Beaten Soundly

It was a chest heaving, heavy breathing, arms pumping, leg churning race to the 400-meter finish. And I lost -- to my six-year-old granddaughter, who had asked to race on her elementary school track.
"Remember when I was little and you always won?" she asked.
Oh yes, I did. She was about 2 1/2 and I'd take Eliza and her sister to the track in Houghton. Eliza and I would run 100-meter "races", me jogging alongside as she ran as hard as her little legs would go. I taught her not to cross her arms across her chest, as girls are prone to do. I taught her to pump her arms; she tended to run with her arms at her side. But even then, she needed no coaching on her legwork. She loved to run and she ran fast.
"I couldn't run very far then," Eliza said. 100-meters, maybe 200, that was all. This year at school she earned two key chains, both with the emblem of a foot with a heart cut out of the middle -- one for every five miles she logged at school. One time she beat everyone in her class. Another time she beat all but one boy. And yesterday she beat her gramma.
"You must have run that in about. . ."
"I don't want to know the time," Eliza said. "I just like to run."
And I like to run with her -- especially when she wins. It's time. She is young; I am old.

I Choose a Skirt

A recent Runners' World article, "Skirt Culture", discussed the controversy about skirts and running. Before reading that, I didn't know a controversy existed, although I DO know that some women do and some women don't. Me? I usually choose a skort (a skirt with inner shorts) -- for Mom's sake.

Mom revived worn-out furniture for a living. Antique fainting couches with only shreds of fabric remaining would become plantation worthy under her skillful hands. She doted the same gentle care toward a family's favorite sofa, a dad's recliner and a momma's favorite rocker.

After loading and hauling a piece of furniture to her shop (Mom always said we could "do anything a man can; it just might take us a little longer"), I'd help her hoist the furniture up on saw horses. We'd then take that piece down to just the wood, or sometimes bare wood in which case she'd also sand and refinish the wood as well. She'd then tie springs, add burlap and lots of cotton batting. Finally after taking careful measurements, she'd make patterns using old newspapers, use the patterns to cut fabric, and then sew and staple the fabric atop. I can still hear her special sewing machine start up in its two-tone pitch: mmmm UMMMM. She had a foot-long special needle she used to tie buttons onto the back -- fainting couches had hundreds, it seemed to me. And tying those buttons on was monotonously repetitive.

Though Mom's job was traditionally a male's job, Mom always maintained her feminine side. Instead of a toolbox she carried bags she herself designed to hold her staple gun, hammer, tape measure and other tools. She wore slacks, as her job demanded it; but she wore the slacks with a blouse or sweatshirt with feminine designs. And she wore a tad bit of makeup. She was a female who just happened to love her traditionally-male job; not a female trying to be a male. And she made that distinction quite clear in her mannerisms and dress.

If she could see me run, I'm not sure she'd appreciate my bun completely covered by a cap, and the unisex impression that leaves. She'd be dismayed to know that in extreme heat I let my midriff show by wearing a sports bra sans outer top. But the skort with the outer skirt flapping in the breeze as if displaying the statement, I AM a female who happens to run . . . .She'd be very pleased indeed. She'd know that she did pass one of her values on to me. And that would bring her honor.

Sweet Dreams

Pre-race Photos: Another scene of another spot in rural Virginia. This one near the half mile point of the Sweet Dreams 5K in Stuarts Draft, a race that began at 7:30 a.m. on Saturday, July 26. While I ran this 5K, baby bro (Austin Perry) was running The Bix in Davenport, a feat he finished in 47:20, an incredible 6:45 pace. He's 41. I am so proud of him; he's worked so hard! And on Friday night nephew Eli took 4th place in his age group at the kids' Bix. So it was a virtual racing weekend for me and my family of origin. Oh! my time was 26:08, an 8:25 mile pace.
Near the beginning looking back toward the start.
Another hill to climb. . .
and another race run . . .
Runners warming up . . . doesn't take much when it's already high 70s, low 80s at 7:30 a.m.

27 Down; 23 to Go

When I mentioned the number of races I've run so far this year, a couple club members suggested I join the 50 Plus Club. Butch was the first, and I thought he was just joking. But then someone else did. I did a few minutes of web surfing, and found a link. He and I have both been scurrying now to actually find races in which to participate.

But back to the club itself. . .

