Retirement

I recently completed all of RAGBRAI — no skipping the extra miles on the Karras Loop, no riding the sag wagon, no agreeing to drive someone's vehicle for just one day.

That's 483 miles on a bike. Some of that time passed in conversation (and whining); some of it, in detailed observation of my surroundings; the rest of it, in thinking.

None of my thoughts were particularly deep, but I did come to one conclusion that I've stuck with since getting off the saddle:

It's time for me to retire from blogging.

Nothing in particular prompted the feeling, but once the thought entered my mind, it stayed there.

This seems like good practice in trusting my gut, and if my gut has steered me wrong, well, I'll trumpet my relaunch to round all of you back up.

Anyways, the past five-ish years of blogging have been a good run/good ride, puns not intended but also not deleted. 

I appreciate everyone who's followed me from Illinois to Iowa, and those who have joined somewhere along the way.

I'll still hopefully be providing snapshots of my meals, workouts and cats on Twitter, Instagram and Daily Mile. Let's keep in touch virtually!

Crazy, creepy and sometimes cute: A week of bike-ride sights

This week's rides covered country roads, nature trails, well-traveled thoroughfares and old-money neighborhoods.

Unsurprisingly, I saw a few things that amused me on those bike excursions, though I only stopped to take a picture of one.

You'll have to use your imagination with the crazy, creepy and cute sights listed below.

* A man riding west on Grand Avenue carrying a garbage bag with at least one case of cheap beer. I'm not kidding. Maybe the case was empty? I don't know how he held it up.

* A turtle on the Neal Smith Trail. They're bizarrely cute, for all their scary beakiness.

* Runners out on concrete, sunny trails during 80-plus-degree, full-humidity weather.

* Stumpy. Don't worry, Iowans; he's safely parked in northern Illinois.

* The third lost motorist who's asked me to rescue them from Shirland, Illinois.

* A biker stashing toilet paper and a tub of cat litter in a milk crate ziptied to the back of her bike. ... Oh wait, that was me.

The prairie knows

I went back to Rockton, Ill., last weekend, and among the many pleasures of going home is the chance to run old routes that have become unfamiliar after months away.

The Sugar River forest preserves were on my radar, but after traversing the Midwest, my motivation to hop back in the car was fairly low. Our neighbors' prairie path, which they've graciously invited us to use, was far more tempting.

Turns out it was probably best that this urbanite didn't hit the true trails. Nature seemed to sense that a softie was there, ready to be taunted.

If these scratches look insignificant, it's because I took the photo Wednesday, a few days after my Sunday run.

My recent run at Raccoon River Park had reminded me of how lovely it is to run among trees; my runs around West Des Moines' ponds had me trained to dodge animal droppings.

But all this time in the city made me forget how much ducking and weaving one must do in the real wilderness, where prickly plants line narrow walkways.

A little blood did bubble up, and after the stinging stopped, the itching started — the outdoors used to occasionally give me little patches of irritation back in northern Illinois, something I'd nearly forgotten about until the bumps popped up again Sunday.

That's OK. Clearly I survived. I didn't abandon the run, either. I'll just think of it as a warning or preview for the next trail run I do ... especially if that one is the Sycamore 8.

Five-year anniversary run

As far as I know, yesterday wasn't the exact anniversary of anything important in my life.

But as I ran around Raccoon River Park, the mix of fall and summer weather, plus the forested gravel trail, I kept reminiscing about similar places I used to run — the Stone Bridge Trail in Roscoe, Ill.; Schmeekle Reserve in Stevens Point, Wis.

I rode that wave of nostalgia all the way back to 2008. That fall, I went on my first non-rain-related run since high school.

I didn't get hooked on it until spring 2009. But if I hadn't, one fall evening, for absolutely no reason at all, seen how far I could jog around my neighborhood until I got exhausted (not very far), there would've been no springtime running obsession.

