Friday Ramble 02/12/21

Rest, recovery, and renewal.

By the time you read this, I’ll have made my triumphant return to the trails after a week off from running. As I’m writing this on Thursday morning, I’m bouncing off the walls with energy, super stoked to get back after it no matter how much snow and ice I’ll have to contend with out there. Since I was struggling with motivation last week, this tells me my forced rest period was not only worth it, but necessary. 

My last run before the break came on Sunday when I got out for a couple of hours before the latest snowfall hit. It was slushy and sloggy and somewhat dangerous, but I was happy with the effort and felt good about doing it even though I was tired and sore. I thought it was telling that I was even happier when it was over. 

To be 100 percent accurate, I didn’t actually take a full week off. It was more like four consecutive days or five out of six, which is basically a week when you think about it. If you want to get super technical, and clearly I do, I took six rest days out of the last eight. That’s both more and less than a week, so I’m going to call it a week. 

I spent the first few days in hibernation mode happy and content. By Wednesday, I started dreaming about running. It was summer, somewhere. Maybe Berkeley or Boulder or New Jersey. Didn’t matter. I was charging up a hill caked in red dirt. I was sweaty. I was happy. Then my kid woke me up. 

Before going into the rest week, I prepared myself that it was going to be weird. I’ve been running steadily for six years with the only extended breaks coming from either injuries or post-race recovery. In other words, this was legitimately the first time I can remember when I consciously decided to not run, even though I was physically able. 

First, I had to give myself a reality check. I wasn’t going to lose my aerobic fitness in a week. Maybe two, but definitely not one. To compensate for the loss of running, I was going to supplement my strength training workouts with brisk morning walks. 

Second, no overdoing the workouts just because I suddenly have extra energy. If I’m feeling good, I’ll roll with it. If not, I’ll back off. The point is to rest and recover, not tax my body in new and inventive ways. 

Third, I challenged myself to eat clean. No sweets, no extra snacks. Smaller portions at meals. Finally, I had to remind myself this was a smart, well considered choice. No second guessing, no wavering, and no regrets.

This is how it went. 

Monday: Woke up late, or as late as a 7-year-old will allow, and felt good about doing nothing. When I say nothing, I mean nothing at all. No strength training and no cardio. Hell, I barely got dressed. Stayed in sweats all day and took it easy. Delightful. 

Tuesday: More sleep. It’s so nice to wake up without an alarm. Got out for a three-mile walk on the bike path I used to run all the time. Felt good to be outside, and was pleasantly surprised that I didn’t feel like running at all. Saw a few folks getting their miles and gave them space and a thumbs up. More snow in the afternoon. Hatched a plan to go out for a walk in the woods the next morning to scope the conditions. My body is feeling better, my mind is feeling refreshed. It’s working. 

Wednesday: Starting to get antsy. This is the longest I’ve gone without a run since recovering from the AT back in September. I’ve got energy to burn and this weird pain in my left foot that only happens when I’m tapering before a race. It’s frightening how programmed my body is around running, 

Got out for my hike and felt vindicated that running, while possible, would have been absurdly difficult in powdery snow. Massive respect for the cross country skiers who arrived early and put down tracks. I think I’d like to get into x-country skiing one of these winters. I took some photos too. Photography seems like an interesting hobby to pursue. What about birding? 

Anyway, my brain was going a hundred miles an hour and I really wanted to run. Instead, I spent a half hour aimlessly chipping away at the snow and ice in my driveway. I know it’s going to freeze again overnight, but I felt like accomplishing something. Still not questioning the decision, but actively reminding myself to slow down. 

Thursday: The first thing I did after waking up from my running dream was to set the alarm for 5:30 a.m. the next day. Then I chose my gear and packed my recovery bag with dry clothes. Checked the weather: cold, around 10 degrees, very sunny, little wind. Thought about my route, made contingency plans in case some trails were too dicey. Prepared the water bottles and hydration vest. Looked at my watch. It was barely 9 a.m. I’m so ready. 

Friday: I’m back, baby. Spent a couple of hours on snowy, solitary single track without another soul around. It was slow, pretty hard, and oh so satisfying. 

If you’ve been struggling with motivation or experiencing the winter blues, I would highly recommend taking a break for a few days. Give yourself time to recover, both physically and mentally. It’ll pay you back. 

