Brew-To-Brew Recap

It was as if the gods were doing a little spring cleaning and were ridding the skies of any leftover weather. They threw out freezing rain, pelting ice, wet snow, and winds that actually had an undertow. It was a typical spring day, if you live in the Yukon.

We began at Boulevard Brewery, downtown Kansas City, where the first of our two ringers took an early lead. Jason Parr, our first ringer, showed up dressed in his singlet, his tights, and his racing flats. When Jason took our "Pass the Bunny" baton, his ensemble was complete. There's nothing quite so sublime as an elite athlete proudly shoving a Hershey's Kisses plastic tube with a bunny on the top down his shorts. Is that our baton, Jason, or are you just happy to be in the race? Not one to stand around with the rest of his cohorts who were making fun of the other teams, Jason and his hyperkinetic pragmatism quickly peeled off after our group picture. I've heard about these types of runners, the kind who actually warm up to run, but I thought it was a myth. At precisely 9:30 AM, with a light sweat covering him, Jason and his flight of runners started, thereby setting us off on our odyssey from Kansas City to Lawrence.

The skies were angry, my friend, when the race began. Jason and another runner took an early, decisive lead. Knowing our team's dominance was in good hands, the rest of us broke out the bagels and cream cheese, and made our way to the first of many "Where the hell are we?" handoff points. Gretchen Farmer's sister, Heidi, our second ringer, kept track of Jason's expected split. With just over eight miles to run, we believed Jason would be striding in right around 10:25, which he did. His skin was wind whipped, a long cord of spit trailed from his chin. He handed the bunny baton to Gretchen and began telling us his story of levees and spiraling ramps, stairways and missed cut-offs. In short, Jason and his other first-leggers ran a combination cross-country and free-running course, and even though he and one other freak of nature ran an extra mile due to a less than clearly marked course, they STILL managed to beat the rest of their flight. And then he ran some more. Again, you hear about these urban myths of runners cooling down with an extra mile or two, but you never think you'll see one...

Gretchen Farmer, who had accepted the prized baton, began her leg, and spent the next four miles being pelted by shards of frozen rain. One had to wonder what terrible sins she must have committed in a previous life. Not for nothin', those of us trailing in the van remarked on how lousy the weather outside the van was. We did roll the window down once to yell our support, and then we went back to our coffee. While Gretchen was covering her miles, the rest of us realized how many movies and TV shows we all have in common. On a personal note, I tip my hat to you, Mr. Farmer, for singing a wonderful rendition of Adam Sandler's "Lunch Lady," and for finishing the sentence, "What does one do with broccoli?" Truly, it's remarkable that any of us made it through college, let alone Master's programs. There was also discussion of using our downtime to sample some of the regional cuisine, which led to freely offered insights into a few of our teammates' gastrointestinal predilections. Good to know, Chris Farmer...

When the rain/wind ratio hit that really awe-inspiring mix, the mix that turns umbrellas inside out and soaks through the most minute seams of raingear, Chris and Heidi ran out to meet their wife and sister. That left three of us in the van to discuss proper potty procedures should you not be anywhere near a potty. One word--socks. But there was a handoff afoot, and so it was up to Chris Jacquin, gentleman runner, to carry on the mantle.

Let me take this moment to describe our friend, the genteman runner. Chris showed up at the race dressed all in black, except for a jaunty splash of mint-green. When I asked if he had brought clothes to change into, he eyed me incredulously and said, "I'll be changing in the car." I haven't known Chris that long, and, frankly, I didn't care to get to know him on that level. Maybe after he's tenured. When the time came for Chris to strip down, off came the black Van skate shoes, off with the black winter coat, off with the black fleece pants, off came the black V-neck sweater over the mint-green polo, and under it all were black tights, black shorts, and a black dry-weave long-sleeve. The mint-green polo remained. Kind of a running death wish with a hint of hope. After alerting the gentleman runner that Gretchen was nearing the exchange, Chris leapt from the van. We busted out laughing and broke it to him that it was a false alarm. Chris muttered something that I'm sure was inappropriate, and skulked back to the van. A minute later when Gretchen "Save the Bunny" Farmer appeared on the horizon, Chris did finally saunter out to the handoff point, shivering, his arms wrapped around his pretty little polo. He took the baton with a bow, whispered something, and took off like a freakin' Easter-egg-green antelope. We bundled back into the nice, warm van, and drove by Edgar Allen Jacquin, who saluted us with a side kick, and blazed a trail for our next exchange. It was at this point that Gretchen told us about her heroic effort to keep our bunny baton whole, verily circling back to save the bunny after it had been severed from the tube. We were all impressed by her humanitarian efforts and wondered if Chris would have the same sense of continuity.

