Like other pampered runners of my era, I dabble in technology that quantifies my effort. When I began running I'm not sure if I ever gave thought to how far or fast we ran. You couldn't really drive a car along the routes we took to verify distance. Digital watches were very expensive. Nobody I knew had one. Looking back, I think we just ran as fast as we could for as far as we could every time we ran. The only time that "time" was considered was during an interval workout or at a race. This system seemed to work fine. During the 1975 cross country season our top 5 finishers could run under 15 minutes (3 miles). Compare this with our top finisher this year at 16:49 (5k). Same school, great kids, better training techniques . . . what happened?
Maybe we think too much.
When I started back running for fun and fitness a few years ago I found myself feeling like I needed data. As an adult, I had to make things more complex. It couldn't be as easy as it was when I was a kid, right? So I measured distances and used a watch. I learned to love a treadmill so I could control every inch of my workouts. I purchased a fitsense footpod system that counted foot strikes and calculated distance based on your calibrated stride length (which was way off more times than not) .
Then God gave us the Garmin. I got a 201 when they came out and nearly puked when I discovered that my old 23 mile loop, measure on the fitsense was really 21.2 miles. . . but then I ran a few races where the 10k's were 6.35 or so too so go figure. Anyway, it was light years ahead of the other methods I'd been chained to. Within the last year or so, most of my running buds have upgraded to the 205, while I've marched around with my old black toaster 201. Tuesday, I opened a new 205 as a gift from Robin. Finally, I possessed the most accurate running gadget on the market. No more waiting for a lost satellite signal, the freedom to run under trees and through buildings, or something like that.
Yesterday after work I pulled into the park I've been running from during the last few weeks (change of scenery, you know) and strapped the trusty 205 to my knobby left wrist. I powered up and instantly got a signal! I took off, hobbling on my left side and hoping for at least 8 miles.
Flip Flop: On a windy and wintry (for Florida) Sunday morning about 5 years ago, me and my old buddies were finishing up our long run. Out on that last stretch of trail system, the flip-flop man came into our lives. He looked to be 60 years old or so with a thick mane of wiry grey hair that seemed electrified in the static morning air. He wore long boy scout type pants with multiple pockets and zippers. He was shirtless. He was toothless. . . and on his weathered feet he wore dime store issue rubber flip flops. He claimed to have run 30 miles already that morning. We thought he was a lunatic. It was hard to speak to him as you would to a normal person you might meet during the course of business. His name was Larry. He made it clear that he did not wish to discuss anything beyond the mileage he had done that morning or would do that day. He sure as hell didn't seem to be interested in any questions about his footwear. We ran casually alongside him at around 8:00 pace and he peeled off and left us behind when he was through granting us audience.
We went home and told our wives and kids about Larry. No one seemed as impressed as we were. Because of his reluctance to any details about his personal life, we concocted stories about his past. "He's a retired NASA guy who got fed up with technology". . . "He's a war veteran who escaped a POW camp in DaNang". . . "He is Howard Hughes" . . . that kind of thing. It became the topic of many miles and in the following weeks, a strange phenomena began to develop. . . every time we mentioned him during a run, he would appear. No shit. After the initial shock of meeting him wore off we didn't talk about him much but when we did, there he'd be.
For example, we were sitting on a picnic bench in the park where we coach after a Sunday run, waiting to see runners pass through during the course of a marathon. We had timed the finish of our run in expectation of seeing the first runners come through the park. Through the December mist we saw the first 2 runners approach from the back side of the lake. "Wouldn't that be some shit if one of them was Larry, I cracked". . .
Of course one of them was. Larry was running along stride for stride in his flip flops at 6mm pace with the leader, jawing at his running mate like a madman. I can't imagine what this poor guy thought to be running in a marathon and suddenly joined by toothless Moses in his sandals. The pair ran together until they were out of our sight range.
We told all the kids we coached about the flip flop man. Some could care less. The ones that did would not believe us. Eventually, every kid I coached met Larry at some time or another. I would spot him hundreds of times after our first meeting. In the winter, he would not wear a shirt. In the summer time he wore a long sleeve shirt, a big straw hat and/or carried a large beach umbrella to block the sun. About 2 years ago he started running with a cane most of the time. I saw him and ran with him during the half marathon I bandited a few weeks back.
Someone finally got hip to Larry and wrote a feature story about him in the St. Pete Times a few months back.
He is not a NASA guy or POW escapee as it turns out. He is instead a tortured soul. An insomniac, a dry alcoholic who lives off a diet of chocolate and spoonfuls of refined white sugar straight from a bag he places under his bed, he doesn't bathe much and he and runs to ward off his personal demons. He didn't appreciate the press. He is pleasant when you come across him on the trail. He will size you up by a few very direct questions about the nature of your running but has no interest in your personal business and he likes you to return that favor.
Yesterday afternoon finds me running in my eva-blown stability shoes in my microfibre lined running shorts, listening to my iPod, and watching the data on my spankin' new 205 through my ultra lite sunglasses and things still don't feel right. I'm leaning into this run and the watch won't budge under 8:30 and it seems like a lifetime between miles. I'm pity striding like my hip is broken and my left butt cheek is doing it's thing and I feel worthless and slow. "I bet I'll see Larry", I mutter.
About a half mile later, I do. By now the sweat has puddled beneath my sunglass lenses making everything blurry, so I smell him before I see him. He is funky even by runner's standards. Years of funk. But it is not offensive, it's like the scent of a wonderous, powerful animal you admire so you let the smell slide. It's late and he is almost home. "Hey Larry", I say. "I'll run 40 miles today" is what he says. . . "I'm on track to run over 300 miles this week". "I like to bragbragbrag, I know, but I hear all these people I see on the trail and they talk about how they are in pain and their knees and hips hurt and I know I have all kinds of injuries and micro tears of connective tissue (his words, not mine) and I still run over 40 miles a day". "I know", I say.
He shifts gears and sprints ahead. "See, this isn't too bad to be able to speed up like this after running all day, is it? I've been out since 3 this morning." "That's great", I say.
"Would you happen to know what the 24 hour distance record is for a man who is 62 years old?", he asks. "No, but I'll look it up and tell you what it is the next time I see you". "Ok", he says, "I'm turning off here, I've got to grocery shop on my way home and it's a pain to carry 10 lb.s of stuff that last 5 miles. . you'll have to tell me who you are again when I see you next time, I have Alzheimer's now and I can't remember names".
I struggle along like a one man band clown with virtually every current running gimmick known to man as I watch him shift gears and scamper off in his cargo pants and black flip flops. Alone again, I run to a point where the 205 said the 5 mile mark would be and limp an about face to run the same route back, pushing all the more because I can't accept something over 8:30 avg for the run. I finish in 84:45 for the 10 miles (8:30ish average) and am wiped out and in disbelief once I get home.
I continue to doubt the 205 all night and in the morning allow myself to jump on the USATF site and track the run. The Garmin was wrong. Nearly a mile wrong. My 10 miles was actually 10.8, dammit. Instead of the blazing 8:30 average, I ran a blazing 7:50 average. It's a shame that this is a big deal to me.
This is where I am as a runner, 30 years later. Wearing GPS's and double checking the data on the internet and splitting hairs about how many seconds per mile one gadget says vs. the other.
I wonder if I threw the Garmin and all my other crap away and found a pair of Brooks Drakes and tube socks, I could break 15 minutes for 3 miles.
I wonder what I could do in flip flops.
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