Around this time last year I started the mix tape. The original goal was to post a new mix weekly, but sporadically seems to suit me better. I can’t be confined by a calendar. This week is the best yet. (Like every good reality TV show, I’m going to make this promise every week). Continue reading
Posted in Mixed Tapes, Running Tids & Bits
Tagged animals, celebrity, Garmin, long run, marathon, Olympics, race director, running, winter
I am hobbling around like an old lady in need of a walker. My legs, which appear to be on strike, are no longer responding to commands from my brain.
Me, if I had glasses, a perm, and a walker. In other words, future me.
After a long run I’m often found lounging about with my running mates, an over-priced Italian-sized cup of hot chocolate, extra hot, skim milk and light whip in my hand. My mates lean towards coffee, a substance I do not drink. As the only person in North America to have never consumed a cup of coffee, let alone an over-priced Italian cup of Americano beans, I am unfamiliar with its effects on the body. Discussing, as we are apt to do, the humidity-induced PB dream-crushing fatigue someone mentioned that despite being tired, the caffeine left him wired.
Not one to let an opportunity to rhyme pass me by, I proclaimed him tired and wired, and a new catch phrase was born. How do you feel after a 30K training run and an infusion of caffeine?
Tired and wired.
Title Reference: Beastie Boys – Intergalactic. 1998.
I didn’t run a spring marathon. And I’m not running a spring 50K. Life caught me off-guard and messed with my training and I’m still recovering. By recovering I mean I’m slow and undertrained and lacking race confidence. I feel like an imposter, surrounded by runners with enviable race accomplishments. PBs, BQs, awards. I need to make up an excuse to exit conversations when talk turns to the spring race results. In response to direct questions I mumble unintelligible words broken up with excessive coughing.
A new training cycle has begun and I still haven’t selected a fall marathon. Or booked a tune-up. I have a vague plan, but remain uncommitted. Last year at this time I was registered in a 30K tune-up run, a 1/2 marathon tune-up run, and two marathons. This year I’m registered in (d) none of the above. I’m running without direction. On the road to nowhere.
I run marathons, therefore I should find a marathon to run?
Title Reference: Rush – Marathon. From the album Power Windows. 1985.
Posted in My Amazing Races, Running Tids & Bits
Bad memories of race morning port-a-loo lines:
Thank you to Jack for forwarding this gem.
Title Reference: Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers – The Wait. 1981.
I have never run in High Park, Toronto’s urban jewel. Until today. The only access by running shoe is along city streets with endless stop signs and red lights that interrupt my groove. Which is the reason I never run in High Park. I don’t like my groove to be interrupted by my need to law-abide.
But I am in a long run rut, always following some variation of my regular route of trails and cemeteries. So today, today I tried something new. New = 161 hectares of High Park hills. There is something surreal about trudging along in the middle of a city while yak, bison, and llamas graze nearby. Real ones. With the real smell of “fertilizer” punctuating the air. And a helpful sign explaining what they do with all the poo, although I was running much too fast to read the details. If you know what they do with the poo please tell me. I’m eager to learn. Only the llama seemed mildly interested in me. The bison only seemed interested in eating. And, I imagine, pooping.
In a rash decision to off-road I found myself in ankle deep muck (no snow this year, lucky for us global warming is just a myth) as I tried to “run” up a vertical mudslide. At the top I popped out of the bushes huffing and puffing and covered in mud like some sort of crazy person, scaring a kindly old man witless. Fortunately for me I did not have to stop to perform CPR. That really would have messed up my pacing.
I love a hilly long run. And by love I mean love to hate. Next week though, back to the dead people.
Title Reference: Steve Winwood – High Life. From the album Back in the High Life. 1986.
