Take off the rose-colored glasses

My train of thought while running recently:

"This is perfect weather for running — I won't overheat with temps in the 40s. ...

"I'm so glad that cold air doesn't hurt my lungs like other people complain about. ...

"Man, I love how clean the fall air feels. ...

"Too bad the leaves are gone, though — WAIT WHAT IS THAT SMELL?"

For the second time in two damp days, I had encountered an intensely musty odor, like a whole pile of wet towels, on the run. (No, it wasn't my clothing. That would've been a consistent stink, instead of an ambush.)

It had to be all the leaves that weren't on the trees, glowing in the sunset, and that weren't delightfully dry and crunchy underfoot anymore. Welcome to November, where they rot in clumps along the sidewalk.

I found drier land after going on the Jordan Creek Trail and especially through Knolls Park, and grew misty-eyed again.

"Done with hills. Flat final mile FTW! ...

"Wow, I'm really close to being done, and I feel good still! ...

"That soup is gonna taste so good. Can't wait to shower first. ...

"LOL, goose droppings. ...

"There's more? OK, well, pretend it's an agility exercise ...

"I just vacuumed, better watch my step. ...

"Seriously? Is this a minefield or a sidewalk?"

It was a dangerous effort, weaving around dropping upon dropping in still-slightly-damp conditions. I am happy to report my shoes survived unscathed, but my inclination to call geese cute, unfortunately, did not. It may recover; I can't say for sure.

(But seriously, I enjoyed the run. My sense of smell may be keener than other folks', and this is just a drawback to my powerful sniffer, and wildlife dung is never not funny.)

When la dolce vita catches up to you, it's not so sweet

It dawned on me recently, after reading yet another runner's status update/Daily Mile post/tweet, that I hadn't gone on a long run in a while. Nearly a month, in fact.

So yesterday — Sunday's rain enabled me to procrastinate — I set out on an eight-miler, bright and early. I finished in about 1:17, averaging a 9:36 pace. The key word here is average, in two senses.

One, in how those miles ranged from 8:50 to 10:27, depending on the terrain and whether the wind was canceling out the humidity or canceling out my strength.

And two, in how unremarkable the run felt. With the exception of a few highs and lows, I mostly just moved OK. 

That was 24 hours ago, and my body is definitely still demanding what the heck I did to it. There's no pain, which I appreciate, and it seems that I was able to cure the insatiable hunger and lower-back stiffness last night ... but the sleepiness and slow-moving, sore legs have stuck around.

The last long run I took, a 7.5-miler in July, didn't seem to affect me quite this much. I doubt the extra half-mile is to blame. Though the routes and weather conditions were different, it's not their fault, either.

What to blame? More like whom to blame. Me.

While it's true I've been running fairly consistently over the past month, I've also been rather self-indulgent recently. Dinner out, with appetizers and/or dessert? Yes, please. A glass of wine and/or cup of ice cream after work? You got it.

Don't worry: My alcohol tolerance hasn't shot up, nor have the buttons on my pants popped; I'm indulging in moderation, but on what's becoming a routine basis.

Fellow young athletes have shared wisdom about treats and training with me in the past.

One, my roller-derby-playing friend Jeniece, cited a blog post comparing bodies to machines — the quality of the fuel, for each, affects performance, i.e., when you're pouring junk in, don't expect stellar results.

The other, Scheels bike group leader Jordan, mentioned that he abstains from alcohol, not because he doesn't like it, but because it cancels out the gains from working out. (He has some ambitious biking goals, which I've forgotten.)

I'm not going to turn into an ascetic — even despite that New York Times blog post that destroyed my "I run for pizza" philosophy — but now that the ice cream and wine are gone from my freezer and fridge, respectively, I don't think I'll restock.

Seen while running: Week of June 17

I have an iPhone and new territory to explore. I'm hoping this adds up to achieving my goal of putting more artwork in my new blog than I did in my old one.

So here are some sights to share with you from the week starting June 17.

The sidewalks in West Des Moines have exceeded all my previous expectations for sidewalks (namely, that there are some). They're wide, smooth and continuous, including over interstates.

My favorite overpass so far is the Ashworth Road crossing of Interstate 35, primarily because the south end looks like the entrance to a garden (very "Secret Garden"-esque) and secondarily because it's fairly flat (unlike the Westown Parkway crossing over Interstate 35, which is a rolling uphill).

The Ashworth Road overpass, above Interstate 35. Taken June 17.

On the same run, I made a detour through a neighborhood so I could hit a full four miles. I spotted a lot of nice, upper-middle-class houses, a few dogs and their masters, and ... this creepy creation. Imagine visiting these people at night for the first time and having your headlights illuminate this thing. And to make matters worse, once I uploaded the picture, I spotted the tall one's companion crouched in the foreground.

A house not far from my complex. Taken June 17.

Speaking of creepy ... I noticed this during June 20's freaking hot run, but the call of the chilled Gatorade, air conditioning, ice-cold water and shower was too loud to allow me to stop.

Taken June 23. I hope this is the only Peeping Tom within running range of my place.

This one is sort of a cheat. I spotted it along 60th Street coming back from a bike ride, but since I checked it out the next time I ran, technically I saw it while running.

Apparently I live in the Wild West Des Moines. Taken June 23.

Not pictured: The couple in a too-close-for-this-kind-of-humidity embrace along a path/playground combo smack in the middle of a neighborhood. I was polite and glanced the other way ... but allowed myself to think — and post — smarmily that my night was hotter and sweatier than theirs was.