Running Mad - Does Stress Help Runners?

Consider me a modern-day "Martin," travel-and-adventure companion of Candide in Voltaire's short story of the same name.

I'm the anchor-like balance to my wife's "best of all possible worlds" point of view. We balance each other quite well, and have done so over the past eight-and-a-half years. My bad days normally coincide with her positive moods; the moments Suzanne feels like ripping out the hearts of her adversaries like an Aztec priestess are balanced by my 'karma happens; they'll receive their just reward soon enough' attitude.

Fortunately for the world around us, both Bowens are rarely in a cranky mood. But when those days come, it's usually the perfect timing for a workout.

I had banged my head against the desk all day yesterday, and suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous commuter misadventure. What is it about idiots who want to whip around you, just so they can sit in front of you at the intersection? 'Oh, goody, you get a cookie for making it to the stoplight first. Now you can sit there as long as I do, jerk.'

I came through the front door to see my loving bride seated at her computer, running gear on. No greeting, save for "I really need to hit the treadmill today."

Funny, but that's exactly how I felt.

Minutes later, we walked the half-mile to our neighborhood gym, which gave Suzanne the opportunity to vent about the major topics of the day. When she mentioned she had eight telephone calls interrupt her labors I had to admit a small twinge of guilt; I was responsible for 25-percent of them. Well, the calls seemed pretty darn important at the time.

Once we got to the gym, we attacked the treadmills; taking no prisoners, giving no quarter, leaving nothing behind but sweat.

Returning home didn't mean the end. We immediately leashed my sister-in-law's terrier and our greyhound and took them for a walk. We took no doo-doo from them, either, pun intended. It wasn't until some time close(r) to 7:30 when we finally relaxed enough to sit down for dinner.

Suzanne has told me she enjoys working out or racing while she's angry. One of her best half-marathon performances - or one of her best performances in a half-marathon, I cannot rightly recall - came after a younger woman made a wise crack about her age at the bottom of a hill. She put on a surge which amazed the course worker at the to the top of the hill, coasting through the remainder of the course under a full head of steam. Suzanne, nor the course workers, recalled seeing the younger woman nearby for the remainder of the race.

On the other hand, I consider anger or other emotions a fuel good only for very short-term endeavors. All those chemicals which contribute to the classic fight-or-flight response may light off the afterburners, but they also cause a few less-than-positive consequences:

First, the breathing becomes more shallow. I'm not so certain about you, but I have enough difficulties keeping enough air in my lungs during the course of a 5,000-meter road race. So, stressing out doesn't work so well for me cardiovascular-wise.

Second, the muscles are tensed up in order to either kick, swing, pummel, bludgeon or withstand a kicking, swinging, pummelling or bludgeoning. Tense muscles are inefficient muscles...we do speed training to learn how to run at speed in as relaxed a manner as possible, not in as tight a manner as possible.

Third, the brain tends to think less critically. It's one of the unintended consequences of all that nice adrenaline, epinephrine, cortisol, cholesterol, glucose...and the many other chemicals pumped into our bloodstream by our endocrine system. Anyone who has ever been in a life-or-death situation will say they probably were thinking of little else but how to get to the nearest egress. And thinking, serious status checking, is crucial for road racing...especially when the race distance moves from 5k to 10k, from 10k to 21k, and so on. Lapses in thought can cost seconds and minutes.

So, remember that running ought to be the release from the stress of the day, not an extension of the stressors.

The Dog - Best Friend, Best Training Partner

My workday routine - once I get into the office - includes two activities which my co-workers and supervisor have seen fit not to infringe upon or drastically modify. First of all, I make certain the coffee is brewed - since my supervisor and several co-workers also drink coffee that's probably the reason I'm not hindered.

The second habit includes reading my favorite comic strips. One strip I enjoy a great deal is "Frazz," drawn by Jef Mallett. The main character, Edwin "Frazz" Frazier, looks like a grown-up version of "Calvin" from Bill Watterston's "Calvin and Hobbes" strip. Frazz loves a teacher, works at a school, runs, bicycles, swims, writes songs... It's a fairly neat parallel of (my) life and Mallet's art.