During the winter I spend a lot of time grave running. The trails are often too icy and I like to avoid cars. When you live in a car-filled city there are few car-free options. Cemeteries are one pleasant exception. Today’s long run took an interesting turn when I found myself locked in a cemetery. The cemetery, you see, closes just before sunset. I was still in the cemetery when security locked it for the evening. I knew closing time was approaching but I assumed, wrongly it seems, that security would do a sweep of the roads before sealing the gates. I did not see security and they did not see me. Or they did see me and watched amused as I contemplated my tricky situation. As many of you know, I have a complicated history with this particular cemetery. I did not wish to be in there after sunset. So I did what I needed to do. I scaled the fence crossing my fingers that my pitifully weak arms wouldn’t give out as I tried to clear the spikey parts at the top. I thank the helpful drivers who honked encouragingly as I climbed out.
Title Reference: The Smiths – Cemetry Gates. From the album The Queen is Dead. 1986,
Posted in Running Tids & Bits
I claim to be all slow twitch muscle, but maybe my fast twitchers just need a boost of motivation. A rat ran across my foot during a long run two weeks ago and Bolt would have had trouble running the next 100 metres with me.
Title Reference: Bruce Cockburn – Wondering Where the Lion Are. From the album Dancing in the Dragon’s Jaws. 1979.
Posted in Running Tids & Bits
Tagged exercise, fitness, fun run, long run, running, sport psychology
For 143 days in 1980 Terry Fox lived out of a Ford Econoline Van while he ran across Canada on his Marathon of Hope. When Fox was forced to end the journey early due to the return of his cancer the van just sort of disappeared. Not out of the limelight for long, the van had made its way to the heavy metal band Removal and spent years on tour across North America. The whereabouts unbeknownst to most of Terry’s fans, the van found more glory and fame in the music world.
In 2006 Douglas Coupland’s book Terry inspired the rediscovery of the Van of Hope. Terry’s brother, who lived with him in the van during the Marathon of Hope, asked Coupland to look for leads on the whereabouts of the van, but it was a random encounter with a painter that led them to the street in East Vancouver on which the van was parked. Still with the band, the head-banging owner was aware of the van’s pedigree and had, in the past, taken the van to local Terry Fox runs. Although showing signs of age, with the original interior intact the van was in remarkable condition for a vehicle having spent years on the road. One can only imagine what that van had been through. The bandmates never even changed the orange shag carpeting. Pause for the collective ewww. The former owner claims they were reluctant to make any alterations to the vehicle, believing they might upset Terry’s good karma that kept the Econoline going mile after mile.
Once found, the owner agreed to sell the van to the Terry Fox Foundation for a nominal fee. Ford Canada sponsored the restoration of this piece of Canadian history. Workers spent 1000 hours dismantling and reassembling every van piece in preparation for a cross-country fundraising Tour of Hope in summer 2008. Upon seeing the van again, Terry’s brother Darrell reminisced “I just thought, this was where he slept and ate and perspired and there was a lot of emotions there that just came back.” Reportedly that van was extremely stinky. A smell so sickly it was newsworthy. Don’t judge, the man ran a marathon a day then relaxed in the Econoline while the shag carpeting soaked up all that sticky perspiration.
If you were alive in 1980 (in Canada) you remember Terry Fox and that van. As brother Darrell (it you remember the 80s you just thought “and my other brother Darrell”) reminds us, the van “protected [Terry] from the madness outside when chaos ruled the day as interest in his story picked up.” The van has become a symbol for the power message of possibility sent by Terry. Young as I was, I remember being enthralled by news reports with images of Terry on the run and always in the background was that ever-faithful van. That reconditioned van is now routinely parked on a street about 250 metres from my home. I often pass it by on the start of my long runs and you know, I’ve got to agree with that rock band, good vibrations radiate from every last patch of rust. I always think about rubbing its bumper for luck, but worry what the neighbours will think.
If, like me, you haven’t participated in a Terry Fox Run since you were a kid, on Sunday September 13th 2009 considering doing so once again. It’s good karma.
Terry Fox and his faithful Econoline
Title Reference: the Who – Magic Bus. From the album Magic Bus – The Who on Tour. 1968.
