It was 1976, and I stood at the end of a dead end road; my road, and that of my cohorts, a small group of which stood fidgeting beside me. We were looking off the end of the pavement across broad fields of milkweed, Queen Anne's Lace, and resurgent prairie grasses all grown to near head height on a 10-year-old. Disjointed bits of tree line broke up the landscape, forming borders of what were once farm fields, long since gone fallow. Somewhere out there was another handful of my pals, lying in wait.

We were playing our own variation of the good guys versus the bad guys, the particular identity of which escapes me now but isn't particularly relevant, since it changed often, sometimes mid-game. Our immediate goal was to get back to our hideout, without being discovered and set upon by our opponents. The result of such an encounter was to be pelted by milkweed pods and dirt bombs, or to receive merciless torture in the form of "snake bites", and what we called the "Chinese Tickle Torture".

Chinese Tickle Torture – The Short Course

1. Pin captured opponent to ground on his back.

2. Sit on torso, pinning his arms into sides with your knees, so they are immobile.

3. Begin pounding his chest with your stiff index fingers, alternating each hand.

4. Pound rapidly and with increasing speed and intensity.

5. Continue until begging begins.

6. Ignore begging, repeat steps 4 and 5...

The fields and their cross-cutting, maze-like paths were known by us simply as the Trails, with a capital "T". When you're 10 the radius of your world is small, but you don't realize it. And since you feel like you have command over all things residing within it, it appears grand from your perspective. It never occurred to us that anyone else could possibly have a set of trails as nice as ours. So, the area needed no qualifiers or superfluous names. It was simply the Trails – and that was that.

We arrived at our strategy, choosing to make an end run around the perimeter, before splitting up when the path forked, to create some confusion. The trail to the left was a good candidate; well-worn, hard-packed and solid from countless footfalls. We disappeared into the weeds, following the track along the tree line. And we ran. We just ran...

Tonight, I'll run the Millennium Trail Run with the NMTC, the first trail run of the year. Around me will be many people; good folks who I am getting to know a few at a time and a little better with each passing race. Some will run to come in first, many will run to get in shape, and others will just be desperately trying not to get their shoe sucked off their foot by a mud hole. I'll be running for all of that, as well. But I'll also be running to go back in time for just a little while; to when I headed off down trails at a trot, with a bunch of my friends – for the sole purpose of simply passing time.

We'll all stand there fidgeting, waiting for the hand to drop. Suddenly, "Go!". And then we will run. We will just run...

I have read various articles about interval training for the purposes of improving one's overall running performance. The subject has even popped up on the blogs here at Northland Runner. In reading the literature, I have noted it can be quite a science. The various calculations combining repetitions, distance, recovery time, and resting heart rate versus Anaerobic Thresholds is the kind of higher math that would leave Stephen Hawking scratching his head. Frankly, I think most runners are making things entirely too complicated. I'd like to recommend they try my strategy – rural running. Or, as I more affectionately call it, the Running of the Hounds.

Out here in the rural Northland, one learns pretty quickly that the leash laws end right along with concrete curbing. This is evidenced by the number of unannounced visits I receive from Esko area dogs while out working in my yard. On the plus side, I get all the benefits of pet ownership – a little man's best friend companionship, perhaps a quick game of fetch – without the cost of feeding, and (usually) without the need for a pooper-scooper. On the down side, the roamers can become a bit of a challenge when I strap on the running shoes.

These canine vagabonds are scattered throughout the country-side like guerrilla fighters, waiting in ambush for unsuspecting runners. As I come cruising by I must appear as a giant, running squeaky toy... entirely irresistible. First, the barking starts. My ears perk up, listening carefully. If the volume stays constant, I know the source is probably chained in one place. It's when the barking quickly increases in volume that I know the chase is on. My pulse quickens, along with my pace. My goal quickly becomes keeping the four-legged nemesis from taking any debilitating chunks out of me; requiring running at pace just long enough for him to drop the pursuit, out of boredom or simple laziness. This is called reaching the Cynophobic Threshold which, interestingly enough, coincides pretty closely with the Anaerobic Threshold.

These games we play, the dogs and I, are no longer random. Over time, I have gotten to know the general whereabouts of many of the culprits. A mental map is ingrained in my head, labeled with glowing hot zones for each previous encounter, all marked with a little icon that looks like Cujo. When I pass through these areas my attention becomes fine tuned, and I get that "just drank too much espresso" look like a deer during hunting season, wondering if my run is about to get a little more exciting. Much of the time, my playmates oblige. I have learned that if I structure my route properly this makes for a fine bit of interval training.