The baton was an empty tube when the gentleman runner strode into the truck stop/Mexican restaurant. One can only imagine the feeling of abandonment our little bunny experienced when Jacquin casually and callously ripped its plastic corpus off the baton and flung it to the ground. In our hearts we know Chris used those Hershey kisses to litter the ground with ankle-breaking obstacles for unprepared runners. You're a cruel man, Chris, yet a gentleman, nonetheless.

I'd like to pause here to report a fact I learned about Heidi, Gretchen's sister--she's a vegeterian who doesn't like the smell of beef jerky. In fact, the only thing worse than the smell of beef jerky is the image of Jacquin saying something about stuffing beef jerky down his shorts. It's still bewildering to those of us in the van why Chris conceived of this idea, but it did take our minds off the weather.

Next up, Vic "The Lynchpin" Abundis, who took to the roads in spectacular fashion. True, we were concerned his willowy calves and pre-pubescent girl thighs wouldn't support the added weight once his 100% cotton sweatshirt became soaked with melted snow. And yes, we did consider that Vic wouldn't actually know if the exchange point was at the bottom or the top of the hill, so why not just drive on up there and wait. And yes, we all kind of didn't expect Vic to show up as quickly as he did, so when, during the middle of a conversation about 'The Office," Vic's bewildered face appeared outside the van's steamed-over window, we all kind of cracked up. The gentelman runner, having stripped off his wet, mint-green polo, threw on his dry, cherry-red polo, and jumped out of the van to begin his second leg. Better him than, well, anyone.

Because this is a family-read blog, I cannot report verbatim the string of expletives Vic used to describe his leg. The basic sentence was "Man, it was cold and windy out there," but the result was more like three times the length. Sincerely, it was a masterful use of vulgarity, both in differentiated vocabulary, brilliance in conjugation, uncompromising religious offensiveness and sheer volume.

Once polo boy had started, we drove ahead. Or should I say up. I believe in the powers of the glaciers and the hills left behind when the glaciers receded. But dear goodness, where the hell did this hill come from in the middle of the damn prairie? I might have complained more vociferously, but I was too busy thanking Gretchen for having not signed me up for that leg.

The exchange point between Chris' leg and mine was at a farm in the middle of nowhere that was surrounded by nothing. The porta-potties did have paper, though, which was nice. I had a singular prayer while waiting for the handoff--"Please, God, let my team pass by in the van quickly, and keep them from checking on my progress..." Even though I had warned them all that I would be the weak-link of the team, I didn't want to prove it in living, inglorious color. I'd like to think they were sharing in my excitement when I spotted the van stopped on the side of the road three miles into my leg. I'm pretty sure they were making sure I hadn't collapsed somewhere along the route, begging someone, anyone to just roll me into the drainage ditch.

