A Fool Runs Through It

But they say hindsight is 20/20 vision. And if that's the case, I would have been looking up at the object of my regret. Since I'm on my back, composing this e-mail. All I wanted to do was have a nice quiet jog around the Medford, Oregon neighborhood, so as not to lose any of the conditioning for the upcoming marathon. Given that my mother-in-law's house was on a hill at the edge of town, I had little choice but to run on the hills, as steep as they were. Training must go on, right?

Loping quietly downhill early in the morning, there were no convenience stores or gas stations on the wide, lonely mountain road that I chose to take (note : "I chose" nowadays usually means, in lieu of experiencing the element of freedom and self-determination inherent in long-distance running, I used this particular route because my wife told me to). Running downhill is not so tough, especially if you pace yourself gently; and you learn a few things:

(1) German Shepherds, unleashed, can bound down a grassy hillside and onto a sidewalk in about 2.3 seconds to protect their territory
(2) It is possible for the average, out-of-shape runner, without noticing, to cross a newly-made highway in the dark in about 1.99 seconds
(3) German Shepherds, unlike some runners you know, are not stupid enough to risk getting run over by a speeding car

It is also easy to realize that there should have been signs along the way that read: "WARNING! Do NOT try to run down this hill! You may have to run back up again!". But what can I say-- hindsight is twenty-twenty.

At the bottom of the hill, something called Motivation for a Personal Challenge (this is usually a hoax, a clever disguise for that ol' demon WannaTrySumthingStupid) told me to run an extra mile. It was downhill after all, right? So no effort involved, right? Right?

There is a reason I am not an accountant or mathematician. Consider this profound truth: Four miles of downhill have to result in four miles going back up, especially if you want to take a shower at a familiar house soon after running. But somehow that reality was lost on me at the time. You-Can-Do-It! Go-Go-Go!

But if was lost on the way down, then on the way up, it was inescapably before me, and would not go away. First it was flat, then rose to a gentle incline. Almost pleasant as a distraction, and only mildly challenging. Yet something peculiar was happening on this road: there would be a rise, then somewhat of a flat path, and (here's he kicker) it would become steeper and longer and more difficult than the last incline. How could I not see that earlier this morning? Wasn't this the same street?

It was not the same street. Oh, sure, let the street intersection signs say what they like. I must have unknowingly slipped into some sci-fi style Vortex of Pain and Suffering as I ran slower and slower as I traveled higher and higher up the mountain. Yeah, that must be it. Few people are dumb enough to deliberately run up this merciless vector headed straight for --yes, Even More Pain. I didn't remember that last hill! Was Someone connecting more and more hills on top of one another as I went along?

And finally I saw it-- what was unmistakably the last hill-- it was more than a quarter mile long, and was so steep it made you think of a skateboard quarter-pipe, the way you'd have to shuffle your way up it, like a bobble-head doll with feet. I felt I should have taken along some hooks and ropes on this asphalt monster. But I could see the end, and all I had to do was to keep my head down, don't look up, and it would be all over soon.

I should not have looked up. Twenty feet in front of me were three rather attractive women out for a morning stroll, also heading up the hill. Except they, like a lot of non-crazy people, were walking.

This is one of those times your brain wisely whispers into your ear to pace yourself, save your strength, you are already tired, be patient, and the pleasure of accomplishment would come in its own timely manner. That voice, unfortunately, is drowned out by another part of your mind that Wants To Show Off!!!

I don't even remember passing those women. All I know is that I was off like a shot from a flare gun. Not very fast, but going impossibly high, and a little too recklessly. It was about two minutes later that the hill curved a bit, hiding me from view of those ladies.

And then came the Scream.

It did not come from my mouth, nor anyone else's. It is the kind of scream that starts from your calves and thigh-muscles, and somehow goes up your chest and into your fists. Your entire body is protesting against you, way past begging it to stop, but rather a sort of biological strike against your efforts to finish this way. I must have, in that quarter-mile, invented, blurted out, and forgotten, twenty-five, perhaps twenty-six very, very, very bad words. I could have stopped running, but I didn't want to. Not because of some macho-garbage bravado (Someone might see me wimping out!) but more of a fear that stopping, and how that would feel (it was, I could tell, going to really, really hurt).

And it did. I found the house, ran up the driveway (my mother-in-law was wise enough to choose the house with the steepest driveway in Southern Oregon), stumbled up the stairs and found the bathroom.

Here is where the macho-garbage kicks in --I made it, I fought the mountain and won. Nothing wrong with being a bit proud, right? When my sister-in-law asked me how far I ran, I tried to say "Eight Miles of hills!" but it manged to come out, "HHHrrarhhhhrhhhggghhghh...huuuhh-hhuhhh-huhh... push-ups...". ( Wait, did I just announce i was going to do pushups? Oh, yeah better do those in the bathroom where no one could see me).

But as soon as I was in the bathroom, I did try to do one, maybe two, counting when I fell down on my left shoulder, breathing even harder, with my fever-hot face planted on a frilly bathroom rug. I don't think I was gasping as much as I was convulsing. Random parts of my body were shaking and relaxing all at the same time

"Hargghh....won't...ever..hhuhhhuhhh...never...duthat...agin'...(gulp)...I did it...damn hills...ate my brain...gotta stay ..alive...to (cough!) brag...and...buy new lungs...(gack!)"

But I am alive now (just don't ask me anything else that happened that day, I won't remember). I don't think I'll ever be completely ready for the forthcoming Long Beach Marathon in October, but after surviving the multiple, endless tortures of HorseFucker Mountain(*) and PukeBastard Hill(TM), I daresay I have become readier for my next race than I ever have.

--Jon T

(*) -- While most residents of Medford, OR still insist on calling it "East McAndrews Boulevard" I --and all of you -- now know better

(TM) - patent pending