As I stood on the deck of the boat, running was about the furthest thing from my mind. To be fair, neither was anything else that didn't relate specifically to the task at hand. More compelling was the mental and physical checklist I was running through, making certain all was in order for what I was about to do. The twin steel tanks of air on my back and all of the ancillary equipment attached felt ponderous, but that would be remedied soon enough.

 

A short distance away, bobbing gently in the (remarkably) calm water of Lake Superior, was an innocuous looking white plastic jug. A knot of nylon rope was tied to its handle, a thin white line stretching vertically from it disappearing down into darkness. The other end of that tenuous connection was tied to the deck rail of the wreck Kamloops; a steel bulk freighter that had foundered in a storm in 1927. Ripped open on the rocks of Isle Royale, it had settled on its side over 200 feet below.

 

Technical diving, which is defined as any diving in which immediate access to the surface is not possible, is an area I had been moving steadily toward since I first donned a mask. The depth of this dive alone met that criteria. By the time the Kamloops emerged from the murk on descent, I would already have built up enough nitrogen in my system from the air I was breathing to require periodic stops on the way up to let the gas slowly work its way back out. That decompression time commitment would only increase the longer I stayed; an invisible ceiling, if you will, that would move upward at a pace that I must abide, under serious physical penalty did I not.

 

Diving the Kamloops was an exhilerating step along my underwater journey, and it popped into my head the other day as I ran the trails in Jay Cooke, preparing for the Wild Duluth 50K. The parallels between hobbies are often easy to discern. Biking and skiing are natural extensions of a silent sport such as running. But, I pondered, what was it about preparing for my first ultra-marathon that felt so familiar? And what did it have to do with jumping off a perfectly good boat to visit a broken one?

 

For one thing, the number of comrades that are willing to join you for the ride. There are tens of thousands of divers in the United States. But move that diving from warm blue southern waters to the dark 40 degree water of Lake Superior and that number drops precipitously. Then, start ambling down to depths beyond the height of the Republic Bank Building in Duluth and your SCUBA posse gets pretty limited. Running seems to follow a similar curve in that ramping up to marathons has a way of thinning out the fleet-footed masses. Step that up to 30, 50, 100 miles over rock and trail and pretty soon you could almost memorize the names of those that show up at the starting line.

 

The primary commonality for me, however, revolves around motivation. In his book, Born to Run, Chris McDougall writes, "...[running] unites our two most primal impulses: fear and pleasure." I tend to agree, though ironically I'm running toward the former to get to the latter. When it comes to exploring the realm of deep, cold darkness or muscle-tightening single track, my goal is similar; challenge the anxiety that rises up when one elbows out against his comfort level, defeat it, and experience the excitement of having moved the benchmark.

 

In all honesty, I have no particular aspirations to be the next John Chatterton, or Scott Jurek. I've been around long enough to know my limitations. But, the beauty of it is, there is a lot of space between them and me; ample space in which I get to explore and find my niche. So, there's really only one thing left to do.

 

Jump in the water and head down the line...

Over the years I have described my running exploits to many; some of whom are even courteous enough not to assume a glazed look, akin to the clones in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Quite often, those that are willing to hang with me for the duration of, say, a colorful and detailed discourse describing yesterday's grueling 25K training run, will pose a simple question, "So then, why is it that you run?". Having heard this question a number of times, you would think I would have a lofty, well-rehearsed response. Perhaps I could channel the legendary Steve Prefontaine and offer (his quote):

 

"You have to wonder at times what you're doing out there. Over the years, I've given myself a thousand reasons to keep running, but it always comes back to where it started. It comes down to self-satisfaction and a sense of achievement."

 

I have to hand it to Pre. He was driven. He was well-spoken - and he meant every word. As I gather myself to respond to my inquisitor, I always hope for a similar level of eloquence. So, with all the earnestness I can muster, I answer with:

 

"I run for Twinkies."

 

So much for poetry. Admittedly, the person I'm talking to generally appears a little deflated at this response, perhaps hoping to have received something more valuable in return for investing many minutes feigning interest. What can I say? My honesty trumps my artfulness. I'm just not going to kid you. I like to eat, and those gorgeous, yellow sponge cakes with their mysterious, creamy filling top the list.

