Running in Circles

Eric came over yesterday to get me out to the Hopkington track for some speedwork. It's literally been 15 years since speedwork meant something other than "occasionally run faster when on a regular run" so the whole event was a bit of a challenge. Here's what we did:

- 1 mile warmup, conversational pace
- 6 x400 at race pace, followed by a 400 at conversational pace
- 1/2 mile cooldown

By mutual consent, this workout was actually easier than the suggested speedwork workout from RW, which called for 800 sprints. Neither Eric nor I are there yet, but hopefully it will happen soon. I was reading the suggested beginner marathon running plan in RW last night and they had speedwork in there as well, mainly because (paraphrasing) it builds power in your legs and also helps your form (since most people tend to get lazy with their form on long runs).

I'm recovering somewhat nicely, although my calves and frontal hips are sore today. I'm hoping to get in a nice slow 3 miles at lunch today to loosen them back up.

C&O Canal

I was in the mood for a new place to run this morning, so I drove 15 minutes out to Georgetown. Set back a few blocks from the bustle of M Street's stores and restaurants is the southern endpoint of the C&O Canal.


The 185-mile long canal was built in the early 19th century as a means of transporting goods (especially coal) along the route from Washington, DC to Western Pennsylvania. Its various bridges, locks, dams, aqueducts and tunnels are impressive and beautiful. The canal is no longer in use, but the whole route has been taken into custody by the Parks Service, and the towpath that runs alongside is very popular with runners and bikers.

Since I'm not yet in shape to run 370 miles, I decided to run out for five miles, and then back in. Ten miles is my favorite running distance these days - long enough to get a good workout and enjoy some time to myself, but short enough that I don't have to worry about hydration, joint pain, or other issues. Just strap on the watch and go!

And go, I did. The path was shady and running by the water seemed to cool the air. The city was left behind quickly, and although I slowed down at a few places to observe geese and butterflies, I still managed to turn in a 9:13 pace, much faster than my record in December of 9:37. This was my only run this week, and the days of rest seem to have done me some good.

This may be my new favorite route in DC - especially since after the run was done, I was able to head over to the outdoor cafe at Dean & DeLuca and enjoy the Sunday paper!

Deep Thought

MLB is just being cruel by giving the Sox a day off after a day game. It's been over two days since i've been able to see any live Sox action. Last night, I had chores to do and no game to watch while I was doing them! Interleague play is bad enough, but this scheduling is just mean.

Stretch

I have a confession. I don't stretch before I run. I just put on my gear, step out the door, hit start on my stopwatch, and go.

For a long time, I felt guilty about this, as if it somehow it indicated I was less serious than other runners. But more and more, I have been seeing articles like this one in the New York Times. The bottom line? There really isn't much evidence that static stretches--the kind we learned in high school--are useful in any way.

Of course, these things are notoriously difficult to study scientifically. How in the world can you set up a study where two groups of runners are exactly equal in all respects, except that one has stretched and the other has not? At the end of the day, we all individually have to keep experimenting to figure out what works for us (and what we enjoy).

Do you stretch before running? If so, how do you think it benefits you?

the next good, american read

i finished Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter, by Tom Franklin last week.  i'm not sure where i got the recommendation for this one from, but it fit quite perfectly as a follow up to Philipp Meyer's American Rust.


unlike that book, i came unto this one knowing nothing about it, with no expectation that it was the next big thing, little expectation what-so-ever.  like that book, it's an American tale, this one based in the south (and it certainly has that southern feel).  also like that book, the plot grabs you, pulls you in quickly, and revolves around a murder (of sorts).

Tom Franklin does something i very nearly forget about, with all the "lenses" i read books through these days; he writes a phenomenal story.  the characters are rich and vibrant, alive on the page:

French, a former game warden and a Vietnam vet, laughed and showed his small sharp teeth.  He was late fifties, tall and think, pale green eyes behind his sunglasses and close-cropped red hair and matching mustache.  He had a blade for a chin and ears that stuck out and could move individually.  Said his nickname in Nam had been Doe.  He wore blue jeans and a tuckedin camo T-shirt that shoed a Glock 9 mm in a beefy hand, aimed at the viewer.  YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT, his chest said, FOREVER.

 every part of this story feels interesting, the characters, the side plots, it's just plain very well thought out and executed.  and the writing isn't bad either!!  quite good in fact.  deadpan kitsch used to prove a point works well when you've been able to establish a certain level of trust with a reader:

He passed a clothing store that had gone so long without customers it'd briefly become a vintage clothing store without changing stock.

corny, but descriptive, and that trust allows us to forgive him because it all works.

one of the things that differentiates a novel that i read and like from one that i'll remember is how much i care about the characters.  that doesn't mean like, dislike or whatever... but simply that the characters evoke emotion.  where Meyer fell short, Franklin does not... maybe by not trying to achieve so much.  his characters don't exist off the page, i don't care to recreate them or hear about them in, say, a follow up book.  but in the lifespan of the story, they live and i live with them, breathing, sweating, worrying and wondering.

it's the real nature of this story and it's characters that Franklin uses to establish that trust.  and he knows it...  and even makes a point of telling us he knows it:

It was nothing like movies or television where they dug moths out of the victim's mouth with tweezers.

we can reliably call bullshite on that statement without offending him.  we know he means "it's nothing like THOSE movies".  and it isn't.

i'm not going to tout this book as a work of literary art, but i liked it.  enough to recommend it.  probably not enough to remember it.

Ten Thousand Saints

In this week's New York Times, the cover review is of Ten Thousand Saints, a novel by Eleanor Henderson. The book delves into the straight-edge music scene of the late 1980's, of which I know only a very little. The reviewer says that, "Henderson does not hold back once: she writes the hell out of every moment, every scene, every perspective, every fleeting impression, every impulse and desire and bit of emotional detritus."

I'm going to put this on my list of books to watch for. At $12.99 on the Kindle ($15.85 hardcover), I'm not quite ready to pull the trigger, but maybe if the price comes down or I see a used copy.

PS: Although much of the book takes place in New York City, portions of it apparently take place in Lintonburg, VT, a fictional town that whose name is an anagram for Burlington, VT, and which resembles Burlington in many ways.

Did I just see what I think I saw?

Amazing steal by Big Papi. Has he found the fountain of youth?