Who I’m thinking about: John the running hippie

RP reader Hoon tweeted me an awesome photo, which reminded me of one of my favorite running experiences. (By the way, hit me up with your run photos @pflanns if you’re so inclined. I love seeing you all out there.) 

Hoon @hoonster322

Views while running, 2/10/2021

Hoon’s photo spoke to me because I’ve spent more time in San Francisco over the last few years than any other city, save my own. At first, most of my runs involved the Embarcadero. From downtown, you can simply take a left and work your way through Fisherman’s Wharf and Fort Mason before reaching the Golden Gate Bridge via Crissy Field. Go right and you can loop around the ballpark toward Mission Bay. Either direction is an awesome run and highly recommended if you’re ever in town. 

Over the years I became more adventurous, running through Chinatown early in the morning, exploring North Beach, or taking the hills up to Coit Tower. When time allowed, I took the BART over to Berkeley for the Strawberry Canyon Fire Trail. 

By the 2019 NBA Finals, I wanted nothing but dirt, so I had a cab drop me off on the southern end of the Presidio. I didn’t have a map or any real idea where I was going, but I figured if I could find my way to the Golden Gate I’d be in good shape. With the Grateful Dead’s Estimated Prophet in my head, I set off for a little adventure. 

I'm in no hurry, no

Rainbows end down that highway where ocean breezes blow

My time coming, voices saying they tell me where to go

When I emerged from the trails an hour or so later with the Pacific in front of me and the Golden Gate to my right, I was pretty much exactly where Hoon was when he took his photo. I was trying to decide where to go next when a shirtless hippie running in a pair of work pants and old New Balance’s came along. I asked him to point me in the general direction of Crissy Field and he waved, indicating I should follow him. His name was John. No last name. Just John. 

John was fine company and we got to chatting as we ran along the coast. He was a house painter -- hence the pants -- heading over the Bridge to Marin for work. I told him one of my dream runs is the Marin Headlands and he said he’d show me the way. 

Now, I’m not in the habit of following strangers when I’m running, or anywhere else for that matter. Estimated Prophet is a cautionary tale, after all. Despite my hard boiled East Coast cynicism, I had the overwhelming sense I could trust this dude implicitly. 

I thought about his offer for a second, but real life intervened. There was a game that night. We parted ways and I went back to my hotel, supremely bummed that I didn’t follow my newfound spirit guide on what I’m sure would have been a mindblowing journey. 

At the time, I was pretty convinced I was covering my last Finals. That run cinched the deal. I knew my destiny lay somewhere over that bridge running into the unknown and not in a basketball arena off the interstate. 

To this day, I’m not 100 percent convinced John actually existed or whether he was a manifestation of some deep seated desire to change direction and plot a new course. Anyway, here’s to John, more than likely a real life estimated prophet standing on the burning shore. I hope you’re still running free, brother.  

Pour one out for The People’s Republik 

I moved to Cambridge in the summer of 2006. My then-girlfriend, now wife, found me an apartment in Central Square and I arrived sight unseen from Philly. It was a great place in a prime location on River St. above a laundromat. If I’m reading my rock history correctly, I believe it was the same building where the Velvet Underground once crashed. 

Anyway, the prime selling point of my new place was location. It was a 2-minute walk to the T and there were a half-dozen fantastic bars mere blocks from my apartment. There was Green Street for cocktails, the Cantab for live music, and the amazing River Gods for french fries and vibes.  

Our night may have started at any of the above establishments, but it tended to end at the People’s Republik. Under portraits of Che Guevara, Lenin, and various Bolsheviks, we’d make our way to the back for pints and darts. People’s was often lively, but it wasn’t much for barroom bullshit. You felt comfortable there. You could talk. 

There’s probably a bar like this in your town if you’re lucky, but The People’s Republik could only exist there, in that part of Cambridge between Central Square and Harvard. I pretty much stopped going to bars after my son was born, but I was happy to see it was still there whenever I was in the neighborhood. 

All those places are closed now. There’s hope, maybe, for some of them, but not People’s. I don’t know what our world is going to be like when we emerge from the pandemic, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to be somewhat less than it was before.  

Sorry to end on a downer. Let’s turn it back around. How about you guys, any memorable runs when you plotted out your destiny or beloved places you’re hoping to preserve?