Not long after I started to follow the strip, Mallet had a week of strips which involved Frazz's girlfriend's dog, "Mario," a rescue greyhound. (And to think the comic strip couldn't get any better...) The most memorable conversation that week had to do with the speed of greyhounds versus human beings. A youngster from the school asked if humans were faster than greyhounds. Frazz replies greyhounds are faster than humans, but humans can run a marathon faster than a greyhound. The child says, "so greyhounds are also smarter than humans." "One would consider the baggie a clue," laments Frazz.

I've occasionally laud my greyhound, Rubin, in blog posts for teaching me the benefits of rest and habit. But, as time has progressed, I cannot help but consider the dog - in the vast majority of cases - to be not only man's best friend, but potentially, man's best training partner.

Several coaches have rhapsodized about training "accountability groups" containing at least three members. The natural reason for having three persons in a training group, naturally, is so the individual athlete need never train alone, except for those rare occasions. Think about it - the odds of having one training partner fall ill, or their family member fall ill, or be on travel, sudden change of work schedule, and so forth - is usually pretty good. But, the chances of having EVERY other training partner in the group suffer from such obstacles grows more unlikely. There is at least one day a week where I feel a little beat up, or I need to be in at work a little more early, etc. So I might try to talk myself out of 25-and-50 workout opportunities a year, which means a one-in-seven or a two-in-seven chance of leaving a partner in a lurch. Then, what are the chances of both other people ill, beat-up, constrained? It's probably right around two-in-one-hundred.

You statisticians or mathematicians out there, please feel free to jump in.

Dogs, on the other hand, don't HAVE to worry about work. To Rubin, every day is Saturday. He's ALWAYS up for a walk, even if the weather is stormy. He might not want to go outside (to do his business) in the pouring rain, but he'll go if I pull on my rain gear.

So, if you've got a dog who likes to run and a route which is amenable to running together, the odds are very high you've got a willing training partner.

Not every breed, however, is built to deal with long-distance running. My mother's German Shorthaired Pointer, Bogie, taught me this lesson almost two decades ago. I had driven down to her home in Jupiter Farms, FL, for a visit. One afternoon, I told her I was going out for a run. She suggested taking Bogie along as company, not suspecting:

First, I didn't know the neighborhood as well as we initially thought.
Second, how far I was capable of running before realizing point number one, and...
Third, how lost I could get myself because of points number one and number two.

Some 90 minutes and nine miles later (as I learned while driving the next day) Bogie and I returned home to a very worried mother-slash-"dog mama." Bogie immediately shoved his face into a bowl of cool water, I grabbed a very large glass of iced tea. He lay down on his bedding in the corner of the living room; I put my legs up in the recliner while enduring the maternal inquisition. The next day, the question, 'Bogie? Want to go for a walk?' was met by a tucked-tail slink out of the kitchen back to the living room.

Greyhounds, I learned, are pretty well good to go where walks and warm/cool-down efforts are concerned. Otherwise they prefer to play the "I'm retired" card for distances longer than a quarter-mile. There's also a terrier or two I've encountered who, if you could control their lateral direction, would probably keep most distance runners on their toes for an extended period of time. I've met herding and working breeds who absolutely love to run and seem to go forever. My friend, Charley, has a couple of Australian Shepherd-types who think nothing in life is greater than to go out running on trail with the local hash kennel. The only problem, naturally, is once the run is over...especially this particular kennel. It's not a proper trail without a water crossing. "The wet dog is the lovingest," was the final line of a poem by Ogden Nash.

Truer words were never inscribed on paper.

When it comes to race day, however, that's where the lines are not only drawn, but the ugliest darned fault lines develop. The race director, especially for a Road Runners Club of America-affiliated club, is constrained by the insurance guidelines which keep Fido from pawing the starting line next to their owner. Then, you have the "keep your dog leashed" crowd, the "my dog is well-behaved" crowd, and the "how dare you risk hurting your dog by making them run in this heat" crowd. Nobody wins; everybody goes home grumpy.

Last spring, a young lady asked if her dog could participate in one of the area's major run events. She said the dog had been her training partner to that point in time, and she figured it would be fun for them both to participate in her first race. I knew the RRCA insurance constraints and the risks which could happen in the pack. However, being "only" a guy who knew a few things about a few things, I suggested she contact the race director so she could get the (bad) news from him directly. I didn't hear any follow-up, but she did thank me for my gracious response.