So I guess it's the equivalent of first-date anniversary versus wedding anniversary, and as I have married friends who celebrate both of those milestones (and why not?), I think I'm well within my rights to declare my first five-year running anniversary.

I am also exercising a little bit of poetic license, because the run during which I thought "huh, it's been about five years now, give or take a month" was a rousing success.

Spurred by some gentle teasing, I decided to at least run the 10K my training schedule told me that I should do this weekend in a race. Going fast wasn't necessarily my intention, but it happened.

Five years after I couldn't even run half a mile, I ran 6.2 miles at an 8:25 pace. The later miles were a little bit of a struggle, for sure, but I have a hunch that they still felt better than that first quarter-mile in fall 2008.

(Which, by the way, was definitely uphill. Raccoon River, on the other hand, is beautifully flat.)

It's hard for me to say what I'm prouder of: that I've come so far with running, or that I've stuck with it through the bumps.

It's also hard for me, as an inherently unathletic person and as someone self-conscious about bragging, to acknowledge how I got to this point.

For all the credit I jokingly give to beer and pork (which I consume more now than ever), or the pointing at perfect weather and terrains, this is actually because I'm putting in the effort. Discipline and persistence is paying off.

Good news: I still like running

Last week, I actually ran more than I rode, which likely contributed to the escalation of my RAGBRAI fears.

However, though it might not have been helpful for my training, it was a great boon to my attitude.

On Mother's Day, I did a slow, untimed, leisurely 3.35-miler around my parents' neighborhood (my mom was playing outside too, OK?); the next day, I did 3.75 slow, untimed, leisurely miles around our neighbors' prairie path; and a few days after my return to Des Moines, I did three humid evening miles.

At the end of that first run, I was just glad to be moving, not sitting in a car, and to be seeing the sights of home. (As much as I love Des Moines, northern Illinois is home.)

At the end of the second, I was glad to spend time out in the country — spotting outdoor cats, smelling pine trees, listening to the wind and birds in the trees and dodging piles of unknown animal poop.

And at the end of the third, I was just glad to be running. Even the soupiness of the warm, humid air, and the intense sweat it inspired, felt glorious. Before the side cramp hit me around mile 2.5, I even caught myself feeling a little bummed that I "had" to bike for a few months.

So I guess it's official: The aimless runs, the bike rides and the "Just Dance!" have wiped out the angry memories of struggling and feeling let down from the Hy-Vee Half Marathon. I can say again, to everyone's confusion (including my younger self's), that I enjoy running.

Yep, it's still a challenge, but right now, with the finite period of being goal-free, it's a no-stakes challenge that ends with a good endorphin buzz.

Once Iowa heats up with a vengeance and I have the inevitable miserable run, and/or once I return to training for a half marathon, I'll look back at this post and laugh bitterly.

But for now, I'll activate MapMyRun once or twice a week — out of curiosity only, not for pride — and feel free to stop and walk it off, shame-free.

Celebrating the little things at Christmas

Christmas, once I made it out of central Iowa, was a low-key affair — much-needed after the stress of a blizzard right before the holidays in a town full of transplants.

The closer I got to home, the more my spirits rose, and not just because my drive was about to conclude with three happy family members and three beloved pets. It was also the sight of my country roads ... my snow-free, ice-free country roads.

I may have been slightly loopy from getting up at 6:15 a.m. and not having stopped in almost 2.5 hours, but a big silly grin crossed my face: "I can't wait to go running!" I told the empty car.

Of course, the urge to run was the strongest when I was least able to act upon it, and it weakened as I spent more time near a woodburning stove in my PJs. What, besides my still-living holiday running streak, got me out the door?

Premonitions of the big meals that lay ahead. And a rare chance for a naked run.

In Des Moines, I bring keys and a cellphone every time I run. There's no one who can open the door for me, or who can go looking for me should I fail to return, back at my apartment. (The cat definitely cares; he just lacks opposable thumbs and necessary skills to do these things.)

I don't resent it, because it's better than the alternative — being stranded, or spending the entire run worrying. But I sure don't mind only stuffing a Kleenex, or the gloves that I no longer need, in my pocket, and having my hands free.

