If you've have ever played organized basketball in your life you will remember them. The drill went by a simple but apt name, “Killers”. They are perhaps the least favorite drill at any practice. Ostensibly, Killers are designed to improve stamina and footwork, though many might argue they were created just to satisfy the sadistic nature of youth basketball coaches.

For the uninitiated, they go something like this. Line up on the baseline. On go, you run to the first free throw line, bending down and touching it, then run back to the baseline. Touch that and immediately run out again, this time to the half court line. Touch it, and back. Back out to the other free throw line at the far end, and then the other baseline, each time returning to the starting point - all at a full out, lung searing sprint with an audience of coaches offering useful “encouragement”. Repeat as necessary, and you've got yourself a set of Killers.

Killers are a right of passage for any aspiring young basketball player, and loads of good, clean fun – provided you're not actually that aspiring young basketball player. Which is why I and the other 3rd grade basketball coaches introduced them to our kids this year. I guess we figure it'll give them something to talk about when they are in their 40's, just like we do. The drill shows up periodically during each practice, met by a low murmur of language kept strategically out of earshot of any authority figure.

A couple weeks ago, in an effort to motivate the players to practice their free throw shooting, one of the coaches came up with a bright idea. Let's line the kids up and let them each shoot a single free throw at the end of practice. If more than half hit their shot, the coaches would do the practice-ending set of Killers instead of the boys. The youngsters seemed quite enthused at the whole idea. Some of the coaches, less so.

Truth be told, the bet was a pretty safe one. 3rd graders, for all their effort, are still slight of frame and learning the form; making free throws is more an act of faith than anything. So, we would run the shooting drill, then watch as they ran their ensuing Killers, falling down wasted at the end. But we did see the desired effect - as they routinely took extra free throws during each practice, improving their skills and hoping for that magic moment.

Today the challenge started out in standard fashion, with the first few shots bouncing off the rim. The small cadre of coaches visibly relaxed. Then, it started happening – shots began falling in and the tally started to climb. There were still some misses, but the nervous energy transferred slowly from kid to coach as the count of each made shot was shouted out in a loud chorus.

They needed two more shots – with two kids remaining; the gym was buzzing. The first, my son Colter, drained his shot like a pro. (Good job there, son. He he.) Then his buddy Curtis toed the line. He sent the ball toward the basket. We watched it arc  gracefully as it flew, until it nestled itself comfortably through the net – a perfect swish. The kids erupted like pre-teens at a Jonas Brothers concert.

I am here to tell you, after sweating through a rather vigorous set of Killers, that I have learned four things:

1. Killers still suck.

2. I am definitely a distance runner*. Sprinter? Not so much.

3. I will never make another hair-brained coaching suggestion like that again.

4. I owe my fellow coaches – big time.

* See, it's a running story, not just a cute kid story...

'Twas the night before Christmas, and in the North Land
The runners were all gathered, a race was at hand.
The watches were set, to be started with care,
In hopes that a PR might hang in the air.

The crowd was a rainbow of synthetic threads,
From Capilene base layer to the caps on their heads;
With New Balance tech Ts, and cool racing flats,
They were primed and ready to get off the line fast.

When up at the start there arose such a clatter,
It seemed a late entry had fostered great chatter.
Through the stunned crowd I nudged left and right,
Stopping up short, I beheld a grand sight.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Revealed a runner dressed red from his head to his toe.
He looked quite familiar, I knew that face;
But no bowl full of jelly, just a 30 inch waist.

The little old runner looked lively and quick,
I leaned in with caution, said “Are you St. Nick?”.
He winked and replied, “You've got that right, son.
Just a bit more svelte, since I started to run...”

“No cookies! No pastries! I'm out of the kitchen!
I've cut out those things that made my waist thicken!
5K's to marathons, I'm running them all!
On trails! On roadways! I'm having a ball!”

Then, as if on cue, I heard a man exclaim,
“On your mark! Get set!”, and I heard the gun bang.
As I drew my first step, and was looking around
Past me flew St. Nicholas, in one mighty bound.

His stride was efficient, very light of foot,
There was no wasted motion in each step he put.
I had to get moving, so as not to fall back,
As he set a brisk pace breaking off from the pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! He even seemed merry!
So I turned up the gas, not wishing to get buried.
I rejoined his shoulder, and like that we did go,
Tearing down the race course, and kicking up snow.

No more chubby and plump, no more jolly old elf,
I laughed at the memory, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know just where we would tread.

The time is now, I thought, make St. Nick chase;
I stepped on the pedal, there was no time to waste.
But I heard a small chuckle, and he quickened his stride,
You don't mess with Santa, he has magic on his side.

Kindly, he said, “Son, you set a nice pace...
But I have work to get to at the end of this race.”
And laying a finger aside of his nose,
Down went the hammer, negative splits he strode.

Dropped like a hot rock, I watched as he flew,
Past the finish, not stopping, he had big things to do;
But I heard him exclaim, as he ran out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all! I won my age group, right?"