 

This affliction leads directly to the corollary quote that I mix in for a bit of variety:

 

"Another mile, another Twinkie..."

 

Sounds a bit trite, I know. But the proclamation is grounded (at least partly) in fact. It says right there on the package that one Twinkie contains 150 delicious calories. It also just so happens that a male my age, weight and ability level burns approximately 140 to 150 calories per mile of running, at least according to several online calorie calculators I have used. So as you can see, the claim rings legitimate. I can burn in the neighborhood of 0.93 to 1.0 Twinkies per mile – and there is sound, in-depth research backing up the numbers. Twinkie + Running = Metabolic Equilibrium

 

I have to admit, however, that getting my Twinkie fix has been a bit troublesome of late. In case you haven't noticed (and I don't know how you could not), Duluth is not a Hostess town. As if controlled by families of a snack cake Mafia, regions tend to be dominated by a single goodie maker – and the Twin Ports are Little Debbie territory. I often envision "Don" Debbie's consiglieri leaning in with great respect, whispering, "The Hostess family is encroaching on the west side. Should I send Twinkie the Kid to sleep with the fishes?"

 

Well, I don't have time for such posturing, and I have no taste for Zebra Cakes. So, you'll understand my elation upon receiving a bit of a surprise when I got home last evening. A friend of mine, to whom I had been lamenting the dearth of good snack cakes in the region, had been off in Milwaukee, WI. Hostess territory. She returned with one genuine display-size box containing a full two dozen Twinkies - and delivered them to my door. I swear I could see a glowing light shining down upon them, and hear choral music in the background. I'm nominating her for sainthood.

 

I should be concerned about eating large quantities of any pastry that has a shelf life measured in decades, I suppose. But, hey... I now have nearly a marathon's worth of sponge cake.

 

Where are my running shoes?

On a cool evening in July 2008 I watched my son, Colter, sidle on up to the starting line for Wednesday Night at the Races, Bayfront Park edition. He joined the motley collection of boys, each jockeying for position, elbowing and shouldering in an attempt to gain slight advantage over his rivals. To each one, front row position was invaluable. So much so that one of them could have waddled up in two walking casts, yet still feel inclined to fight for ownership of his share of starting line real estate.

 

A race organizer, recognizing that the body to start line ratio was a bit unbalanced, divided the squirrely boys up, moving roughly half to a second row behind the first – amid much muttering. My son had won the front row lottery, and got to stay put. The boys stood leaning, fidgeting; nervous energy barely contained, until – BLAAAT! – the starting horn ripped the air. Like the bursting open of doors at Wal-Mart on Black Friday, the swarm took off – and instantly much of the back row over-ran the front as they tried to regain precious lost ground. A good number of little bodies hit the ground in a tangle – and I noticed that at the bottom of that rugby scrum was my son, who was on the receiving end of the run of the 7-year-old bulls of Pamplona.

 

Colter got up, looking a bit shook and somewhat distressed. As the kids raced away down the track, he came over to the sidelines looking for his father; the race now an afterthought. In the brush up he had gotten trod on a bit, most notably receiving a good stomp across his hand. First things first, let's make sure the digits work, I said. He made a tentative fist. Good - no reason to cancel the piano lessons any time soon. A quick once over indicated everything else still worked as well, with perhaps only pride taking any real damage. By the time I got him chinned up and squared away, however, the 7 and 8-year-olds were crossing the finish line.

 

At that point Colter looked at me and asked, "Will I still get a ribbon?" Torn, but holding to a belief that one must earn his rewards; I responded simply, "No. You have to finish the race to get the ribbon." A hang-dog look came over his face. His age group race was pretty well complete. We weren't in a position to send him off and make the masses wait. He watched dejectedly as the 9 and 10-year-olds started to gather near the starting line. I offered, "Do you want to run with the next age group?" He perked up. "They're a bit bigger, but you can give it a go and see what you can do," I said. To my satisfaction, he nodded and answered, "Yes".