It turns out that James Moreland, out of the D.C. area, founded this club. There is an annual dinner; and there are awards for those who win 50 races in the same category. . . . Well, you can see all the details for yourself by checking out his web site at: http://www.racepacket.com/james/50plus.htm James Moreland.

Nonetheless I'm now counting down. Two races last night (one a record setting 7:55 mile) made 27 races, and 23 left to go.

The Rocking Chair Test

On the road at Singer's Glen. . . (photo by Matt Armstrong).

At the awards ceremony -- photo by Butch Proctor.

Kristin Armstrong's friend Terra has an interesting guide for making decisions. "She employs the Rocking Chair Test to life's more compelling questions. She explains this as, 'When you are old and sitting in a rocking chair talking to your grandchildren, how would you want to tell the story?'" ("Mile Markers", July 17, 2008, retrieved from http://milemarkers.runnersworld.com/)

For me the question isn't such a hypothetical one. I already DO have grandchildren, and I not only think about how I will want to tell them the story, I think about how they will pass that story on. Like last weekend. . .

I ran a 5k, took second place, and a volunteer firefighter hung a medal around my neck -- something I should have been doing for him! But I wanted this medal; this department organized that race for something I strongly believed in (see earlier post). And I got it. As is my habit now, at the first opportunity, I took the medal to five-year-old Maggie and dropped it in her lap. As is HER habit, she studied the medal as if she'd never seen one before, fondly retracing each line, studying the artwork. I told her that this one was a winner's medal, not just a finisher's, and we talked about the difference. After gazing at it and studying it, she looked up at me and asked, "How many is it now?"

"Eight".

Then she jumped up, ran over to her daddy and said, "Daddy! Daddy! Look what Grammie won. And this one isn't just a finishers' medal. She WON this one!"

How would I want my granddaughter to tell my story? Just like this -- with pride and joy. I may be old. I may apply the rocking chair test. But I don't want to live in that rocking chair!

Volunteerism at its Finest - Tribute to SGFD

SGFD footrace-winning firefighters Jeff Werner (26:05) and Harlan Honeycutt (29:52) in front of the department's new $400,000 fire truck. Note the hymnbook emblem on the side of the truck. Singers Glen, the birthplace of southern gospel music, is the site where the oldest continually published hymnal was produced. Joseph Funk published his Harmonica Sacra, a shape-note hymnal, in the first Mennonite printing house, which he established in Singers Glen. He also established a men's singing school here.

The Singers Glen Volunteer Fire Department sponsored this race, the Clay Sellers Memorial 5K (Sellers was a runner and fire fighter who died at age 29) to raise money to fund a college scholarship. This was their first attempt at sponsoring a race, but you'd never have guessed that from the race organization. SGFD volunteers had everything covered: someone at every turn, volunteers covering a half-way point water stop, photography, one of their own (a sheriff) closed the road for the start. This race started, of course, when the fire truck siren blew.

Runners gather near the start up awaiting the cue to line up on the road. Buffy, in orange on the right, has become my nemesis -- having beat me now in two races. As you can tell from the scenery, this was NOT a flat course! About half of it was also on a slippery gravel road; I wore my trail runners for traction and logged a 27:20 time -- an agonizingly slow 9:08 pace, perhaps my slowest yet this year. Other runners commented that course was a challenging one. I will be tallying the results for posting on the SGFD web site, and for the SVTC Club newsletter. A quick glance, however, tells me that most runners' paces were a tad bit slow, reflecting the difficulty of the course. Definitely one I hope to do again next year though: scenery, organization -- even the challenge -- made this another great race.

For more photos and race information, see the Clay Sellers Memorial 5K website at:

www.claysellers5k.org.

Overlooking the hills at Singers Glen, and some of the SGFD equipment.

Temps Soaring?

Don't worry -- all too soon it will be time to dress like this again. Jeff "JC" Campbell took these photos in front of his house, after a Run Your Snowballs Off race which he sponsored last January, when temps were in the lower 30s.

Stream Along Howard Lick Trail - Lost River

Big Mountain. Big Rain. Bigfoot.

