Settling.

Training cycles direct you. The workouts, the data, the filler, and the recovery all pave your path. I've pushed through the stages and faced the challenges before. Sometimes you face forward. Sometimes you face the proverbial music.

Earlier this spring, for example, I followed the cycle to a handful of start lines and looked out, unsure of why the clarity of the road ended.

I had to find my way.

The resolve resonates, although differently, from my experience last fall. In the cycle for CIM, the road and I shared a symbiosis. I felt unstoppable. Suddenly I felt overcooked. And the road led me to rest. I comprehended months before the marathon that I wouldn't toe the line. In that sense, training directed me to find solace in place of finding bitterness.

This week--another race week for what has become an annual summer dabbling with trail 50Ks--I felt nearly certain the training helped me pave the road to Pacifica. Even if it was a fairly ugly cycle by my standards, the workouts came together and I judged the data to indicate the presence of endurance and fitness. The recovery, I hoped, had amounted to sufficient reduction to provide freshness or lift.

Even my tumble last Saturday--an aimless face plant on a shady section of the Robie Trail above the confluence--and the subsequent scabbing, swelling, and stitches didn't fully derail my determination to head to Pacifica this morning. After all, it wasn't overuse injury. The contusions, surely, would take a toll, but they couldn't detour my road. 

But as the week unfolded, I lost the road. The most severe injury (the elbow) remained the least of my concerns. I'd neglected (in the attention paid to the elbow) the impact sustained to the left knee. I even got an x-ray. With negative results, and a nice conversation with the general practitioner, somehow these two issues obscured the developing issues in the hip (the second of three impact locations). 

By Friday, the dull ache on short runs clouded everything. I had to find my way again--only I couldn't. Like a coastal fog, the uncertainty settled in dense pockets and locked me in limbo.

And just when I thought I'd made peace with letting it go, I found the inner compulsion I needed and fervently pushed it aside! 

It was on a walk with the family. Chatting as we do, I fleshed out the possibilities of following through and seeing the cycle to its terminus. I felt an energetic life, and I told myself I could do it--all I had to do was start the process and the momentum would take care of itself. After all, hadn't I always managed through big events like this? I wondered if I should call my mate--a fellow runner I earlier cancelled on--to again offer to drive to the race. 

For a moment, I saw it! The way forward!

And then my son, slightly confusing all day, cried from the stroller, puked on his shoes, and decided for me.

---

The training doesn't direct you. The road is not a mystery. 

You embrace the love near you--especially when one has traded his vomit-saturated shirt for your arms and a look of naive bewilderment--and you walk forward with all the health and happiness you can find. 

Because you make the road. And life is not a race. 

Forget luck.

A few weeks from ultra running's Big Dance, I met and ran a bit with Jim Walmsley along the Tahoe Rim Trail. He was in the region coaching campers with Mountain Pulse Running Adventures. Despite having no one but a bicycling photographer to run with that day, he had no business "sitting" on my pace and chatting through the miles and aid stations.

But he did. After parting from the post-run taco truck, I chatted with my mates and ruminated on the guy's personality and undeniable talent. He's had an incredible streak this year. I wasn't really sure how to articulate my view of his chances heading into Western States. We were in Tahoe, after all, and he was not spending his days acclimating to the canyons and the heat and the region. While his shoestring travel plans might not have allowed for it, I imagined a choice between counseling and prepping must've emerged. Why this choice?

Well, if you missed the race's details, the dude's running wrote an incredible and absolutely maddening story. I remain flabbergasted by his performance throughout the day, and as much as I ache when I think about his final hours outside Auburn, I'm even more impressed by the way he finished his race and reflects on the experience.

I feel privileged to have spent actual time with someone that inspires through being, not just running. It's my hope that all run lovers find similar worthwhile moments in between the aches and pains.

And for a visual journey, the ongoing work of that bicycling photographer, Myke Hermsmeyer, comprises a fantastic photo essay in the new edition of Outside Magazine.

Seen on the Scene.

It's always good to get away--from the beaten path, the tired routine, the familiar slog of the daily grind. And so as another dark spring marathon season fades in the dry glow of a warming summer, I turn again to the slow solidarity of the canyon climbs and fire roads and single tracks.

The switch to the trail scene--which comes in part from the liberty inherent in public teaching--affords me the status of a lone warrior. I get out at my (somewhat later) hour, I go at my non-work pace, and I can generally exist in my own rite until the responsibilities of society and my family require my return. (And honestly, I'm quite happy to return.) The time remains solitary; the work meaningful.

Sunday I found myself the last to leave the portolet in the Spooner Summit parking lot and hit the trail for the annual TRT 100 training run. The low-key affair, worth my $40 and 5-hour round trip drive, offers a runner preview and multiple aid stations to participants (and non-participating willing customers like I've been) running the annual 55k, 50 mile, or 100k race this month. Other than crusty opportunists like myself, I figured I'd spend much of the day in my own element (read: alone).

What it looks like to be the only one out there, save the constant company of a professional photographer.

Being the last to shuffle off meant I jogged past the packs of slower-paced runners as I sussed out the other participants and looked for a place to settle in. Other than the aforementioned opportunists, I shared no exchange beyond an occasional "On your left."

Within ten minutes, though, I suffered something akin to the Facebook effect (you and _________ have ____ friends in common!). My verbal turn signal was returned with a, "Hey, you paced my last half marathon!" and then three miles of companionship.

Ultimately, after the pace bro and I split via our own decisions, I strode through no more than four turns before this exchange: "Kyle, like, Kyle Petty? You're taller in person, and you look different with the beard."