While not every runner appreciates the presence of a canine on their morning (or afternoon) run, it can be said that nearly every canine appreciates the chance to be in the presence of a runner. And having that always-joyful, never-complaining, almost-always-available running partner can even help us get that first step out the door on the days when we really don't feel like it.

"Coach Dog"

...and I'm not talking about Dalmatians, those spotted coach dogs.

On more than one occasion I've lauded the simplicity of lifestyle of my retired racing greyhound-cum-household companion, Rubin. Given his inherent limitations - lack of opposable thumbs, inability to communicate in the English language, and occasional bouts of selective hearing - he's taught me a great deal about how to train, a good amount about how to coach, and a little bit, even, about how to maintain relationships.

Lesson one - consistent lifestyle. Rubin awakens at five o'clock every morning to take care of his immediate needs, determines whether extra rest is necessary, and continues his plan of the day accordingly. I've never heard him complain that he feels guilty about postponing a workout (in his case, a morning walk) in favor of a little extra rest, or deciding to settle for a trot around the back yard in place of a walk in the park. There are cases where his decision leads to a less-than-desirable outcome, but those are few and far between. Sometimes the weather conditions factor in, sometimes what he had for dinner the previous evening, sometimes even the availability of his "training partner." Still, his ability to adapt to the infrequent vicissitudes of greyhound life are a lesson to me.

Lesson two - sometimes a look says enough. Greyhounds are not known for barking unless they perceive a threat, so facial expressions and posture make up for the quiet nature. I've told friends on occasion: 'when an 85-pound greyhound stands between you and the television screen, you listen.' There are a number of different looks I've learned to translate, from the 'gotta go out' stare to the subtle look toward the box of Milk-Bone biscuits sitting atop the refrigerator. He's a tad more physical with Suzanne when she moves through the hall or works in the kitchen; a look with me often works where velcro dog is the preferred means of communication with my wife.

Lesson three - trust never sleeps. Greyhounds have two time contexts: Now, and forever. Really. Any dog owner can tell you. When do dogs want attention, food, walks, pets, ear scratching, belly rubs and the like? Now. How long has it been since the last treat, walk, bit of attention, or your departure from the house? Forever. They trust you're going to do the right thing, all the time; even if you fall short of their expectations (if dogs have expectations...) they still love and honor you.

So, for me? What do I think this means for individuals/athletes?

First - lifestyle consistency cannot be stressed enough. Rest if you're beat up; back off the effort if you're less than beat up, listen to your body and the conditions.

Second - communication between two people in a relationship (even between coach and athlete) is an individual matter. Some prefer lengthy chats a'la James Joyce; others prefer succinctness a'la Ernest Hemingway. No matter how you decide to communicate...

Third - do the right thing...be honest with everybody. It's simpler than trying to remember what story you told to what person.

Thanks, Rubin. Take two Milk-Bones out of petty cash.

When Things Come To A Head

Feels like the end of the tunnel has been reached, so to speak. In the past I've always managed to survive the stretch from Thanksgiving to right around Christmas without catching whatever nasty cold or flu or creeping crud was circulating. However, this year was a major change in the immunity, or susceptibility to the stuff, I guess. I don't think my training volume changed all that much this year, & it's not like I was over-fatigued from IM FL. But I got something before the holidays, pretty much the same cold/flu bug/crud (more like upper respiratory infection, head cold, low-grade fever kind of stuff) I have visit days after Christmas.

The timing was nearly perfect...and not so perfect; it all hit like a ton of bricks last week when I was scheduled for a general practitioner's appointment. Unfortunately, it stuck around & became more noxious through the weekend's tri club party/meeting - if the photos taken showed I looked like I rolled out of a sickbed to quaff a couple of beers, well, that's because I did. The bad news is I don't feel like doing anything that resembles exercise. The good news is I didn't have any major plans for this month, anyhow.

At least that's what my body is telling me. My mind, on the other hand...wanted to jump in on the weekend's masters' swim meet a couple of days back. Hey, it would have been warmer in the water than on the deck, but I doubted hacking a six-pound loogie at the end of the 800-yard freestyle would have been a pretty sight. Some times you have to be smarter than your desire.