Friday. Yet another beautiful running day - so much so that I had to take back all of the bad things I said about November. As I ambled down the White Pine Trail from the Swinging Bridge in Jay Cooke State Park, everything seemed perfect. Only one thing was missing, my running buddy.

Ken moved to Esko at about the same time as I, and upon meeting we became fast friends. I was not unique in this regard. Outgoing and incredibly likable, Ken made friends faster than Betty Crocker made biscuits. Not that it would have been any kind of prerequisite, but the two of us also shared some common interests. Each enjoying biking, running and skiing, the circles on our fitness Venn diagrams had significant overlap. All of this, of course, made Ken a great workout partner.

We each had different areas of emphasis. Ken was an avid biker – the kind that spends all winter on a trainer in the basement in order to hit the road blazing come spring. Running was more of a filler. I was the opposite, preferring footwork over skinny wheels. So we had different strengths, which engendered kind of an unspoken (or maybe it was spoken) agreement - Ken would not ride me into the pavement, and I would not run him out of his shoes. Truth be told, this was largely self-preservation on my part. After watching the man launch himself up hills on his Trek like the Space Shuttle lifting off, I realized I would end up with a good beat down should any cross-discipline test of wills occur. In the end, we could each hang with each other well enough to provide good solid workouts no matter the transportation method.

Anytime Ken called he would punctuate the workout offer with a quick "No pressure.", which simply meant "no problem if you can't make it, we'll catch ya' on the next one". More often than not we'd be hitting the roads (or trails) in short order. This run through Jay Cooke the past few years during the Thanksgiving weekend had been part of the repertoire. We'd trot along and his springer spaniel would bound happily around us, running to and fro thinking we were on an incredibly fast hunting excursion.

But life doesn't stand still – and the skill and hard work Ken applied to his U.S. Forest Service job resulted in his being offered a dream position managing a National Forest out near Enterprise, OR. With heartfelt goodbyes on all sides, he and his family headed off on their next adventure. We still keep in touch, and our families will spend some time skiing together in Utah this winter – but alas, the regular runs, rides and XC ski workouts are over.

So here I was running my way through the park on a beautiful day, keeping this nascent tradition alive, albeit solo. Ken came to mind accompanied not by melancholy, but more so a smile. I miss ya', buddy - but I wish you and your family only the best.

I was thinking, however, that I might know a few people who might be interested in joining me for this run going forward; some new friends and perhaps some friends yet to be. I believe next year I'll put out an open invite to all NMTC and Northland area runners that wish to join me for a Thanksgiving weekend run in the park. Perhaps we can dedicate it to great running partners past, present and future.

I hope some of you will join me. But... No pressure.

November. The brown month. I have to admit it is not one of my favorites. Sure, it contains one glorious 4-day weekend complete with a rather large meal and enough football games to melt down my remote control - but from a running perspective, I find it a bit of a challenge.

November weekdays mean waking up to darkness and coming home to darkness. Given that I live out in the sticks where road shoulders are more of a suggestion than a reality, running the pavement on weeknights can be less than appealing. Trails offer less worries about traffic, but also less precise footing when running through the fallen leaves, even with a headlamp. And, of course, running in the gales of November also requires donning extra layers of clothes, until I feel like Ralphie's little brother Randy in A Christmas Story after his mother suits him up so thoroughly he can hardly waddle.

This is really going to mess with my mile times...

Most miles I put in at this point tend to be weekend affairs, with weeknights spent in my basement, biding my time aboard a bike trainer or my trusty ol' Nordic-Trak (yes, they do still exist) until cross-country ski season arrives. So, you can imagine what a pleasant surprise it was last Saturday to be met with 50+ degree weather, allowing me to venture forth in shorts and short sleeves for a run in Jay Cooke State Park. It was like a Get Out of Jail Free card.

When I arrived at the Palkie Rd. parking lot near the Oak Trail it was apparent I wasn't the only one out enjoying the day. Horse trailers were lined up on both sides, with at least 6-8 horses tied to them. The arrangement meant their posteriors faced out toward the middle, and with the small size of the parking lot this meant I had about a 4 foot corridor through which to pass to get to the trail. So, trying not to rile any of the critters up, I quietly made my way through the gauntlet of horses' asses (insert politician joke here) and headed up the trail.

One thing I can (begrudgingly) appreciate about November running is that it simply looks different. Gone is the green, lush plumage of the woods - replaced by the inverted whisk-broom appearance of the bare trees. It's unique in its own way. It would seem one could see a mile through the forest, with its scarcity of leaves and undergrowth. The Oak, Gill, Triangle Trail route is a favorite of mine. Runners of the Voyageur races are familiar with this section. Quiet and rolling, winding back-and-forth around and down skinny trail to the creek and back up, it offers a varied, challenging run. I highly recommend it. The thick carpet of downed leaves did obscure the trail quite a bit in places, limiting my ability to stride out. But I was in no particular hurry. Cleaning the gutters out back home could wait all afternoon if need be. It was a beautiful run, relaxing.