 

A few minutes later, he stood once again at the starting line – or should I say, near the starting line, for he picked a spot that he had determined was the best "trample-free" zone. Standing a full head shorter than the 9 and 10-year-old boys, he looked a bit out of place – but he obviously didn't feel so, as he confidently leaned forward in a classic starting crouch. BLAAAT! – the starting horn split through the air once again.

 

Now, I'm not going to tell you this was a made-for-Hollywood ending where the 7-year-old David whips all the 10-year-old running Goliaths. Colter finished that race sixth from the back. But to him, that was victory. Beating five 9 and 10-year olds was a great source of pride. I know this, because he reminded me of the feat many (many) times on the way home. He had also earned his ribbon, a young boy's version of the marathon T-shirt. All of this seemed to be a catalyst for him the rest of the Wednesday series. Going in, he had been a bit tepid about the Wednesday Night Races, and he hadn’t quite shaken his ambivalence two weeks in. After dusting himself off and running with the big boys he declared that he was now going to run every Wednesday race, and earn every ribbon he could. And, to his credit, he did just that.

 

Last week as we waited at PSS, the first of the 2009 Wednesday Night Races was called off just short of starting due to approaching weather. The organizer indicated we could collect our ribbons before leaving. Colter looked at me and offered a challenge to race around the track. Then he took off, rounding the track as fast as his now 8-year-old legs could carry him, with me in hot pursuit. Once again, he was earning his ribbon. In the end, he beat me by a nose (wink), and now had bragging rights over a handful of 9 and 10-year-olds, and one 42-year-old.

 

As I ran with my son, I wondered how long we would get to run side-by-side before his life's commitments reduced such experiences to the fleeting few - and just how long it would be before having him beat me was something I actually had any say in. Hopefully many years, in both cases...

If one were to lift Maryland up in two hands and break it over a knee, it would likely snap right along South Mountain. This grand, old Appalachian ridge runs largely north-south, spanning the junction where the state's handle attaches to the broad aspect of its rough frying pan shape. The Appalachian Trail (AT), in turn, runs along South Mountain's backbone as if painted on like a racing stripe. As luck would have it, my sister's cozy home is nestled on the west side of this mountain. A quarter mile or so up the densely wooded slope lay opportunity. Time for a run...

 

My course was pretty simple on paper - access the AT on South Mountain's southern end, at a trail head near the Potomac River, run up and along the ridge line approximately 10 or 11 miles to a point above my sister's house, drop down the side of the mountain via a handy shelter spur, then follow an informal trail (more so a suggestion of a trail) along a creek the remaining distance to home.

 

On Saturday morning I was pumped and ready to go as I entered the woods near Weverton, MD. The profile on the AT section map indicated I was to ascend 1000' in elevation in approximately the first mile and a half. A good, stiff climb to be certain, but manageable. I set off at a measured trot... only to stop about 200 meters up the trail. Approaching me was another runner, coming down the trail – walking slowly and limping noticeably, bearing some obvious contusions. Seeing me in like running garb, he offered an understated, "Hope yours goes better than mine..." and chuckled a bit. Battered and bruised, but in good spirits, he waved me on. I nodded, gulped, and moved on up the trail, perhaps measuring my trot a bit more closely.

 

The hill climb was a technical gem; steep inclines, switchbacks, rocks of all shapes and sizes, and erosion breaks consisting of logs large enough to require a slight hurdling motion to get up and over. About a mile in, the slope relented, but the rocks apparently felt no need to do likewise. I soldiered on, forced to continue the "rock runner shuffle", bouncing laterally to and fro as I sought any relatively horizontal surface in what looked like a field of bowling balls. The rocks varied from rounded, to pointy, to something like plates driven into the ground on their edges. It was great fun, but I have to admit that two miles in I was a bit concerned that the entertainment value would certainly dissipate should this last, say, another 10 miles. Thankfully, it did not.

 

Smooth sailin'...	Not so much...