My real time running buddy Butch asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday, and I said, "One of three things . . . no particular order, no preference of one over the other -- a hike to Lost River, a bike ride or a long run."
"How about a sandwich in the car after church, a hike in Lost River and dinner after?"
I agreed.
So we did, arriving at Lost River about 1:30 p.m. Before we were even out an hour a storm threatened and we waited out that storm, which ended up being just a heavy rain, in a shelter along the trail.
Then we set off again. We encountered a fuschia fungus, an orange lizard about an inch long, a turtle, a woodchuck, a deer. . .I said to Butch, "I sure HOPE that deer is the biggest thing we see." Bear scat along the trail was a cue that it probably wouldn't be.
We kept going, across a road, down Howard Lick's Trail, down a primitive road and up another trail.
"I don't know if this trail actually gets used. It appears that the only thing that keeps it open is frequent rains, and that then it becomes a stream," I said.
The trail got even smaller and rougher. He was getting a bit nervous, unsure of our route (as was I). We made it to and saw the overlook that I so much I wanted to see, that we couldn't find last time. The view was worth the 3,706 foot ascent; I took some awesome photos. But then things went downhill real fast.
We saw a large black cloud rush in. We scurried off but couldn't run; the trail was too rough for that. As I said, we had seen bear scat so we watched carefully for wildlife. Thunder rumbled toward my right, and that black cloud just kept coming closer and closer, as did a couple streaks of lightening. And then I saw a large black "cloud" on my left, about 20 feet away moving along the ground. I stopped and wondered what a dog was doing out there in the woods, and looked for its human. And then I realized what my mind hadn't accepted.
"That ain't no dog!"
I just froze, and watched this black bear walk first parallel to the trail, keeping pace with us for a few feet. Then he made a left turn, away from us, and lumbered over and farther up toward the ridge we had just left. As his backside ambled off, I realized he looked just like something I'd seen on a Discovery or National Geographic clip. That close encounter was all of about a few seconds probably. Butch, who was behind me at that point, froze when I did and looked in the same direction, but he didn't see the bear ... he believed me though when I told him what I saw.
At some point during the hike, I realized that nobody knew where either of us were, as neither of us thought to let anyone know (although I have no idea with whom I'd have shared the news). And with the kids gone, nobody would miss me till Tuesday. No one was expecting Butch until church mowing time Wednesday or Thursday; and his son usually only calls every couple weeks or so, and he'd called the Sunday before. I figured people wouldn't find us until after the buzzards did!
About then the storm hit full force and Butch asked rhetorically, "Are we okay here?"
Ignoring his attempt at humor, I answered, "No, absolutely not. But at least we're a lot farther down from the ridge. I'm looking for cover. . .I'm open to ideas."
"I think you're in good with the Guy Upstairs, and this would be a good time to start talkin' to Him," he answered.
"Been doin' that," I said. "If we can get to the rocks, we can hide under one of them till this passes" (In one section of the trail, we had seen a bunch of huge boulders scattered along the hill, kinda lookin' like Paul Bunyon had been tossing rocks like boys do -- I was thinking a section of that would make a nice "cave" -- if we could just get there fast enough). By this point the rain had become a deluge, a regular gully washer. Every now and then a gust of wind would send a cold chill on our already soaked skin. The trail DID indeed turn into a stream, about a foot wide. I tried to straddle it, not that it made any difference. My shoes were sloshing from the water inside. A couple loud thunder cracks and a couple close lightening flashes, and then the storm turned and rattled away.
When we made it to "Bunyon's rock quarry," I asked Butch if he wanted to wait it out, but he said to just keep going. I agreed, as it seemed the storm WAS moving away by then.
We reached the car, and the clean clothes we'd brought along, about 6 p.m. We literally wrung out our dripping clothes after changing into dry ones. All in all it was a 4 1/2 hour adventure.
It's funny. . .e-mails and phone calls later proved that people did have us on their mind. "Mom Bragg", my brother, and a couple friends e-mailed between 3 & 4 p.m. Butch's son called twice at 3 p.m.; since there is no signal at Lost River, I didn't get that message till later (I'm sorry, Lee). I realized all those e-mails and the call came just before the most dangerous point -- when we made the turn to go up to the overlook, and things started getting dicey. I like to think that maybe folks were asked to pray for us.

The View from Cranny Overlook

Near Cranny Overlook - Lost River VA

This stone shelter perches near a rock ledge providing a panaramic view of miles of mountain peaks.

First Rain of Lost River Hike

Rain nearly obliterating the mountain in the distance.

Butch and I watched the mountain disappear as the rain turned into a downpour.
As the rain dissipated, the mountain returned to view.

These photos were taken from a shelter. About two hours later a thunderstorm hit, and there was no nearby shelter for escape.

The Critters of Lost River, Virginia

A fuschia colored fungus. . .there were several of these along the path.
An orange newt? lizard? whatever it is.
A turtle with its heat and feet out! I was ecstatic. . .how often do you see just the shell?