So, other than a couple of brief walks around the park with the wife & the woofer, my exercise regimen has been limited to a single set of 12-ounce elbow bends each evening.

Plan out your holiday period as judiciously as you would plan any other training period. It's a time to spend with family, friends, co-workers, but make certain you don't run yourself directly into the ground. I make a conscious effort to decline invitations...as nicely as possible...if I feel the schedule has become too hectic. All the same, I try not to become too bunged up if I can't get everyone to show up at a single social function.

As for the training, it's a great time to run, bike or swim with people you normally wouldn't train. We've got local runs which occur at the same time as our track workout; I'm not one to give carte blanche & say, 'go ahead and run with that group,' but if the change of pace gives you a new perspective on your training...

Give Me The Fruitcake And Nobody Gets Hurt

Rather than not try to make amends for the morning's weather conditions (light rain), which put the kibosh on not only the marathon course measurement but the Sunday kinda-long run, Suzanne and I took a couple of walks during the course of the day. The first one was the more enjoyable endeavor, around the park outside of our house...taking our greyhound on the last circuit. She wears her iPod to listen to techie podcasts, I wear my Speedo Aquabeat to listen to tunes...we chatter when the spirit moves us...which is usually often during these strolls.

The second one, we decided, would be at the mall. We did want to make a brief trip to a couple of our favorite shops, and we did indulge in some of that four-dollar coffee, too. As always, the mall provides lots of commentary material, so we usually don't take any music player with us.

Why do people lumber through shopping malls in an absolutely overloaded state? There is no way, given the fitness level of the typical American consumer, their stamina is going to withstand a three-hour stroll in an overheated, crowded mall...especially when they are carrying fifty pounds of cr*p IN BAGS WHICH WERE NEVER MEANT FOR CARRYING OVER EXTENDED DISTANCES/PERIODS OF TIME. Suzanne mentioned seeing a couple earlier in the week as she was taking care of some business; the woman was carrying ALL of the stuff. When a bag (inevitably) failed to hold up and shopping items fell to the floor, her husband berated her...of course, he was NOT carrying a d*mned thing. As my friend Christian would say, 'what the heck, over...'

I did mention, during our stroll, the fact I was still not completely in the holiday spirit. For me, it is not the Christmas holiday without not having at least one piece of fruitcake. This has been a painful decision in years past; it was two years ago when I broke a molar while eating a slice of fruitcake, starting a very expensive string of dental appointments which has lasted until the middle of last year. Still, I like candied fruit, nuts, raisins, currants, dates, and all the junk that should never pass the lips of a serious athlete...at least one slice during the holidays, just to say I've had it.

Gingerbread, German lebkuchen, other European delectables of the sort; those are the next-best things I've ever had to fruitcake, frankly. And I'm certain a good gingerbread cake or a couple of good gingerbread cookies are less damaging to the diet than their equivalent weight in fruitcake. However, that's what I want, and I'm still on the hunt for it, d*mn it. If it takes me until Christmas Eve, and I find one of those cheesy single-slice packages at the local Circle K, I'm going to have my piece. Then I'll have some peace.

Ah...it was so good to get back into the groove of working out after three days of being a sick doggie. I didn't get the yardage in the pool I hoped for on Saturday, but it was a check in the box...definitely better than the morning's spinning class. I fail to see the merit in playing holiday music as background visualization to a indoor cycling workout...unless you're playing the Trans-Siberian Orchestra's Christmas Eve, Sarajevo...if it's that piece, I'm going to grind big gears. Still, I can't get up for (young) Michael Jackson singing Santa Claus Is Coming To Town. I can't see Crowie, Chuckie V, Chrissie, spinning to it, nor would Michael be caught dead with it in his iPod.

But I guess the most important thing is to get something done so you don't add something on. This time of year I guess we do work out in order to eat. I'm going to work out until I find my fruitcake...then I'll stop long enough to eat it...then I'll work out some more. Hm, memo to self...recommend fruitcake-flavor to makers of Clif Bar...

In case I don't post between now and later this week...but I probably will...Happy Chanukah, Happy Christmas.