As part of my summer survival plan I’m attempting to run at the crack of dawn. Or my version of the crack of dawn, which happens about two hours after sunrise. I’m enjoying the solitude of runs relatively free of hazards such as traffic, giant strollers, and teetering kids on bikes. More unexpected was the active wildlife. In retrospect it’s not surprising that the woodland (or in this case, the urbanite) critters hustle and bustle before the car-revving, trail stomping humans take over; but the first time a bunny hopped in my path and stared me down I very nearly went into cardiac arrest. I’m a bit jumpy before I’m fully awake. Fully awake doesn’t happen until about three hours after I’m finished a morning run. This tidbit is important, so file it away.
On a typical evening run I’m greeted by raggedy looking squirrels and a flock of pigeons and that’s about it for the animal kingdom. Early rising has not only gotten me the worm, but the fox, rabbit, raccoon, rat, and several mice. It’s nice to encounter “wild” life beyond a few overly exuberant dogs. Much as I love dogs and all their fluffy cuteness, my most memorable (read: heart stopping) animal encounters always seem to involve untrustworthy canines. Like the one last January in Banff National Park. To fully appreciate that moment I need to take you back to the day before the run.
In an effort to keep luggage to a minimum, I decided to run indoors (so I could leave my bulky winter running gear at home), on a treadmill, during the trip. We all know how that went. Time for Plan B. Lucky for us, our trip coincided with the Chinook winds and the weather was gloriously warm. I decided to test my resolve in the great outdoors, subbing in my winter play gear (i.e. the clothes I wear under my ski suit) for running gear. The thing about my winter play gear – it is functional castoffs from the Lululemon warehouse sale. The clothes were meant for wearing beneath a layer of outer clothing. Translation, do not look directly at the exceptionally ugly clothes. My pants are best described as sinus infection green, complete with an eerie glow. This tidbit is important, so file it away.
The night before my outdoor run I went out for dinner at a tourist trap fondue restaurant called the Grizzly House. Picture a poorly ventilated room filled with tables of people cooking all varieties of meat, the most popular of which seemed to be local flavours of venison, elk, bison, beef, and wild boar. The smell of flesh wafted into every nook and granny. Translation, we stunk. Knowing I had a run in the morning I decided not to shower that night, saving the environment from wasteful water use (fine, being lazy) by waiting until post-run the next day. Consequently I went to bed, and woke up the next morning, smelling like meat. This tidbit is important, so file it away.
The next morning, as planned, I go on my run. Dressed in my snazzy neon green pants, hair reeking of animal, I head out on the trails of Banff National Park. The ranger, or whatever those parks people are called, plotted a route with me and in keeping with the plan I headed northbound on the scenic trail. Upon entering the wooded area another runner came dashing out, jingling all the way. Head to toe she was covered in wee little bells. How odd, I thought. Now the night before I noticed that my route, masterfully developed with the aid of the ranger, took me near a dead end road. This road, I was informed earlier that same day by my dogsled guide, had been the scene of recent elk herd sightings. Eager to see postcard-worthy Canadian wildlife I modified my course, the route advised by the knowledgeable ranger, to take me out to the elk feeding grounds. As I’m running down the desolate road (the jingle lady at the start of my run was my sole human sighting) I see a dog out on the frozen pond. As I run toward the puppy, and the puppy crosses the pond headed in my direction, I start to wonder where the irresponsible owners were to be found. Poor thing, I thought, he’s been abandoned or run away. As I continue to approach the dog and vice versa, closing in at about 100 metres, my brain finally awakens. I am, and have been for some time, running directly toward a wolf. A wolf likely at that very spot in search of the elk that drew me there.
At this moment I should remind you that I smell like a delicious wolf smorgasboard. Elk, venison, bison, beef, boar - I am a kabob running directly into the mouth of the beast. So I do exactly what one should never ever do when approaching a wolf in the wild. I turned tail and ran as fast as my little legs would go, head bobbing back to see if I was being chased. My second thought, the one that followed Oh. My. God. I Smell Like Meat, was – and I’m a little ashamed to admit this – I Can’t Die in These Pants. The wolf just watched me curiously as I sprinted (relative term, one leap and I’d be down) away. I firmly believe that my horrifying phlegm coloured pants, combined with the confusing array of smells, gave the appearance of rancid meat. Also once, at Canada’s Wonderland during a live-action show, a pirate grabbed me from the audience (seriously picked me up off my seat) but decided I was too skinny to cannabolize. I’m not, it seems, worth the kill. The wolf agreed, deciding not to risk food poisoning for a taste of my weirdly green, oddly smelling, relatively meatless stick legs.