In fact, it wasn't just laziness that kept me from venturing out farther and on more daunting hills than the ones in my neighborhood. It was the sense of obligation to bring my phone if I left a small neighborhood with a sometimes-obeyed 25 mph speed limit.

OK, it was laziness. But of my arms, not my legs.

It's been a year since I did the HOBO 10K?

Two Mondays ago, Doug posted about preparing for the HOBO race series: three races over one weekend in the fall — a 10K night run on Friday, followed by a 25K on Saturday and 50K on Sunday — all at Rock Cut State Park.

I did the 10K last year, and I actually think about that night frequently — the postrace part more so than the race, though it was definitely a pleasantly different running experience.

In addition to the fear of being alone in the woods at night, the plans to meet up at my favorite local bar (yeah Olympic!) with friends afterward motivated me to keep moving.  Nothing "Hangover"-esque happened; it was just a bunch of people meeting up for a few beers, but I remember it so fondly because it made living in Rockford feel as best as it ever felt.

My postcollege time in my hometown got off to a prolonged underwhelming start, but by fall 2011 — exemplified by the post-HOBO Olympic drinks — I'd gathered high school friends, work friends, newly made friends, high school friends' college friends, and their co-workers together into a positive that outweighed the negative.

When I thought about this during the more summery weather, it was in the context of "wow, what took four years to build in Rockford has been built in less than four months in Des Moines" — the people I already knew here, the ones I've met since moving and even the ones who don't know me yet always seem game for adding another seat at the table, in the bleachers or at the movie theater.

Back to the HOBO run. Until Doug's preview post, it hadn't dawned on me that nearly a year had passed since that race night; reflecting on it now, it does feel like a year has passed.

And I'm glad it passed. Reaching the HOBO run was a long uphill battle, but it also marked a short plateau that dropped sharply and dramatically over the rest of 2011 and into 2012. Of course — obviously — it turned around just as sharply and dramatically: I wish I could've given the HOBO 10K a second try ... but I'm glad to be in Des Moines instead.

* * *

This post was only marginally about running. If I had made any running breakthroughs since the HOBO run, I would mention them, but unless you count running consistently through the summer — made possible by a new job that lets me be at home at night instead of working at night — it's been fairly status quo.

That's not a slight, though. Maintaining a status quo that is "keep running" for more than three years ain't bad for someone who, as my dad is so fond of saying, could barely be moved to walk down the driveway and fetch the mail as a child.

That also doesn't do justice to the help running was, before and definitely after HOBO 2011: endorphins and stress release, yes; employer-hosted blog that could be added to resume, of course; but most of all, sense of accomplishment — that I'd done something difficult and that I made connections to people through doing it/writing about it.

(Token, non-insightful link to the rest of the post has been stretched to its limit.)

My legs' message finally cracks through my thick skull

Last month, it seemed like my Rockford running buddy Doug's posts on Daily Mile were consistently gloomy. I almost felt bad clicking on any of the smiling emoticons when I saw the grim-faced ones he was selecting.

Eventually, he blogged about making a change in his running routine, going from longer weekday runs and medium-long weekend runs to shorter weekday runs and truly long weekend runs.

It had paid off for his legs and thus also for his psyche as of the end of August, and judging from his tweets and Daily Mile posts, it's continued to work.

Meanwhile, the running routine I've sort of adopted/sort of fallen into is exactly what Doug had decided to quit — several four- or five-milers scattered throughout the week, plus one run of up to eight miles.

I didn't fret about it too much at the time. Runners aren't all made the same, and I kept going with what I thought was working.

Last Thursday, I started my morning with a seven-miler that felt about how most of my recent runs had been feeling: slow and heavy. I blamed the humidity and unexpectedly sunny skies. The next day, I did a four-miler that felt just slightly better.