 

A bit further along, the trail relaxed into a nice hard-packed dirt path, and my legs took off like a thief released from prison. The rock fields would come and go over the miles, keeping me honest, but they were mixed well with the hiking super-highway that composed much of this stretch of the AT. Many hikers were out and about; by my count I encountered approximately 20, a mix of hard-core and day trippers and a few were accompanied by (well-behaved) dogs. To my enjoyment, I also met 4 other trail runners, none of which were nearly as bruised as the first. In that regard, I also made it through generally unscathed – only one good digger. Ironically, this was on a relatively flat, open section of trail in which I got a bit complacent – and managed to trip over probably the only rock I had seen in a quarter mile. C'est la vie...

 

Taking stock at the spur I was to take down the mountainside, I realized that my legs felt great and I was rather enjoying the whole experience. So, I skipped the spur and continued on to the next trail head, which emerged at Fox Gap a couple miles further on. I could wind my way back to my sister's house on the county roads.

 

In the end, the Appalachian Trail run was a good half-marathon worth, leaving a mere 2162 miles of the AT left to run. Looks like I'm going to have to plan some more trips...

 

On all race days there are factors you can control, and factors you can't. Despite my whining about running in heat, I do realize that it is what it is. So, when the temperatures once again started pushing north on the thermometer on Grandma's morning, I simply buckled in and went along for the ride. That being said, there were times over the course that I sure wished I could have hung my head out a car window like a Bassett hound, tongue flopping in the breeze. I mean, sure, I'll deal with it, but I am allowed to dream right? Or, maybe it was mounting heat exhaustion that was creating such canine visions...

 

Every now and then, as we ran along Scenic Hwy 61, the wind would briefly turn around and come off the lake for a moment. At such times I could actually hear the crowd of surrounding runners elicit an audible "Ahhhh...", which was followed by a collective sigh 15 seconds later when the plug on the erstwhile air-conditioner got pulled. It struck me as humorous in a way. Here we all were, running beside the world's largest refrigerator, and it was teasing us.

 

Despite our plains-of-Oklahoma-like weather, things actually went reasonably well for most of the race. Decent pace, kept well hydrated. My only concern going into the day was a question mark regarding a bit of a high ankle strain that I had run into two weeks ago. Having rested it well, I believed I had left it behind me. However, the self-imposed rest had cost me most of my running over the last 14 days. So, I had no effort longer than my 3 to 4 mile shake-out runs this week upon which to draw conclusions. Since those seemed fine, I was hopeful.

 

At the outset of the race all was good, but a few miles in I felt the ankle start a low-level twinge. No problem, says I, it's just kind of sitting there in the background, kind of like the dull murmur in a theater before the previews start; and it actually stayed that way for the better part of 20 miles. Then, apparently my ankle got jealous because I was not paying enough attention to it, and decided to start harassing me like my cat come dinner hour. The pinging increased until it seemed I had hit the reset button back to two weeks ago.

 

I have to admit to some frustration, as my legs felt pretty good from a conditioning point-of-view, and the rest had actually freshened them up a bit. So, I was disappointed in having to move into race mitigation mode, dropping pace and alternating sections of running and striding. Such is life, I guess. This was about the time I met up with Shane, and we passed and re-passed each other for quite a while, and occasionally moved along together. Shane mustered some closing energy and went on ahead, finishing a good 4 or 5 minutes in front of me. (Nice job, Shane.) In the end, I crossed the line at 4:10:22.

 

Two years ago, in my inaugural Grandma's Marathon, I ran it in 4:10:28. So let's see, after 2 years and hundreds of miles of training, I have improved my Grandma's Marathon time by, uh, a solid 6 seconds. Hmm. By my calculations, at that rate of improvement I only need to run about 104 more marathons to get to the elusive 4 hour mark. I guess that'll keep me busy.

 

I can't complain overall, though. As another sage-like blogger on this site says in his introduction, "I may not get my best time but it will be my best on that given day." I hear ya', Tim. I took what I could get on a tough day – and had a great 20 miler; followed by a less-than-impressive 10K, it's true. But, when all is said and done, it'll do.

 

My ankle is now on the clock. I have 3 weeks until the Voyageur Half-Ultra. Time to work out a game plan...