It is easy to think that I was spooked and over-reacted out there in the lonely woods. Husband, for one, was skeptical. It didn’t help that the preceding days I left him notes like “gone to the waterfalls, if not back by 4 fell in” or “gone for a hike, if not back by 2 eaten by bear”. He was, you see, at a conference and I was left to explore Banff on my own. Seeing the doubt in his eyes, the next morning I drove him out to Wolf Pond (not the official name). Against all odds, the wolf was back …with a friend/lover/friend with benefits (who can tell anymore). That’s right, two wolves. Which is practically a pack. So it’s fair to say a pack of wolves. Husband’s eyes saucered a little as I jumped up and down shouting “that’s him, that’s him”. Finally, he believed. For all I know the other wolf, perhaps the entire pack, was there during my run, stalking me from afar. It took me 15 minutes to realize the wolf was a wolf, so it’s not a leap to think an entire family might have been – without me noticing – watching me with their hungry, but puzzled, eyes. I suspect I’m ridiculously easy prey. It is fortunate that I’m not terribly appetizing.
We snapped some photographic evidence, which I later presented to the ranger who confirmed that I am not an urban scaredy cat terrorized by a lost puppy, but indeed I had the fortune of not one, not two, but three wolf viewings. There are few wolves remaining in Banff, in twelve years the ranger had yet to see one in the wild, and I stumbled across one -which is almost two, which is almost a pack- on my little 8K jaunt. Lucky me?
Title Reference: Duran Duran – Hungry like the Wolf. From the album Rio. 1982.
Not quite a thousand, but the song does make references to sixteen dance crazes: the Pony, the Chicken, the Mashed Potato, the Alligator, the Watusi, the Twist, the Fly, the Jerk, the Tango, the Yo-Yo, the Sweet Pea, the Hand Jive, the Slop, the Bop, the Fish, and the Popeye. Written in 1962, most of these dances fell in and out of vogue long before I ever put on toe-tapping shoes. Although I’ve never even heard of most of them (and the ones I do are all thanks to Grease), I’m reasonably certain I’ve involuntarily busted all those moves during my last 1000 kilometres of running. My arms and legs have a tendency to flail about in peculiar ways when I’m fatigued. 34K and suddenly I find myself doing the Watusi, my limbs no longer under control of my brain. The Hand Jive is particularly useful in trying to slap your tired legs back to life. The big news, which I slipped in subtly amidst all that dance talk, is that I have run more than 1000 of the 2009 kilometres planned for 2009. Yes, despite several weeks of lackluster training, I am keeping pace. Barely keeping pace, but I’m optimistic. I recently rekindled my relationship with my logbook and once again the days with entries outnumber those judgmental blocks of white. To celebrate, I’m treating myself to a pair of kicks with fewer klicks. During my next 1000 kilometres I might even try to intentionally slip in some dance steps. Maybe a little moon walking will break up the monotony of my next long run. With my two left feet, I could definitely benefit from the extra practice.
Title Reference: Wilson Pickett – Land of 1000 dances. From the album The Exciting Wilson Pickett. 1966.
It’s a problem that has vexed most long distance runners at least once. Nature calls in the middle of a run and you aren’t sure how to answer. On a typical run the choice seems obvious, you go. The only potential roadblock is in the execution. During a race, however, with a finish clock adding minutes, ‘to go or not to go’ is a harder decision. There is the convenience of port-a-loos (usually), but the lines can be long and the facilities alarming. But it might be worth activating the gag-reflex if releasing the stream will make those remaining miles more comfortable, because a more comfortable runner is likely to be a faster runner. On the other hand, five minutes in a loo queue at the wrong time can break your rhythm, seize your legs, and play havoc with your ability to start up again. That and there’s the ever-present risk that you will wait in line, undress as required, make a valiant effort to hover on shaky quads, desperately try to avoid dropping your FuelBelt/gels/provisions down the shoot … all for an illusive phantom pee. Close to the finish line my inner gambler surfaces and I take my chances, using the bladder pressure as motivation to pick up the pace.