I'm guessing that November will soon be over its identity crisis and return to its ornery old self. Multi-layered running attire will be the norm, and possibly even the crunch of snow underfoot. So, I've tried to enjoy the brief lifting of its mood this past week. Wednesday's informal Lakewalk group run was pleasant, and I'm hoping the weather holds through this weekend's Nancy English 5K.

But in the end, I know I'm running on borrowed time...

Brisk. The mercury registered in the low 30's as 58 of us milled about the Wild Duluth 50K starting line in Chambers Grove Park at 8:00 AM on Saturday. Fellow NMTC runner Lisa M. (wildknits) was explaining that we should be leveraging the honey bee strategy to stay warm, in which drones huddle about the queen to keep her nice and toasty. The drones apparently rotate regularly from inside the cluster to outside and back to allow all insect peons the opportunity to eek some bit of warmth out of the deal. Of course, on occasion the drones on the outside succumb to the cold and die; a real bummer for them and a detail which Lisa seemed to gloss over rather quickly. Hmm. Good thing the gun was about to go off...

The start was a hill charge winding quickly up the ridge across Hwy 23. This initially followed a deer path, which must be used primarily by really skinny deer. The twisty single-track served to keep the adrenalin in check, however, which was probably a good thing. The path soon widened and started rolling toward the Grand Portage aid station, even throwing in (thankfully, only) a couple of the infamous Voyageur power line hills.

Excitement of the first few miles over, the race really began for me at Grand Portage. The line of runners had stretched out, and I was running in solitude on my favorite section of the course. Winding comfortably through the trees, I settled into the consistent atomic clock stride I hoped would propel me to Duluth. More leaves had come down in the past couple weeks, and though they hid a few rocks and roots, they were less of a problem than expected. The log steps, so treacherous during the Grand Traverse, were not too bad either. The 100K runners had started at Bayfront at 6:00 AM. I encountered the leader as I approached Beck's Rd., and he was moving. 20 miles under foot and he looked as if he had just started. Impressive.

Let me repeat from my GT blog... Ah, Ely's Peak. Always a treat. You have to say that with gritted teeth to get the full effect. Seems that thought crosses my mind every time I run up that hunk of granite. Love the view, though. Started seeing more 100K'ers as I made my way along the ridge toward the Munger aid station, including Shelly, who was moving right along and being paced by Eve and her faithful sidekick, Lammbeaux.

The "Big W", an 8-mile stretch mid-race where your day is buoyed, or broken – Bardon's Peak, down to the foot of Spirit Mt., up Knowlton Crk. (including the 138 log steps), down to the Zoo and back up Keene Crk. to Getchell. Much more tolerable this time around than during the GT and previous training runs. Better attention to hydration had staved off any cramping. (See? He can be taught.)

A short distance past the Getchell aid station, I heard someone say, "There he is!". Thankfully, it was not coming from a member of the Duluth law enforcement community. It was fellow NMTC members Jim and Carolyn Gunderson running down the trail toward me. They had come out to do some pacing and keep me from getting lazy as I headed toward the home stretch. They kept me company all the way to the last aid station before jumping in the car to zoom to the finish line. Thanks, you two – perfect timing, and much appreciated!

When I emerged from the woods below Enger Tower, a bagpiper was playing on the corner by the highway overpass. Cool. I dig bagpipes. Can't seem to convince my wife I should learn how to play, though. Go figure. I trotted my way across, down the ramp and around the corner into Bayfront Park - greeted by Leslie, who was looking relaxed and refreshed. Almost as if she had already been finished for an hour or so, which she had - after turning in a blistering 5:18, 2^nd female, 1^st in her age group. Nice.

My wife and son were waiting near the finish and I was able to coax Colter into racing me to the line. He finished his race in about 10 seconds, and I finished mine in 6 hours, 24 minutes - meeting my goal of sub 6:30. A scant couple of minutes later, Lisa came across the line - hot on my heels and also under 6.5 hours. (I'm glad I was just far enough ahead that she didn't catch sight of me – or she would have reeled me in like a big ol' carp.) Fantastic run, Lisa!

Over the next few hours an intermittent stream of runners, including many other NMTC and NorthlandRunner contributors, would continue to trot in – most of 'em smiling. Congratulations, Rick B., Wayne (the Zinger man from Rochester), Steve H., Ed D., Gene Gene the Running Machine, Rick K. and anyone I missed or simply haven't been acquainted with yet. And, of course, a special bow to Shelly, the 100K iron woman. Way to go!

So, the first ultra-marathon is in the books. Good weather, good trail, good friends, damn good time. I would like to compliment Andy and Kim Holak and all of their fantastic volunteers for putting on one fine event. I tip my hat to you all.

I'll be back.

One final note: I noticed upon arriving at the NMTC Hartley run on Sunday that most of the early arrivals were people that had run in Wild Duluth events the day before.

You bunch of crazies...