World Dominance Thwarted By Lack Of Thumbs

(Editor's note: Lengthy period of silence placed here.)

There was an article about three months ago; some researcher had developed a means of understanding dog barks with a certain degree of accuracy. I am not buying it. If anyone tells me they can tell what my dog is saying when he barks, I'm going to offer them another beer and then kick them out the door. Well, edit that...I'm going to keep the beer.
There are days when I feel like I can tell exactly what my dog is thinking about...then there are days when I can narrow it down to three things: food, walks, and space on the couch. However, IMHO it's gazing through a glass darkly. If Rubin had opposable thumbs and human speech, however, the world would be a much more dangerous place...I know he's try to take over as supreme ruler and stern, unwavering-but-beneficient master of the world as soon as he could. I can see it in his eyes, especially when I've informed him there are no dog biscuits available and he will have to suck it up and drive on.

Res Ipsa Loquitur.

My American Express bill came in yesterday afternoon, or at least the dispute notification I lost. That's going to take care of my stimulus check. Well, I'll have enough left to buy a round of beer when we go to the Crescent City Classic in New Orleans. My friend mentioned the other weekend about beer mileage; I guess the average American beer, 12-ounces, has 82 calories...which is (at the least) equal to the number of calories an adult burns running a mile. So, she thinks, a 6.2-mile race warrants the consumption of a six-pack of beer. Wow, that means a marathon is worth (at least) a case.

Yeah, I know it's not a healthy point of view for an athlete. If you do something foolish once every six months it's not so bad. Just make certain one foolish thing (like a beer mile, or rehydrating with a beer for each mile you ran) is not compounded with another, like driving a car or operating heavy machinery. While there aren't many of us who will run a 5K, slug down too many beers and then think hey, perhaps I should cut down that dead tree in the backyard, there are folks who would do exactly that. I know. I usually get to read the synopsis of their accident report each Friday. Makes ya shudder to think.

Simple, Simple, Simple...

I'm back in the office after a week away...all right, I did come in once to check the e-mail. However, as quiet and uneventful as it seems things will be this week, I could have stayed home and limped about there instead of in here. Hey, you never know.

Christmas around Chez Bowen was simple and relatively unadorned. Rubin received a boatload of treats from well-meaning friends; most of them rawhides processed in China. It was with a great deal of regret we tossed them into the wastecan. However, he got some more stuffies from "Dad;" I wasn't certain whether he was going to play with them (Suzanne was waxing biblical, talking about putting away childish things), when, lo and behold, he heard the squeak of one and took it to the floor. Okay, so he wasn't wagging his tail to beat the band like in years past...
Practical was the operating word for our gifts to each other. I got Suzanne a massage/heat pad; she got me skivvies, a movie and fruitcake - I must be the only guy on the planet who really likes the stuff, in spite of it breaking one of my teeth a year ago. For us, the trip to Jacksonville was Christmas. Well, she got the presents; I got the coal. Time with good friends and more coffee in a weekend than most guys put down in a year...works for me.
We had to get the check in the box. I was in no mood to run (I'll get some time/mileage in tonight, but it was Florida miserable out there), but felt the compulsion to do something, so I walked for about four miles...Suzanne ran and walked while I just walked and pondered the mysteries of the universe and all those other things young coaches do when there's nothing fun to do. We got hungry about 1:00 in the afternoon, and I really didn't want to go to the Chinese joint again for lunch...so we did a little driving to see who was open. Just so happens that one sports bar downtown was; playing some football re-broadcasts since there was only the basketball games going down. Let me tell you, there's nothing like a Guinness and a big cheesesteak sandwich, especially on Christmas. Hits the spot every time.
Playing with the dog, and the computer, and checking the e-mail started to get very old. First we thought about hitting a movie, then decided to sit in and watch videos. Suzanne went to the Chinese carry out, grabbed a six of Guinness, then came back to stir-fry after calling our friend Laura to invite her over...the first reaction would be to say misery loves company, but we all were just keeping it simple. I heard lots about the movie Dogma from friends who recommended the Showtime series Weeds, but wow... Screaming hilarious. A great mix of comedy and thriller. I'm afraid I'll have to check that one out again for commentary material.
Who would ever thought of casting Alanis Morissette as God?
Now, I'm ready to get back to training. See you on the roads.

