I have determined that I need to resort to desperate measures. In all fairness to my running brethren, I spent a good amount of time contemplating whether I should ask permission of the northland running community first, or ask for forgiveness later. In the end, I decided upon the latter. It’s too late, for I've put my diabolical plan into action and there is no way you can stop me now. Bwahahahahahahahaha! (Sorry, that just seemed like a good place for an evil laugh.)

Perhaps you are asking, "Just what are you up to, Ron?" Simple. I am doing everything in my power to conjure up some heat; with a complementary dose of good ol' fashioned mid-summer humidity. Not just a little, "Hey, today is a good day to don that vintage tube top" heat. No, I'm going for pasty, drippy, Bogart and Hepburn on the African Queen style climate. New Orleans, with a dash of Madagascar.

Oh, I have my reasoning, and it's pretty simple – marathon self-preservation. I need some hot, muggy training runs. Many of you have assuredly run in the Grandma's weekend events over the past few years and have noted that recently cool, breezy race days have been hard to come by. The pattern has been pretty consistent. With few exceptions, the spring training season offers nothing but refreshing running sessions; mild temperatures accompanied by cooling breezes, lulling northland runners into a false state of comfort. Complacency sets in. Then, Grandma's Saturday arrives. Wham-O! Sun and humidity show up, late to the whole distance-training party - and the baking begins. Let me inventory my long runs, spread out over the past month and a half or so, to illustrate my dilemma:

Run #1 - Snowing. Enough said.
Run #2 - Mid-40's, rain. (Still early. Patience, Ron. The weather will come.)
Run #3 - Mid-50's. (Getting better, I like the trend line…)
Run #4 - Low-30's, 20 mph winds, scattered snow. (What the @#$%?)
Run #5 - Low-50's, breezy. (Comfy... too comfy. Nearly dozed off mid-stride.)

This year's lead up to the big event is strikingly similar to two years ago, when I last ran Grandma's Marathon. After a training season of crisp, almost fall-like air, the elevated temperatures and humidity on race day gob-smacked me. Oh, I made a valiant effort. Midway through the race I was on pace for a personal record. But right around the 18 mile mark, the race-day convection oven started catching up with me, and I felt like I was melting down like the witch in the Wizard of Oz after she got doused. I plodded in, short of my PR.

So, I'm not leaving this to chance. I need warm, no, hot training weather to acclimate before Grandma's weekend. I have assembled a number of totems for a representative assortment of Sun gods. My plan is to build a small shrine, light up some incense and conduct any sacrifices necessary to summon the sultry. I have gathered together Helios (Greek), Apollo (Roman), Ra (Egyptian), Inti (Inca), Tonatiuh (Aztec), and - being a good Finn, Paeivae. Truth be told, I can't actually afford real totems for all these gods. (Gold. Why are they always made of gold?) So, I am going to set my shrine up in front of the Wikipedia page for each one. I have also been told by my wife that burning incense in the house is way out. (Drat!) So, I’m substituting Yankee Candles. Fireside scent, maybe? Sun and Sand? I'll try them both. Despite the compromises, I still think I can pull this off.

Judging from my small-scale trial last Wednesday (yeah, that was me), the conjuring works. In fact, if I don’t watch what I am doing, I'm pretty sure I can knock the Ross Ice shelf off Antarctica if I’m not careful. I'll try to keep it real.

So, forgive me, dear runners. Desperate times... desperate measures.

I lay awake in bed (very) early Saturday morning, listening to the wind buffeting the house to the point where it felt like the second story was moving back-and-forth. Intermittently, rain and ice crystals were flung against the window, making a staccato rat-a-tat-tat like a machine gun. The Running Gods were employing their peculiar sense of humor once again. I chuckled a bit, to be a good sport. I'll admit it wasn't exactly an earnest chuckle. It was more at the Leno level than full blown Carlin. You see, Saturday was race day...

I had chosen the Superior Hiking Trail 25K as the base for a nice trail race stew I was set to brew up. Now, everyone knows that any decent soup always starts with a good stock, and the SHT 25K certainly seemed to offer the flavor for which I had a hankering. The best trail races, I believe, are those that include words such as "mountain" or "peak" somewhere in the ingredient list, preferably in multiples of each – this track had that covered. Throw in a cup of rocks here... a dash of roots there... a good splash of mud for proper consistency. Garnish with some Clif Bloks and serve with a nice red (May I recommend an '09 GU₂O raspberry, sir?) and before you know it you have a trail race culinary creation that would make Julia Child get all teary eyed. Mmm. Mmm. I could just taste it.