Parr had the Special Forces obstacle course; Gretchen had freezing rain; Vic had globs of snow; Jacquin had his polo shirts. What was my handicap? The wind. I'm talking wind that undercut my footing when it was coming square out of the north, which was half the time, and wind that stood me up like a statue in mid-stride when it roared out of the west. Remember the hills? Gone. Open prairies. One mile in, and my right nostril was freeze dried like a rose dipped in dry ice. There came a moment when I knew it was faster to walk than run. I swear the wind pushed me back every time I tried to stride. Four miles in was the adventure I had prepared for by watching "Band of Brothers" over and over. There were prisoners in Hagenau on the other side of that frozen river, and I, like Easy Company, was on a mission to get to them. Slightly less dramatic than gathering intel in the middle of a war, my river crossing was no less...wet. No, I didn't have German guns focused on me, nor was I covering the distance during the night, and, yes, the "special rescue" fire fighters out of Lawrence held my hand as I squished down the hill. They also required we each wear a wet, muddy lifejacket before we entered the wet, muddy dingy, but like Easy Company, I...I... Okay, there's absolutely no comparison except for the water, but what does it tell you about the weather conditions when I had to fantasize about a wartime suicide-rescue mission to take my mind off the wind?

The hill up the riverbank was muddy, precarious. I clutched the guide rope in my hands and considered Edmund HIllary, and like Hillary, I struggled up the slope, knowing my destiny was at the apex. Yea, the destiny of all mankind...

Once out of the river, I set back to my slog, knowing there was a certain plausible deniability associated with the exact time the river crossing might have taken. One mile later, I could hear the joyful sound of an exchange point. Either that, or my eardrum had burst from the cold and was now ringing. Possibly both were correct. And then there was Gretchen, hopping like a bunny, waving her arms in the international semifore for "Don't die yet! Here's the point where you can throw up!" In a tradition I began years ago, I performed my obligatory cartwheels, and slapped Gretchen's hand. It didn't occur to me until later that Gretchen had on clean white gloves, and I had just done two cartwheels on a sodden, muddy street. Such are the wages of war. Gretchen, a mighty general, and her husband continued on.

There's humility, and then there's outright lying. I speak, of course, about our second ringer, Heidi. When Heidi and I met earlier that morning, I took some comfort in the fact that she had had a child three months ago and that a stroller was stored in the back of her van. "I'm in terrible shape," she said, and I believed her. When she slid on the "Boston Marathon" hat, I searched for the word "volunteer," but to no avail. "Oh, that was a long time ago. I haven't run for six months." I still chose to believe the lie. But when Heidi stripped off her warm-up jacket and displayed her Kansas City Running Club shirt, and when I watched her face change from happy new mom to "I'm totally gonna kick some ass" runner, I knew the jig was up. When Heidi turned to us and said, "I won the Kansas City marathon in 2007. You know how it is with running--money in the bank," I began to crawl into a mental fetal position. But it's all for the good of the team, right? Right? I'm such a loser...

The wind parted for Heidi; the rain and snow dared not impede her progress. She took off in a flash, a streak of pink and black, and Gretchen started her stopwatch. "I figure she'll be in Lawrence by 3:20. We better get going." We belted in and followed the caravan of cars across the tracks, around the levee and through the rental section into downtown Lawrence.

For those of you who aren't familiar with this neck of the woods, Lawrence is the home of the University of Kansas. Because I had survived my leg, I decided to tempt fate yet again by wearing my Michigan State sweatshirt to the finish line. I was ready to rumble. Plus, I had "the Lynchpin" and "Polo Boy" covering my back. How can this possibly go wrong?

Lest one should think this race was anywhere near a sanctioned, ChampionChip race, let me describe some of the teams who came through the chutes, half of whom carrying beer--there was the super hero team, the funny wigs team, the "Derek Zoolander" team for "people who don't run good and want to learn to drink good" team. There was the tye-dyed shirt team, the "Joggers for Lagers" team, and the bunny in the backpack team. But by far, the most spirited team, the team with the best heads on them, the team that were ugly mugs and hopped over the rest was the Boulevard Brewery team of running beer bottles. They really did cap off a great day.

From half a mile away, Gretchen spotted her sister, a cloud of dust trailing her like a Justice League cape. One, two, three racers were elbowed off the levee and into the Kaw, and yet Heidi never broke stride. Another woman was simply trampled over. One man tried to out sprint her, and Heidi removed the barrette from her hair and shanked him. She plowed over the finishing line, politely showed her number, and growled. The masses quaked in her presence. Weak links wearing enemy colors in the middle of the prairie fear no one. I simply cowered. All in all, we finished the race in just under 6 hours. We would have done better had that dork Parr been more careful. Gees, who asked him to join the team?

