storm where the storm center sits out over the ocean to the east with its counterclockwise motion bring waves of wet snow blowing from, naturally, the Northeast. These recent storms have been rain storms, however. No piles of snow, just piles of leaves.

Last Sunday was supposedly a Nor'easter. Pretty windy, steady light rain. Pretty pleasant jog through groves of denuded trees allowing the filtered light to fluoresce the soggy carpet of yellow and brown leaves.

A very pleasant jog. Lost in thought so completely I found myself finishing up, an hour gone, and not remembering where I had been. This is not an uncommon sensation: particular instances of a well-traveled route can only be distinguished by the nuances, the small incidental differences. I couldn't remember having passed by the sandy beach until I finally recalled, oh yes, I had to skirt around that big puddle, and oh yes, that old man adjusting his coat.

The previous Sunday was rather different. I was a good five minutes faster, completing my route in just under an hour. It started out with me entering the route just behind a yound woman, and for a while I toyed with the notion of trying to pass her. After closing the gap, it became apparent that I would have not be winning ego points, as she, perhaps in response to the challenge of approaching footsteps, widened the gap. I had to be satisfied with the challenge of merely keeping her within sight. At some point ahead she turned and doubled back. I wanted to remark something like "good pace!"

Catching up I haven't said much about my weekday jogs, generally Tuesdays and Thursday, starting from my workplace. Lately one or both of a couple of colleagues have been joining me. At first, I had hesitated, fearing this socialization of my solitary routine. Maybe I was afraid that these guys, both at least a decade younger than myself, would run me into the ground. But so far, it's been just fine, and quite enjoyable.

Month of Sundays -- early October 2002

September was a blur. Back to school frazzles but all the while a steady schedule of running kept my sanity in place. Looking back, it was the Sunday runs, my longer weekly treks that come back to me.

After the rousing Sunday described in my previous note, I came out really flat-footed the following week. I don't know what it was. Sometimes when a bug is coming on, my body will clue to the impending illness by petering out during a jog. Not so on this day, though. Just a drawn-out lug, all the way through. Maybe it was the slight uptick in heat and humidity. I'll never know.

The following Sunday, completely opposite! Such energy, such verve, a great, great time. Maybe it would have been a bit deflating if that women's track team had been going in my direction (and leaving me in the dust) rather than against my direction. As it was, I was the default champion of my route.

After that, a string of Sundays somewhere in the middle ground--good solid workouts. One extraordinary occurence during one of them: As I approached the sandy beach at the upper end of the lake, I was serenaded by angelic voices and strumming guitars. A ring of people gathered at the beach, perhaps a baptism ceremony but no one taking the plunge at the time, were singing a lovely song. Words in Spanish, I think, I could not comprehend. But I slowed my pace a little bit and then continued on uplifted.

Cruising (Ego II) -- early September 2002

September brings forth glory days. Ranging from warm to cool, bright sunshine. Cooler weather picks up your pace without conscious effort. On Sunday, I ran my usual route in under an hour. Hadn't achieved that pace all summer.

Lost the racing game the other day. The guy entered the road ahead of me but not too far. He looks like a good challenger, more gray hair than me but having more the tall lean runner ectomorph than my quasichunkymonkeymorph staure. So, can I close the gap, overtake him? I pick up my pace but I barely close.

I think it's common knowledge among runners that the way to make up distance is to pick up the pace rather than take longer strides. More steps, even if you have to shorten your stride, that's the way to go.

I'm still thinking I could catch him then he see him look back at me, checking my distance, throwing down the gauntlet. From that point on, I knew he had me. I slacked off. Enjoyed the rest of my jog.

After two summers plagued by injuries, I have managed to get through this one in relatively good shape. Last summer I chipped a bone in my ankle (not while running but by turning it hard on while walking on a dark path). The summer before that I had painful swelling in both knees which happily was alleviated by adopting more diligent post-run stretching routines. Avoiding injury is reason enough to be happy to eat anyone else's dust.

Looking Forward to Fall (Pacing II / Ego I) -- mid-August 2002

It's been a summer to remember but one we'd like to forget. Global warming is taken as a given, and look here it is...

Not that this has affected my jogging. I keep to a pretty steady pace, twice during the week and a longer jaunt on the weekend. Temperatures in the 90's and humid, so what? I actually like it. My automatic pilot adjusts. I go slower.