Others opt for a more untamed approach. Why waste your time in a loo-line when the wide open road beckons? Shocking race photos periodically circulate of a runner who forgoes stopping entirely, thus avoiding the comfort-momentum tradeoff. This hardly seems a necessary alternative for all but those chasing prize money and endorsements deals. Paula Radcliffe famously let the pee flow on the side of the road during the 2005 London Marathon (the video, for the doubters or the curious), unapologetic in her quest to do the deed as quickly as possible and get on with winning. Which she did. I can’t imagine the chafe-y consequences are worth it for those of us running for longer than two hours and seventeen minutes. Then again I’ve never been known for my competitiveness in athletics.
Even a Boston Qualifier or a PB is a hefty price for miles of running in poopy pants or soggy drawers, at least for me. Although both of those scenarios are commonly accepted reasons for going while you run etiquette. Some add the caveat that one should go only if no one can tell you did it. I’m assuming this means it’s okay to #1 on the run, but #2 is verboten. The most disquieting of those previously mentioned race pictures normally feature the number two taboo. I just can’t imagine it happens intentionally. I’m more inclined to think we’re witnessing a fart gone wrong.
Although I often have a nervous bladder before a race, I’ve only once had to go during the actual event. It was a 13K bare-bones country road run with no en route facilities or tree cover. The only object large enough to offer some measure of camouflage was a telephone pole. Determined not to be embarrassed, I turned my back on the approaching crowd and embraced an ‘if I don’t see you, you don’t see me’ mindset. Runners are wonderfully forgiving of bathroom breaches of social etiquette. Perhaps we all realize that we are just one cup of water away from being the one on the side of the road. Judge not and all that biblical stuff.
Homeowners are not always so forgiving. The Boston Marathon included toilet-use instructions in the race booklet and anyone caught relieving themselves on private property risked disqualification from the race. Seems the fine residents of Hopkinton are, understandably, not too fond of yellow-hued April showers. Consequently, once we left the town borders the roadside was lined with the backsides of peeing men. I will admit to the weird of habit of counting pee-ers on the side of the road as I pass by. I do my counting with some fear of the karma reaper. Not surprisingly, I’m almost always counting men. I’m not convinced the male species fully appreciates the biological advantages they have in this regard. To date, the Boston marathon features my highest count, but I have not yet run New York.
During a regular run the question changes from ‘do I go’, to ‘where do I go’? Or at least it should change. Why anyone would avoid making a pit stop during a long run is a mystery too me. I don’t know if this is true (it happened to Grandpa Simpson when an impatient Homer refused to stop the car for a bathroom break, so I assume it is), but if you hold it too long your kidneys might burst. So where to go on the run? Stripped of race event infrastructure, we are at the mercy of our surroundings. Urban centres afford the most variety, assuming there is no “washrooms are for customers only” sign and a proprietor short on empathy. Not that I’m speaking from personal experience. I do not drink coffee and therefore don’t get the Starbucks on every corner love affair, but I’m forever grateful for their liberal washroom policies.
Trails and paths are tricky. Depending on the “nature” of the call, men may face a challenge well-known by women. A standing pee and dash is one thing, but matters become more complex when seeking a squat-friendly location. Decent aftercare products may be too much to expect. A forested path seems optimal, but also compels one to trudge into the foliage for full concealment. I once ventured so far off the trail that I was startled senseless by a sleeping man in a hidden shanty town. I’ve heard that scaring someone can cure them of hiccoughs, but let me be the first to confirm that it also works for peeing. And sometimes the environment fights back, as a “friend” of mine once discovered the hard way. Zipping into the brush for a quick tinkle she perched herself over a crazy plant that attacks when disturbed. Within a microsecond this “stinging nettle” bombarded her with such vigour her left cheek was instantly covered in nasty, itchy red welts. She couldn’t sit comfortably for a week. Um, or so she tells me. Lesson: look before you pee.