Even though the bunny baton didn't make it to Lawrence, and even though the weather conspired against us, we had a great time. We laughed and laughed, and laughed some more. We ran hard and ate big. It was the best of what this sport has to offer--camaraderie, healthy activity, and fresh air, albeit wet, freezing, punishing air.

The beer at the end wasn't bad, either.

Until the Trolley Run,
JG

D-Day minus 11 hours

Tomorrow's the day of the "Brew To Brew" relay, and I really could use about three more weeks to prepare. Fortunately, I have the 7th leg of the relay, and at mile 3.2, I get to take a rubber dinghy across the Missouri river, thereby cutting an extra mile off my leg of the race. But here's the thing--just about the time my leg takes off, we're supposed to have a mix of rain and snow, with winds gusting up to 40 MPH. I swear to God. What the hell! It's an adventure.

I'm going to die...

Spring is here! And so is winter...

First, let me apologize for the absence. For whatever reason, I couldn't log on to the blog. Then I just became lazy.

Next, let me say I've continued to run, changing routes as much as possible to stay interested while my body resists movement. I've recently started running at Wyandotte County Lake Park, a great park, most of which was built during the WPA. It reminds me a great deal of Kensington but with more hills. And when I say hills, I'm really describing inclines that remind one very quickly about the physics of gravity. WyCo, as the local runners call it, has some great trails also. That's what really interested me in the park.

And therein lies the reference to spring. Two weeks ago, when the boys and I were on break, I spent a couple days running through the woods at WyCo, and the green, fresh smell of chives wafted through the air. Always a cause of redemptive hope, the sight of those shoots punching through dry, dead leaves means only one thing--hyacinths aren't far behind. Nor are crocuses and daffodils. Yes, spring is here, with 70 degree weather.

Unless you're living on the edge of the great plains. Then, in the course of two days, it can go from 78 degrees to a major winter storm, with freezing rain and snow. I did manage to get out Saturday night for a quick two-mile run, all that I could manage in the post-storm winds. The cool thing about that was the sound of the ice-covered branches clicking against each other and the sight of the delicate tree blossoms encased in the same ice with a dollop of snow balanced on each. That was lovely. By noon the next day, all the snow but the snowmen was melted, and today at 4:00 it was back up to 70 degrees.

So come to Missouri to run. But bring every piece of running gear you have. You just never know what season you'll get.

Running with Gene Kelly, Sans Umbrella

If you've ever experienced a Missouri rain storm, then you know the awesome volume of water that can be produced in a short amount of time. If you've ever been out running during one of these gulley-washers, then you know there comes a point when trying to wipe the water from your face is an exercise in futility; when the thought of jumping around puddles to keep your shoes dry becomes pointless; when there are no more high spots on the sidewalks; when the streets become streams and those streams have a palpable current. If you've ever been caught in one of these down pours, you realize there's no point in trying to rush home. You won't get there before your feet feel like you're running in water balloons. No, might as well ride it out. In fact, this becomes the perfect opportunity to revisit your childhood and stomp your way through a drainage ditch. Why not? Can't get any wetter.

Beyond the deluge, beyond the soaked shoes and dripping dry weave, something else bubbles up inside you--any other rational person would be tucked safely inside their warm, dry house. Those rational people might include other runners. Even so, here you are, sloshing through the streets, knowing you're getting stronger. In fact, there's a certain irrational pride that bolsters you, a haughtiness that steels your resolve to finish your miles, to appraise other runners who sit idly at home with a sidelong smirk. There is a camaraderie in the rushed, perfunctory wave between runners on nights like this, a certain gesture of approval and shared "Are we crazy?" An unanswered "Yeah, but isn't it great?"