Some Things Make No Sense

Working out of the house, in fact, any job where you're working out of home, seems to me to be almost more trouble than it's worth. Mind you, I'd love to be able to have the autonomy of doing as much as I want, when I want. Trouble comes when you have to remind yourself, 'hey, stupid, you're at work...'

Okay, so it's not so much me as it is the dog. I sat down yesterday morning, Tour De France playing on the television behind me, to work at the research I've been (unsuccessfully) trying to find (again!) over the past week. Sitting in a pair of shorts. The dog, God bless him, wanted to get my attention by pawing my leg. Greyhounds have large paws and strong claws built for traction on dirt tracks and grass fields...the places they were bred to run. Rubin hasn't learned a couple of things:

1. His own strength.
2. The concept of weekdays - I've always mentioned to friends that 'every day is Saturday when you are a greyhound.'
3. Dad's legs aren't as strong as his.


The electric bill has been gawd-awful, much to do with me using more juice while working or hanging out. I don't think my employer is going to pay for the increased electric usage I'm going through. However, it would be nice. I mean, if I'm going to get heated up over trying to research here I might as well have 20 hours of my electricity per week subsidized by my boss/my company. It'd be far cheaper than what my company wants to do in a couple of weeks.

Who was the genius who thought of the idea, 'hey, let's spend $1000-1500 in salary, $150 in per diem, $500-1000 in travel expenses, for 135 persons to fly in and be harangued at for two days?' Ostensibly, the rationale is to 'celebrate our successes and get to know each other better.' Hello? Didn't the center director, his operations head, and another of his lackeys already do the "magical mystery tour" months ago?

I'm not always strongly opposed to spending money, more to the waste of money, especially when it means having to undergo the rigors of big mileage travel. We have no travel funding for projects, but $500,000 a whack for a meeting that's normally attended by one-tenth that amount is insane. I don't mind traveling for work, pleasure travel is more fun...but the operating word is 'work.' If all you're going to do is fly me some place so I can be forced to share a van/life with my co-workers, as well as sit around all day in a tie...

Fortunately for me, my wife has business to attend to at about the same time. We both don't go out of town at the same time unless we are together.

Sleep, Definitely NOT Overrated...

Certain days of the week are etched in stone. Mondays, Wednesdays...these are days I can't screw around with staying up after 9:30. Thursday through Sunday, and Tuesday are a little more flexible, but you're more likely to see me hitting the rack no later than 10. Gone are the days of staying up until all hours of the night and waking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed eight hours later. While I'm religious on my seven-to-nine hours a night, I'm truly affected by anything that affects my pattern. My wife, God bless her, calls it discipline. I tend to think it's closer to obsessive-compulsive behavior.

I've joked about this once before, but I believe that everything you ever need to know about being an athlete you can learn from your dog...especially if they're a greyhound. My 'hound, Rubin, is up (like a jack-in-the-box, I might add) at the stroke of five every morning. He's excited at the beginning of a new day...another bowl of kibble...another romp in the yard...another walk around the park...another day of napping on the cool tile of my wife's office.

Dogs are masters at the art of energy conservation. Why run when you can walk? Why walk when you can stand and sniff butts? Why stand when you can sit and scratch yourself? Why sit when you can lay down? I never hear Rubin complain about going for a jog around the park, or that he's tired and sore when he gets up in the morning. He tolerates the same kibble, twice a day, with a daily Milk-Bone supplement when he can "talk" his "mom" and "dad" out of one.

There have been Friday or Saturday evenings where my wife have been sitting on the couch, drinking beer and watching Monty Python...Rubin will get up from his blanket on the floor in front of the couch and stand between us and the television. I'll get a little perturbed at first, then realize what the time says on the clock. "It's 9 or 9:30," he 'says' with his big brown 'hound eyes. "You have to train in the morning." Sometimes he'll walk off to the bedroom and his large sleeping pillow, other times (if we ignore him) he'll stand directly in front of us until we get up to go to bed.

There's nothing like the sigh of the 'hound as he settles into his pillow..."mission accomplished. Dad'll thank me when he PR's."