Posted in Running Tids & Bits, The Doctor Is In
Tagged Boston Marathon, long run, marathon, New York City Marathon, running
Ahh, the birds and the bees. They conjure up so many images: spring, that embarrassing talk with your parents. A recent run was all about the “birds and bees”, albeit in a most surprising way.
The city is flooded with clouds of little black bugs. The trails are particularly overrun. My attempt to run as fast as possible through the swarm in hopes that my lightening speed would help me evade the little creatures proved unsuccessful. I inadvertently ingested my body weight in little black bugs. Not to mention the ones that flew straight up my nose and into my brain. Several others became lodged in my eye, swishing around in the liquidy membrane. I’ve spent hours gagging up and blowing out bug guts. Every sneeze is an adventure. Those that I didn’t inhale became stuck to my body, drowning in pools of sweat and leaving me speckled with their little black corpses. According to the Toronto Star, these troublesome insects are chironomids (midges, for short) and those swarms are actually giant insect orgies, more scientifically known as “reproductive swarms”. This brings to mind those ridiculously awesome “Green Porno” short films about insect mating rituals and starring Isabella Rossellini, dressed in various bug costumes. It’s educational magic. With a mere four week life span the midges need to maximize their species survival and that means lots and lots of sex with lots and lots of partners (interesting fact: the lady midges can store sperm from multiple partners, creating a genetic sperm shake for enhanced variability). Think about that overflowing sperm sack next time you swallow one of those little black bugs.
Love is in the air, literally.
As I swatted my way down the trail, dodging the x-rated bug clusters, I stumbled upon my first (human) sex sighting. I’ve always thought that my trail running would lead to an early morning dead body discovery. That I would be the one on the local news with a big-haired reporter saying “a jogger [why do they always call us joggers] finds a possible murder victim in the park. More on the news at noon.”. But this time it wasn’t one body, but two, and they were decidedly lively. You know that experience when you are staring at something because your brain isn’t quite sure what you looking at and when you finally realize what you are looking at it suddenly seems so very obvious and then it occurs to you that you spent so much time looking while trying to figure out what it was you were looking at that you probably looked like some sort of creepy peeper? Yeah, that. For those who care about such details, this was not some sort of spontaneous moment in which the couple, overcome with lust, could not wait a second longer. Oh no. This was a premeditated act, complete with air mattress, blanket, wicker picnic basket, and wine. Someone had a plan. I’ll spare you the more graphic details, except to say that tucked in by the tree line they weren’t really making much effort to remain hidden. Granted I was in a low-traffic area, frequented most often by pot-smoking teens, but still only minimal efforts at discretion had been made (they were not, for example, making use of the aforementioned blanket).
Love, it seems, is all around me.
Title Reference: Jewel Akins – The Birds and the Bees. Single released 1965.
Posted in On the Road Again, Running Tids & Bits
Tagged long run, running, trail running
I spend a lot of time in cemeteries. This weekend I returned to the cemetery of my near undoing. Cemeteries are great places to run – well maintained, quiet, and best of all, gloriously free of traffic. Something about myself – I’m an only child who grew up in a rural area. I think this is why I have such an active internal (fine, fantasy) life. I have a tendency to become lost in dream-like thoughts during long runs, especially when I don’t need to be vigilant about my life (i.e. when I’m not in or near traffic). The longer the run, the more absurd the visions. I think it somehow speaks to diminishing glucose levels and an impending brain-bonk. A couple of months ago, during an unseasonably warm long run, I wanted to stash some extra layers in the cemetery with the intent to retrieve the clothes on my return trip home. After many moments of indecisiveness (one of which resulted in momentary panic when my foot got stuck in some sort of quicksand like snowpit) I opted for a semi-open mausoleum. I found a dark corner in the back that looked low-traffic, ditched my gear, and continued on my 32K journey.