My shoes will eventually dry out and my hat brim will too, but what I gained is much more permanent. What I gained is the pride in commitment. What I earned was another notch in my "Will I ever be a runner again?" column. What I collected was one more three-miler on my training log, and those curtains of heavy rain only made the miles seem more powerful.

Pain, pain, go away!

When I was in braces, my orthodontist gave me wax to smooth over the rough, abrasive brackets, thereby easing the pain of my cheeks being scraped. I never used it. I guess I figured the sooner my cheeks became used to the pain, the sooner the pain would ease.

Every runner knows that running is painful, some days more than others. And for me, this early in my training, it's most definitely not easy. However, tonight, while I was making my way around my very hilly neighborhood, I just kept pushing, knowing the sooner I get in shape, the sooner the pain will ease. Three miles later, I have a rather nice sense of accomplishment. I even managed some speed work at the end of the run, which has always been my favorite part of running, that elongation of stride, the powerful pump of the arm. Did it hurt once I stopped? Hell's bells, yes. Was it worth it? Like getting your braces off, the pain is always worth it.

Felled by Chicken and Dumplings

Anyone who has ever begun the arduous task of getting back in shape knows that the body will be sore--the calves tight, the quads stiff, the hips aching. What I failed to remember was that my stomach also needs time to acclimate. Back when I was a regular runner, I could eat a bratwurst, wash it down with beer, cap it off with a couple marshmallows, and go out for a six miler. No problem. It was as if my gastrointestinal system knew to gird itself against all the roiling. Well, my stomach hasn't caught up to my legs. The other night, after a particularly cold day, I made a great pot of chicken and dumplings. I even gave myself plenty of time to digest it. I went to the Y to run the track, got about two loops from the two mile point, and the heavenly chicken and dumplings morphed into a brick, and, brother, I mean like that! One minute I was grinding out a nice, comfortable cadence, the next I'm hobbled, my posture askew, my gait akin to Vincent D'Onofrio in "Men in Black." And here's the deal--people tend to sympathize with knee injuries and other "You must be a runner" type injuries. One doesn't garner much sympathy from acute gastritis.

It happens.

Sparty On!

Who's on top of the Big Ten? MSU, that's whoo!

Elvis is alive!

Today, I saw Elvis. In and of itself, that's not such a rarity in Kansas City. With four casinos within spitting distance, apparently the odd sighting of the King is more dependent on the day of the week, as in Tuesdays are Skinny Elvis' day to grocery shop at Price Chopper in Parkville. He looks good, and, if I do say so, his inky black sideburns are spectacular.

I've seen some odd and amazing things, and none more than when I'm running. One cold autumn midday, about eight years ago, I ground to a halt from my run and, mouth agape, watched as the Barnum and Bailey Circus train clacked across the tracks in Royal Oak. I've seen Jupiter glow orange against the eternal night sky. I've been chased by billowing clouds of fireworks smoke, commandeering the streets of Huntington Woods. I've looked into the eyes of a doe, steadfast in the sidewalk, only to scamper into the adjacent woods. I've listened to the lions growl and the spider monkeys screech, the peacocks crowing in the darkness of the Detroit Zoo.

And then the treasures. A twenty dollar bill is the greatest monetary treasure I've found on a run, but the odd things are what I'll remember--the inner-most doll from the inside of a set of Russian nesting dolls, all chipped paint and rudimentary features; baseball cards and Nascar cards, some mottled with dirt, some protected in platic sleeves; bracelets and necklaces, earrings and charms; a man's credit card strewn carelessly on the side of the road. An ex-wife, perhaps? Who would have lost a credit card in the ditch? Once I found a pair of glasses, looked inside, and found an address, some four blocks from where they lay partially obscured under a shrub. Mom was thrilled that her daughter's second pair of glasses in the last six months had been found. Daughter hadn't even known she had lost them.

So that's what I miss the most about my long runs, that sense of discovery, of a hidden world that can only be observed in the quiet hours of running. I still dream about running, and I still classify myself as a runner, though with a realistic, self-depracating caveat.