And then a woodchuck scampered just ahead. After that I saw a deer and said to Butch, "Oh, oh, the creatures are getting bigger and bigger. I hope that deer's the biggest we see." It wasn't. About an hour later I saw a beer lumbering about 20 feet away, parallel to the trail on which we were hiking.

Shenandoah River Front 5 Miler -- A Personal Best

Butch, with SVTC President Rich Ruozzi and I as passengers, drove up over a couple mountains to Shenandoah, Virginia, for a 5 mile race on the 12th. The starting line was the parking lot immediately to the right of this photo. I am mastering the downhills now, and put the hammer down as I went down the hills on this rolling course. A flat stretch along the Shenandoah River was the toughest part; because I run primarily on hills, the steady effort on the same muscles of a flat course tire my legs. I breathed as deeply and slowly through my nose as I could on the return leg; savoring the scent of the river. The scent took me back to the Wapsi (Wapsipinican), Mississippi and Iowa Rivers back home -- riding in my brothers' flat bottom fishing boats, camping trips on sand islands in the middle of the river, and family outings at my baby brother's cabin and various camp sites, and loads of family folk lore. I thought about many friends rebuilding, as those three rivers have swollen to 500-year records and wiped out many of my old stomping grounds. After saying a quick prayer, I discovered I'd reached the end of the section of the course alongside the river and picked up the pace for the last leg of the race.

My lungs were doing well -- didn't even feel them after the first 5 minutes. So I let my legs dictate the pace; and ran as hard as I could. I reached the finish line at 44:09, an 8:50 mile pace, my fastest on a course greater than 5K.

I ran to the nearest tree and puked . . . I reckon I gave this race my best effort.

Pace Setter

Upon arriving at the track meet last night, I signed up for the predicted one mile. "7:58," I noted next to my name. My lungs were hurting, but it was cooler than last week. So I chose the average of my first and second predicted one-mile runs.
To warm up, I ran four intervals, carefully pacing myself to run just under two-minute laps; and then did a couple fast sprints. By then it was time to line up.
"Ready. Set. Go."
We were off amidst calls to one another of, "How fast did you predict?"
Several gave their predictions and I announced, "7:58 for me".
"Follow her," Marlin Yoder said. "Let her set the pace."
He then said something about my predicting my pace right on and winning the predicted one mile a couple weeks before, and of being the winning female two weeks before that. He had predicted an 8-minute mile pace. Ken began by running alongside me. Since he had predicted a 7:15, I said, "Go on ahead. Don't let me hold you up." After the first lap, he did.
I ran fairly steady for the first three laps, and then, on the fourth, I heard Marlin once again say something about my ability to run my predicted times. And he and his group stayed right behind me.
I poured it on during the last stretch, and crossed the finish line just as Lynn Smith called out, "7:58". Right on the money!
The following 5K was another success: 26:01, beating my fastest 5K on that course by 14 seconds. At least five SVTC club members beat their previous records for the year on the course as well. That's when a race is the most fun, when you AND your buddies all do well. And it was also fun to be the "pace setter", a new encouraging experience.

Maggie and the Medals

At her house this morning, Maggie announced, "I'm going with you." Then she ran upstairs, grabbed some clothes and dashed out the door while getting dressed. I asked her what today's blog entry should say and she answered,

"It was a fun day.
It's been a great day!
I had lots of fun;
and now it is done!"
Maggie asked me to get my running medals down. "There are six," she announced. And then donned them all.

She also said, about my apartment, "No strawberries allowed." The girls think it funny that yummy healthy strawberries are poison to me. They often tease me, whenever they see one, "Oh Grammie! Look! Poison! Aren't you scared?"

And so ends Maggie's story on Grammie's blog....