Of course, what I hadn't counted on were those clever Running Gods. I recall an old Tom and Jerry cartoon where Tom is making a nice stew and turns his back for a moment, at which point Jerry dumps a Sam's Club sized can of chili powder into the pot. Madness ensues. In my case, the Running Gods had decided to pour in, oh, about 20 knots worth of a cold, hard wind. The other interesting angle was the decision to take my dish off simmer and slip it into the refrigerator; icing it on down to, say, somewhere around 34 degrees. Those crazy characters. What a bunch of cards. And just where did they get that little pinch of snow? I thought that was a seasonal herb.

Hmmm. My Emeril-like masterpiece was beginning to look a lot like the Smack Ramen noodles I survived on in college. Interesting thing was when I put a spoon to it, I found this new concoction rather tasty. Bold organic flavor, with a refreshingly cool finish. From the looks on the faces of the (impressive) Northland Runner and NMTC contingent, I wasn't the only one who thought this gumbo was a hit. Some hardy souls even liked it so much they opted for a double (50K) portion - though I'm hoping it didn't come back to haunt them later, like a bar rush meal at White Castle.

My mother always used to tell me when I was younger, "You'll never know whether you like it until you try it." OK, so she was right. This time. Just don't tell her that I told you so. I'll never hear the end of it.

Amidst a tangle of scrub brush, weeds and deep layers of leaves, the rocks were barely visible. If we hadn't known better, we might have dismissed them as being part of the ubiquitous glacial till that underlies much of the area hillsides. But on closer inspection, these stones had structure; careful placement creating interlocking puzzle pieces that simply did not happen by random chance...

Back in the late 1800's William Rogers had a vision. The Ohio transplant had an affinity for a natural formation that lay high up on the Duluth hillside; a terrace formed by the once lapping waves of an ancient lake. Over the course of 10,000 years, after the last of the glaciers had receded, the land upon which the ice had previously existed rebounded. The rising land, in concert with the falling lake level left behind a ghost of sorts - that of Lake Superior's ancestor, glacial Lake Duluth - in the form of a natural bench that now sat at an elevation some 475' above the current Superior shoreline.

Rogers appreciated the beauty of the vistas this bench offered those who could travel along it, and determined that it should be incorporated into a system of parks that he hoped would someday span the length and breadth of the fast-growing city of Duluth. The ancient shoreline, as he envisioned, could be developed as a parkway providing the backbone connecting parks and green spaces that criss-crossed the hillside. As a banker and head of the city's first park board, William Rogers secured funding and began to make good on his plan. Skyline Parkway, though it was not called that at the time, was born. The year was 1889.

Two years later the first segment of the parkway was complete, drastically over budget but beautiful to behold. Only 5 miles of roadway were in place, from Chester Creek west to Miller Creek, but the route was terrifically popular among locals and visitors alike. Unfortunately, William Rogers left the city of Duluth shortly thereafter. The baton was set down, waiting for another champion.

The wait lasted over three decades, until Mayor Sam Snively appeared on the scene. Snively shared Rogers' vision of the city-spanning parkway, and firmly established the political momentum and financing that would rekindle and sustain construction. Under Snively's tireless leadership, the avenue expanded quickly and significantly. To the west it soon stretched as far as Fond Du Lac. It would also meander eastward and eventually connect with another road - which Snively had privately funded, built and donated to the city – called Snively Road, now known as Seven Bridges Road. In 1929, the road was given its current name, Skyline Parkway. By 1937, the final segments were completed to give the parkway its full 25 mile reach.

On Sunday, the NMTC runners will embark on the Spirit Mountain Run. We'll amble 9 miles out-and-back over a section of roadway we owe to the dreams and fortitude of William Rogers and Sam Snively. Shortly after the start, as we approach the beautiful Stewart Creek Bridge, we will see the now exposed granite of a reflecting pool and its feeding channel on the right hand side of the road. This monument was constructed to honor the man who drove most of the construction of Skyline Parkway, Sam Snively.

The monument had fallen into neglect and until only a short while ago was overgrown, buried and forgotten. It has recently been unearthed by the Skyline Planning and Preservation Alliance*, a great group of people I volunteered with a few years back.

As you run by, maybe give the monument a little tip of the hat, for Sam Snively's sake, and for that of his predecessor, William Rogers. Thanks guys. We enjoy the view. And it's also a nice place for a run...

* It was with the SPPA that I learned a great deal about the history of Skyline Parkway. There are a number of excellent amateur historians among its members. I would be remiss if I didn't especially reference Mark Ryan, and his website, which helped me jog loose a few of the details.

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.