If Elvis can browse the produce department, all gold-rimmed sunglasses and rhinestone-studded denim jacket, I can rise to become a runner once again.

Keeping it honest

I recently watched a very funny movie called "Run, Fat Boy, Run," and in this story, about an overweight Englishman trying to win back his girlfriend and redeem his life through training for and running a London marathon, there is a pertinent piece of training advice. It occurs in a dialogue between the hero of our story, Dennis Doyle, and his best friend Gordon:


Gordon: Go on then, run!

Dennis: Isn't there some kind of, like,... special technique?

Gordon: Well... yeah... you put one leg in front of the other, over and over again, really, really fast.

Good advice.

So today, Saturday, February 21st, I did just that, for better or worse, and found out that I'm somewhere on the lower end of the spectrum, fitness-wise, BUT not at the bottom. Let's consider the spectrum:

Low end: Bill Murray before he joins the army in "Stripes."

High end: Demi Moore in "G.I. Jane."

I can't do one-armed push ups, nor will I consider shaving my head, but I'm not quite at the point of having to dry out before I'm thirty, thirty having come and gone a decade and a half ago.
So, one leg in front of the other, indeed.

Hitting Rock Bottom

There was a time when I could run a 6:50 mile. I had chiseled legs, a washboard stomach, and arms with more definition than Mount Rushmore.

Now, I have "keep that hemline below the knee caps, thank you" legs, a washtub stomach, and arms that look like I'd rather drink a 64 oz slurpee in the visitor's center at Mount Rushmore than slog across the grueling boardwalk to the observation deck.

At 43, sniffing at 44, I can no longer take long vacations from my life as an active person. But it wasn't until I recently hit rock bottom that I decided to turn things around.

Although I'm not a candidate for the A&E channel show "Intervention," I, like so many other addicts, had to have a moment when I knew my behavior was the lowest of lows. No, I didn't have family and friends sit around me, reading letters of support and ultimatums. I didn't need that. I reached my low point all on my own.

I'm so ashamed.

My addiction, you see, is lethargy. Apathy. Complacency. Knuckle-headedness. The big LACK. Sure, "knuckle-headedness" seems like a stretch, but you try finding a word that begins with K. Anyhow, with a Master's degree in English, I can totally make this work, so here we go--"knuckle-headedness" because I know better. With heart disease running through my family, I am a knucklehead to think I can continue to eat Egg Mc Muffins and PopTarts while curling up for a 24-hour marathon of "America's Next Top Models." Sure, that's great TV, but it doesn't help my cholesterol level. Janice would be appalled.

And so it was that I found myself, last Friday night, huddled under a blanket on my couch, watching "Gilmore Girls" on TV and eating Cheeze Whiz straight out of the can. But that wasn't my epiphanic moment. An hour later I was in the local pizza shop where I ran into a colleague who reminded me that I had agreed to run one of the legs of the 44 mile "Brew-To-Brew" race on April 5 with the relay team she had gathered. "I thought we'd have 10 runners. It's more like six. No big deal--we'll take about eight miles each." When I visibly blanched, she went into protection mode--"Oh, but Parr can take 10 without breaking a sweat, and I'm sure I could do ten, and Scot and Chris, they'll be able to do six to eight, so that means you and Vic only have to run six miles each. You can do that. You're a runner." Yes, once upon a time and twenty-five pounds ago, yes, I was a runner...

Calm down, I told myself. Today is February 2oth. The race is April 5th. That means I have how many weeks to train?

The rocks down here are sharp, my friends. They're sharp, and they're covered with Cheeze Whiz and bacon, normally a great combination, especially with a side of sour cream, which, obviously, I would know something about. Nevertheless, rocks. Down here. In the pit of my neglect and wretchedness.

And so I have an uphill battle before me, which is good because I could use the hill workouts.

I realize I will be the weak link of this team, but since I could technically be the mother of a couple of the younger runners, I'm just going to push myself every day.

My first task--throw away the Cheeze Whiz. Doesn't matter. It's empty, anyhow...