Then, for 48 hours, I didn't run at all. Only on Sunday morning, more than 48 hours after I'd finished the four-miler, did I hit the road. And it felt great, not at all like every run in recent memory. On Monday night, I embarked on another run — same conditions, same route — and had the same strangely springy result.

Not even the strong winds and 60th Street hills on Wednesday afternoon could dampen my spirits or frustrate my legs, which were moving after another 48 hours of inactivity.

What changed?

Each run was no more than four miles, and they had more than 24 hours of rest as buffers. Looking back, I probably shouldn't have added "increase short run distance" to my training style without dropping "run frequently because you feel like too much rest makes your legs rusty," or at least adjusting it.

Also, having a wide range of run distances was a theme of previous half marathon training plans, but not my most recent one's — the training for which featured a lot more stopping and starting than past ones had, back when I was more of a noob and supposedly in worse shape.

Mystery possibly solved. I know I'm supposed to listen to my body, and I was trying to. I just couldn't interpret what it was saying, until a travel-heavy week and the memory of Doug's blog post served as a Rosetta Stone for runners.

Fan mail call

By the time I left my old job — and old blog — I had established a fan base that wasn't entirely made of relatives or family friends (though there were plenty of those, and I'm still glad they read my posts!).

Many of those nonrelative readers were active with the Rockford Road Runners, whose ranks I joined in 2011 but left the following year, knowing a move was on the horizon. Once a Road Runner, always a Road Runner: I received an email from a member named Ed recently, saying our mutual friend Coach Mike had suggested that he invite me to join a Road Runner committee.

After I emailed Ed back saying thanks for the thought, but I'm 300 miles away in Iowa now, he surprised me with his response:

"Good luck in your new endeavor. I am the old guy that passed you in one of the races you wrote about. Guess I can relax in my future races now and not need to push myself to beat the young girls."

The race to which he's referring? My very first one, in September 2009: the On the Waterfront 5K.

My then-co-worker Mike DeDoncker, knowing I was training for a half marathon, recommended doing a local race to get all the newbie jitters/mishaps out of the way before the real deal.

So we signed up for the Labor Day weekend 5K, and as DeDoncker also had suggested, I ran with him until I grew tired of his pace and stepped it up. (I'm not being mean. He had told me that he was easing back into running after a hiatus and would be going slower than me, so I should pass him whenever I wanted.)

I was actually picking off runners during the final stretch — and that's when Ed blew through. To be honest, I believe my first thought was "are you freakin' kidding me, dude?" but my second thought was "props to you, sir; you're older than my parents and you left this spring chicken in the dust."

Nothing like having your pompous balloon burst. It was funny (and self-deprecating) enough to me to include it in my race report, which later ran in the health section. Ed recognized it, probably patted himself on the back, and told DeDoncker about it — earning himself another mention in the Rockford media folk blogosphere.

Ed, you've earned your claim to Rockford health blogger fame, and I'm assuming that you remember your time in the spotlight fondly. Thanks for finding such amusement in it!

The aroma of an athlete

You know sometimes iPods/iTunes' shuffle setting/radios (for those of us who still use them, i.e., not the Class of 2016) can sense your mood and play the right song for you?

A few days ago, I discovered that my Google Reader, or the bloggers who populate it, is the same way.

During my return run in Des Moines, I was looking forward not just to running in my new home, but also to wearing clean workout gear while doing so — I'd washed up two full sets of gears during my "vacation" in my hometown.

TANGENT ALERT: I'm not sure whether this is a personal quirk or a commonality to athletes, but washing workout clothes makes me so conflicted.

Mine definitely demand to be washed, don't get me wrong. During this summer especially. I've noticed the scent (to be delicate) of prior workouts when I pull my shirts on, and, frighteningly, I've also smelled the current workout as I'm standing still, such as at a stoplight.

I don't take any weird pleasure in noticing how stinky my running clothes are, so I wash them, but always with the gloomy, Eeyore-like thought that soon enough, they'll be nasty again. Or, that I might grow irrationally protective of their cleanliness and not work out in them, because they're clean.