There are a couple of recommendations I would like to pass along should you choose to incorporate mammal-assisted speed work into your workouts. Occasionally, certain of these workout partners will forget that they are there purely for motivational purposes and cross the line between simple pursuit and, say, an actual predator-prey relationship. In most of these instances, I usually end the game by turning to face the dog, making myself look as large as possible and eliciting a rather bellicose, "Get HOME!". Most dogs, not used to their other playmates (generally rabbits and squirrels) turning around and speaking to them, will break off – either a bit intimidated, or at the very least, a little confused. Either result is satisfactory.

This brings me to another important rule of thumb, which I call the Rottweiler Exception. From experience I can tell you that certain dogs will not take kindly to the above mentioned chase ending strategy. In fact, such a maneuver will turn you from a mere running squeaky toy into, well, a running squeaky toy that is challenging for alpha-male status. This is not a particularly comfortable situation, so apply appropriate caution.

That being said, feel free to incorporate this simple, yet effective training regimen into your workouts. You and all the members of the rural canine community will be all the healthier for it.

Last Saturday, Garrison Keillor was on the radio delivering the News from Lake Wobegon in his usual, droll manner. He was talking about relationships, or rather the various strains on relationships that tend to build up toward the spring after a long, grim Minnesota winter. These pressures can ultimately lead to divorce, he said – which, of course, is unacceptable in that little town out on the prairie. Older, pragmatic couples, he noted, have a strategy for avoiding just such relationship-ending conflict. It's known as the "ritual" argument, a low level dispute that gets repeated every few months or so. It acts as a kind of preventative, like a prescribed burn used to reduce fuel buildup and prevent a rampaging forest fire. The routine allows the participants to blow off a little steam, then move on about their lives free of pent up frustration that might otherwise boil over. It starts something like:

[She] "Why don't we ever go anyplace?"

[He] "Not go anyplace? Why we took a vacation, just this past summer."

[She] "You call that someplace? South Dakota?"...

And on it goes, a spirited but harmless give and take exchanged for a short while until it peters off, like a wave exhausting itself on the beach.

I was listening to this as I was out on a nice 12-miler, and in this context it dawned on me how valuable some form of the ritual argument could be in running. You see, running and I have had a relationship that has definitely had its high points over the years. Unfortunately, it has also had its challenging moments of discord. For example...

A couple Sundays ago, I was making the turn on to the last leg of a good, long run. I came around the corner and was met smack in the face by wind that darn near knocked me over backward. Gritting my teeth and leaning forward like a Finnish ski jumper I muscled toward home at a snail's pace, the gale force gusts prompting me to periodically let loose strings of blue language; much of which was no doubt carrying to the ears of the entire congregation of St. Matthew's Church in Esko, MN. I'm pretty sure I could hear the startled gasps through the brick walls, followed by the distinct slapping sound of mothers quickly but vainly trying to cover their children's ears. True, the conditions had put my relationship with running under a bit of stress at the time. But this was likely small solace to the parents whose children would now be able to exercise a fantastic, sailor-like vocabulary.

Generally, about mile 19 of most any marathon I've entered, the attachment between running and I also encounters a bit of pressure. As the sun beats down and the hamstrings start feeling like I could play Freebird on them, an internal conversation starts rolling around in my head:

"Running, dear... I was just thinking. Perhaps we should see other people... No, no. It's not you. It's me. I'm not good enough for you. You need someone who is going to give you the attention you deserve. You know, someone who will, uh... train properly."

Of course, I'm just trying to be kind at that point; attempting to hide the fact that running just wasn't looking as sexy as she was at, say, mile 8. The two of us spend the next 7+ miles in a state of quiet tension, like we're each waiting for the other to move their furniture out of the apartment.

We've always made it through these instances, running and I. And don't get me wrong, we have had our moments; runs and races where we are in that happy place - Asics on, arms out, spinning 10K worth of circles across a grassy hillside like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music. But I wonder if some sort of ritual argument would help avoid the dangerous unease of the trying times, ensuring we'll never drop over the edge and end our relationship. Maybe it could take the form of an early season run that includes some nice hill or interval training, throwing in a little sleet for good measure. It would be something just uncomfortable enough to generate a good, cathartic release of the repressed harrier angst stored up over a long Duluth winter – leaving us relaxed and good to go for the season. I'd even promise to do it out of earshot of anyone not old enough to watch a PG-13 movie – just in case.

[Running] "Why don't we ever go anyplace?"

[Me] "Not go anyplace?"...

She's impossible, she is. But I think I'll keep her – and perhaps take her out for some speed work up Highway 210 through Jay Cooke State Park. Call it part of the new spring ritual... though perhaps I'll wait 'til it's raining.