Keep to the right except to pass

Daryl Watkins, a teacher at Broadway and owner of an ice cream stand in New Market, organized The New Market (Virginia) Firecracker 5 Miler yesterday. Butch has run that race every year and pronounced it his favorite. Now I know why.
Race packets for pre-registered runners were arranged alphabetically on a table; runners were entrusted with the task of selecting their own. No volunteer needed to ask repeatedly for a runner's name, or the spelling of that name, and then attempting to find it.
The course itself was marked with easily identified squares painted on the asphalt roads with three-color logos on them, and arrows showing which direction to go. Officers stopped traffic efficiently, letting runners actually race (At one race last winter, the officers stopped the runners and let the traffic go through).
And the course itself wound through historic downtown and then, at mile 3, challenged runners as they climbed a hill 9/10 of a mile long through a canopy of trees. But there were just as many downhills as ups...a truly rolling race course.
The runners, too, were unusually polite, and minded well the etiquette of a race. At water stops they grabbed their water and kept moving, or at least they ran to the end of the table before stopping at the shoulder out of the way of other runners. Too often water gulpers grab their water and stop -- blocking other runners awaiting a quick grab-and-go drink.
This group also ran single file except to pass. Climbing that hill I could see a line of runners ahead of me, mostly single file, occasionally double, except to pass another runner. I remembered another race where pods ran together filling the entire roadway, blocking anyone from passing. I wish I'd worn my track shoes as I spent most of that race on the gravel shoulder trying to maneuver around the yakking pods.
Efficiency. Well-marked course. Gorgeous scenery. A challenging hill. Running single file -- sometimes double -- except to pass. Respectful runners mindful of the fact that others shared the road.

May mulch, mud & blood pour down like water. . .

In the shower yesterday afternoon, I watched mud and mulch running in rivulets across the tub and into the drain, and thought, "May mulch, mud and blood pour down like water. . ."
I scrubbed some black spots, and found skin beneath. I scrubbed others and found bruises; from whence they came I do not know. Blood from numerous scrapes and scratches had actually solidified into scabs, and I carefully scrubbed them clean so as not to reopen the wounds. Pink insect bites, looking an awful lot like measles, dot the entirety of my left leg . Why not the right as well? I don't know. Ahh well. . .all that marked the end of an unusual Wednesday, usually a cross-training day.
My calendar called for mulching at The Plantation, and getting things ready for the owners' return on Saturday. But because of a Fourth of July race on Friday, I also needed an easy run-- that way Thursday, the day before the race, could be a rest and recovery day. Since I was already at the Plantation, I opted to run that trail again and was grabbed by a few blackberry bushes, briars and weeds on the narrow trail. Then I weeded the gardens, cleaned the house, grabbed a snack and headed to the church, where I weeded and mulched some more and got nabbed by a Japanese maple, an evergreen creeper and other weeds and plants. And so, at days' end, mulch, mud, blood and water poured down. But so, too, did joy -- from a job well done, anticipated flowers, a well paced run and a day spent in the sunshine.

Mid-year Stats & Eval

The proverbial "they" say that a person can beat themselves for about six years straight and then they peak. I am nearing the end of my fifth year of running, and not getting any younger. So I won't be setting many more all-time personal records. Thus I must savor every one. So with that in mind, here's my tally for the year-to-date:

June 30, 2008
Mileage goal for year: 600. Miles run as of June 30 - 422.
Number of races: 21

PRs set since first quarter's end (April through June):
1 mile: 7:57
10 Mile (hilly, Mountain Valley Run, Keezletown, VA): 1:32:00 (9:12 pace)
(this beats the Staunton 10 Miler record of 1:47 set last fall)
20K (flat, Dam to Dam in Des Moines IA): 1:58:31 (9:31 pace)
Half-marathon (hilly, Charlottesville VA): 2:01:45 (9:24 pace)
(Until this year I hadn't run farther than 10 miles, so the 20K and Half are a distance and pace record)

Plantation Trail Run

I ran at "The Plantation" yesterday -- through the woods, under a canopy of shady vines and trees, on a trail that, at times, was barely visible (as you can see in the above photo). It sure beat running on hot asphalt, in the sun, dodging traffic, and watching for motorists looking at anything but the road -- which I did on Brocks Gap Road Saturday.
Before actually running, I went through with a pruner and cut back a few vines to widen the path a bit (I knew the owners were okay with that; they mowed the original path and try to maintain it when they're home). Nonetheless I didn't get it quite wide enough. A couple times the vines reached up, grabbed my ankles and tried to trip me; and a couple blackberry prickers scratched me. There's a branch that even I have to duck under. The soft ground is easy on the feet, but the uneven surface requires a bit of hopscotch-type dancing to prevent a fall. The first leg of the out-and-back with a loop at the top is uphill, and at the top you can see the mountain if you turn and look back. Once you reach the top, the path widens and it's all downhill.
So this is a great hill workout on trails, and an opportunity to toughen up the ankle muscles.

Stop at the top and turn around, there's a great view of North Mountain in the distance.