In conclusion, I overanalyze laundry.

END TANGENT, RETURN TO POINT: On Monday, I pulled on one of those fresh-and-clean T-shirts ... and my smile faded to a grimace. I could still smell sweat on the shirt!

My devoted runner friend Shayne had mentioned this happening. And apparently, so had the women at Another Mother Runner. Their Tell Me Tuesday question from last week had been about how to get the stink out of running clothes, and the responses were posted the same day I noticed my clothing issue.

I may try the soaking recommendation. I also might try the line-dry-outdoors one. But I know I'll try the quit-caring-about-it suggestion. Hey, if other runners are proudly sporting the evidence of their effort, why should I worry? It's a workout, not a beauty pageant.

A cool welcome back to Des Moines

It seems strange to describe a trip to the hometown you left only three months ago as a "vacation."

But my recent four-day visit to Illinois, plus the day I spent driving back to Des Moines in time to work an eight-hour shift, definitely represented a deviation from the norm in terms of what/when/how much I ate, when/where I slept and what/how much I drank (sometimes that meant coffee, guys).

Sounds just like most of the previous vacations I've taken. And just like after those more-exotic trips, I came back from this one raring for moderation and what had become my routine after three months.

Once I unpacked from my trip, I fell back into my usual lineup of activities, and it did me good. After breakfast was digested, I mapped a slightly new route and did not while away precious time aimlessly browsing websites — I got dressed and got going.

The title of this post isn't about coolness as in lack of friendliness. In fact, as annoying/condescending as I find coast-dwellers' generalizations about the Midwest, I have to say: If it weren't friendly, it wouldn't be Iowa.

It means refreshing and not hot (as in the weather) and sufficiently interesting — a low-intensity but energizing way to spend 38:11 of my morning.

It's also cool as in not trying too hard. My run wasn't overly ambitious in speed, distance or terrain. Yeah, I stopped quite a few times during the totally new and surprisingly hilly third mile. So what? Apparently I still averaged 9:32 per mile.

I know my cat missed me. I think Iowa might have, too, if my return run is any indication.

Home(town), sweet home(town)

It was like I'd stepped back in time.

In the midafternoon, I popped up from a nap, threw on my running clothes before I had the coherence to overthink my decision, and headed out for two laps around my neighborhood —

— or, I should say, my parents' neighborhood. The site of my preadulthood home, the one where I lived from age 20 to almost-26, with the exception of two semesters of college and six months' worth of an ill-advised apartment in a nearby little city.

Anyway, I headed out too briskly, carried away by the first tenths of a mile that slope down gently. But when you run loops, of course, you pay for those glorious downhills with the uphills, which are plentiful around this 'hood. So many walk breaks!

It's OK, though, because this 3.36-miler wasn't meant to be anything more than a nostalgia run that also worked out the kinks/rust/dust/mold from a day off and a 4.5-hour drive. In fact, the early rush followed by the quick fade is par for this particular course.

Also par for the course: stops for dogs. It was nice to visit with the belligerent Yorkie and his cheerful master early on; we'd always say hello and maybe comment on the weather when we bumped into each other, maybe weekly, maybe every other week.

The two dogs in a fenced-in yard who liked to run parallel to me while barking at me didn't disappoint. (My human fan, who once asked what I was training for because he always saw me running, at that house was apparently otherwise engaged, however.)

Meanwhile, their neighbors down the street — shih tzus, perhaps? — overachieved, with two dogs barking at me from behind their glass door and a third trotting down his driveway to ferociously lick my sweaty legs and try to follow me home. "Stay!" and "go home!" didn't dissuade him, so I had to walk him into his owner's safe grip.

Bargaining my way over the hills ("you can walk at the top," "if you walk to the bottom you have to run all the way up"). Dodging the handful of pavement trouble spots (one was partially patched!). Talking to dogs. Occasionally smelling roadkill. And not bothering to time myself.

Yep, that's my classic rural Rockton run.