Back then I was still battling Evil Knee Pain (soon after, I won). As the kilometres klicked by the pain in my knee intensified and as the pain intensified I cranked up my iPod in an effort to distract from the simultaneously stabbing and throbbing sensations. Despite the injury the run was lovely, mostly because of the surprisingly glorious temperatures (record-setting as it turns out). By the time I returned to the mausoleum the music was pumping (read: louder than safe) and I had spent the last 5K amusing myself with ridiculous fantasies starring the undead who had found my gear and decided to take up running. With the lumbering stiff-legged zombie gait (years of burial will do that to you) the movement was more like a jog-gallop than a run, but still impressive. Curiously, they did not jog-gallop with their arms straight out in front in traditional zombie-style, rather they ran with their arms bent at a 90-angle in the classic Fonzie position. Nice and efficient running form for chasing the not so dead like me. Which they did, but I outran them. They were well rested, but I seemed to be better hydrated. I also wore superior shoes. As in, I wore shoes and they jog-galloped barefoot. These daydreams provided some much needed comic-relief. When I’m glucose starved I find myself to be incredibly funny. For some people this happens when they drink.
During the run myPod had shuffled up an excellent mix of motivational music to get me through that painful final 10K. As I headed back to the crypt to get my stuff Eminem’s Lose Yourself totally hit the spot. Now, I will admit – my overactive imagination had left me feeling a bit jumpy. Nevertheless, I bravely crept toward the back corner of the tomb to retrieve my gear. As I bent over to pick up my stuff I heard it. It was the heart-stopping sound of a creepy haunted house door opening. The classic horror movie scary door; the kind of door you never want to go through unless you are young, female, wearing a negligee, and are about to be killed. Easily spooked due to the zombie movie that had been playing in my head, my heart rate (and I wear a monitor so I confirmed) spiked by no fewer than 40 BPM. As I frantically scanned the coffins to locate the mysterious door (of certain doom) even more confusing and horrifying sounds echoed around me.
I am not entirely sure how many seconds (felt like minutes) passed before I came to the embarrassing realization that, at the exact moment I entered the darkest corner of the crypt and bent over to retrieve my mittens, the song Thriller had started playing on my iPod.
Posted in Band on the Run, On the Road Again, Running Tids & Bits
Before my first marathon the band played a song that completely captured the moment for me. To this day when I hear that song I think about that marathon. I get a little spring in my step whenever it plays. For every marathon since I have serendipitously found a song that has become my theme song for that marathon. I don’t look for a song, but one always finds me. My Boston Marathon theme song was no exception. Remarkably, for three weeks in a row before my early morning long run, I woke up to the same song playing on Q107 (I can’t wake up to beep-beep-beep before a long run, not if I want to be in any sort of pleasant mood. So yes, I wake up to “classic” rock. And yes, this is a disturbing statement about my advancing age). Quite unbelievably, that song I woke up to time and time again up to is performed by the band Boston. Not only that, but it’s a great song. Rolling Stone included this song in their list of the 500 Greatest Songs of All Time. The guitar playing at the start of the chorus completely energizes me – it has the perfect escalating tempo. More importanty, the words speak to me. The title of this little piece of musical magic is More Than a Feeling.
A band named Boston. A chorus that summarizes almost every description I’ve ever read about the Boston Marathon experience – it’s more than a feeling. I know marathon music kismet when I hear it. As I’m apt to do around marathon time, I took it as a sign and declared More Than a Feeling my Boston Marathon theme song and added it as go to song on my running playlist.
I woke up this morning and the sun was gone,
Turned on some music to start my day.
I lost myself in a familiar song,
I closed my eyes and I slipped away.
It’s more than a feeling (more than a feeling)
When I hear that old song they used to play (more than a feeling).
I begin dreaming (more than a feeling)
…
Title Ref: Boston – More Than A feeling. From the album Boston. 1976.
Posted in Band on the Run
Tagged Boston Marathon, long run, marathon, running, running playlist
My Running Shorts: short stories about my life on the run.