But hey, isn't exercise supposed to be about pushing yourself? Oh, I will, maybe, when the weather cools. Autumn is a great running season.

But what is there to provide the push? A goal? I have a challenging mountain trek planned for next summer, but that's a long way off, so in the short-term I'll have to rely on chance to provide booster power.

Like last week, I was trotting along the trail and I picked up the sound of footsteps behind--another jogger was catching up to me. Now it's not unusual for other runners to pass me from time to time, and even I occasionally will close in on and pass another jogger. It is a little game one plays with strangers, but by one's own internal rules.

So, all right, I heard these footsteps, catching up, so this unseen person was clearly going at a faster pace than I. But something inside said, "don't let them pass you". It was only about a mile into my run, and I was dogging it comfortably in the humidity and heat. So I picked up my pace. I could still hear the footsteps. I negotiated with my more sensible self. No way you can keep up this pace for miles and miles. How about an intermediate goal? Stay ahead for a mile or so, to the beach area where I usually stray from the main jogging path to enjoy my own oddball side path through the trees. That's the finish line, I agreed with myself.

And I won. How about that? Not only that, I caught a glimpse of my pursuer. A young, seemingly fit male, so I get extra credit for beating him. Okay, you're saying this is a pretty feeble ego trip. And you're right, of course. But isn't that what sports motivation is all about? Great coaches are experts at breaking down and rebuilding egos. I'm my own coach, and I played my pride into a little better workout.

Summer Daze (Pacing I) -- mid-July 2002

It's the time of year when the heat and humidity combine to wicked effect; the time of the year that air conditioning is a godsend, but oft thwarted by the devilish power company that cuts the juice just when it becomes most precious.

Inevitably, we hear the "bad air" alerts, like the yearly bloom of day lilies, the pious tv weatherfolk scold and warn us to avoid strenuous activity at midday hours, especially the sick, the young and the old. I claim to be none of these, though as years go on and these oxone alerts drone on, I must reaffirm my non-membership in that last category. No need to--they aim the warning at all of us. Go early, go late, they intone. But I would rather not miss the intensity of the hot moist air. Believe me, I do pace myself. Acclimation is an ongoing activity of the outdoor runner, and June's warmth was July's preparation. And really, "strenuous activity"? I run at such a pace that when I finish I am barely winded. I am in no rush.

Muggy -- 11 June 2002

Wet weather continues, pathways are green and lush. Saw first heron of the season along the lake.

Last Thursday it was wet enough to force me off the paths and into the streets. Even there, there was no avoiding wet feet. Had to pace myself to avoid the large puddles where the passing cars would send the water geysering oldfaithfully skyward.

Make way for ducklings -- 30 May 2002

Nice day to be out on the paths, a little muggy but that's just fine.

It's been a pretty wet month overall with Spring seguing into a lush start for Summer. Twice earlier this month I came tromping up on a mother duck and ducklings. It wasn't too long ago that the waterways along the jogging paths were getting frightfully low. Now the trend is turning and things seem, well, just ducky.

Marathoner I am not -- 14 April 2002

Beautiful Sunday, perhaps 70 degrees. T-shirt weather out on the trails...

This is the day before the Boston Marathon, and perhaps the presence of so many world-class runners in the Boston area lends some energy to the efforts. Not that there were an abundance of runners out and about today. Tomorrow's serious competitors may well have been chowing down plates of spaghetti instead. If so, too bad for them.

People will sometimes ask, "Do you do the marathon?" "Oh no," I reply. That would be too much for me. It would be an interesting experience until I collapsed in agony. I admire the marathoners, but I don't envy them. My training regimen is designed to keep me a few steps ahead of Father Time, though I don't expect to win in the end. There is enough satisfaction in just the going.

Boston Suburbs -- March MMII

It's been yet another great Winter for jogging in Boston. Only one snowfall of significance--(indeed we are in a drought)--and on the whole, this winter will be prominent in the record books,

Now into Spring... The signs are appearing, shoots among the leaves. I don't expect to see any great blue herons, which apparently nest along the shores of Mystic Lake. But last month I spotted a bald eagle take off while I ran past that same lake. Any birds to come will not be nearly as exciting.

We had previously had a couple of mild winters in a row. Mild, certainly when compared to Boston's bone-chilling reputation of yore.