The subsequent conversation lasted the better part of 7 miles, and included shared backgrounds, at least four overlapping experiences, and ultimately one collapsed universe.

Let me be clear: This entry is not a complaint. I very much appreciated the company, and I'm certainly not shy for words or out to shed any drafters. But I feel compelled to note the antithetical nature of the day. This was not the rogue-running, independence-charged trainer I've experienced countless times and expected on this day.

Eleven miles into the morning, runners faced a choice: they could add a 7-mile loop to get a taste of the descent and return climb from Red House, or return via the Flume Trail upon which they made their initial journey. While I chose to head back and save the added miles for the week, my company pressed on, eager to get a handle on the intricacies of the race ahead. It was this stretch of the morning that I encountered the run I had expected. Yet along with the solitude and search for strength, I found myself grappled with fatigue, uncertainty, and boredom. I certainly credit the increased time on my feet, the inevitable rise in temperature, and the up-and-down thrashing of a long run at elevation. But I might also consider crediting the role a well-placed friend--formerly had or newly made--plays in enriching my dabbling in the trail scene.

Running away.

How my students shaped my training this week: The mysterious bodies in my future classes have me freaking out about my own ability to prepare for my classes. When I'm not running, these concerns likely feed my stress and fatigue and either compel my runs or trouble them in some way.

What my son taught me about running this week: I watched the Bub play with some Legos today. I built a nice landscape on the table while he sorted through pieces and built his own towers on the floor. When he realized what I was doing, he enthusiastically intervened and obliterated my creation so as to construct something more akin to his preferences and abilities.

I wanted to see this as a sarcastic metaphor for what kids do to our lives, but (today, at least) I'm better than that. I concluded that fresh eyes and unquestioned force might very well help me find new roads in otherwise established places.

The RD justified this recovery feature with, "I am done grilling. Forever." Jim Walmsley and I will both oblige with and indulge thanks to this decision.

Don't let down your guard.

Summer vacation has arrived, and with it I've lost all track of sense.

I tried--albeit unsuccessfully--to fit an iPhone into a Nathan handheld before a recent trail run. The freedom of summer surely must've taxed my ethical core, for had the bottle's pouch accommodated the device, I would have most certainly would've found a reason to tear into it, retrieve the phone, and capture a moment. Then, perhaps I'd share! share! share!

I see now I harbored some belief in a social (media) pressure, and amid the chaos of summer break, I damn-near found myself on a jog with my phone for the sole purpose of advertising my routine.

Thankfully, the belief that I'd need this kind of proof wore off around the same time I realized I couldn't complete the zipper track around corner of the phone case.

I love to run with company, and I know full-well the ways the pack can alleviate the training, inspire the vision, and counsel the weary. I know what my running does for others (mainly because it makes me tolerable), but I primarily run for me. I need no other evidence, nor validation, than what I collect between the first push and the final stutter.

How my students shaped my training this week: Well, now that we are on hiatus, my students have let me think about them again. I can dedicate the thinking during my non-running hours to the big ideas and developmental questions that will ultimately benefit their learning; I can dedicate the thinking during my running hours to fostering mental toughness.

What my son taught me about running this week: We entered a new phase this week, advancing from infant to toddler rooms at school. Given my freer mornings, I had the opportunity to perform drop-off duties and work with him through the transition. The ritual was a series of teary, shrieking episodes.

When the teachers tell me I can walk away, I'm not guilty or cold. I see that transitions are hard. And as I work more on trails, more on climbing, and more time on my feet, I see that it's harder because it's different, not because I can't do it. It doesn't mean I won't still do some crying, however.

Permits.

I gave myself permission to relax. It happened at some point this winter, when I admitted that training was new and varied and difficult.

Whew. What a rep. Go ahead and hunch over, hands on knees, and take a breather.

It became a habit. And then there I was, at the mile six water station outside Framingham, taking a break. 

I could be making an egregiously ignorant correlation; or there could be some science-backed proof behind the self-imposed gap between what my body had been built to do and what my brain believed.  Regardless of the outcome in Boston, the habit of resting during intervals continues to disrupt certain morning workouts.

What hasn't been disrupted are the runs themselves. Until now I'd yet to allow for anything less than an easy run. But today, with the base-building back in effect for a summer of running on the trails, I finally faced the music. With a tight calf and rusted Achilles I shuffled to the street, bound instead for a car, and opted for a familiar round with the rowing machine and a spin bike.

Even if the brain and body still struggle to sync--even before I finished my spin I was conspiring ways to squeeze in a run--I proudly admit I avoided a second workout. And that's fine. At least I didn't stop during the spin intervals, collapse over my knees, and take a breather.

How my students shaped my training this week: When you're done, you're done. The student sentiment is, It's summer, brah, stop doing too much. Teacher outlook isn't much different, and so it follows suit that I must acknowledge a degree of fatigue. With the marathon(s) of spring in the rear view, it's time to admit that I'm tired.

What my son taught me about running this week: We managed to get the child-proofing up on the cupboards just before the Bub started exploring the caverns of the kitchen. Not all compartments are locked, but that doesn't mean my son doesn't operate as though they are. He bangs on the locked ones, rapidly tugging against the restriction. Then, often as I prep dinner, he moves to the unencumbered doors and does the same thing despite the fact that he could, if he so chose, open and investigate the contents.

His behaviors are based on expectations, not possibility. If I transfer this logic to my running, I see now how my actions merely indicate my false understanding of an undetermined outcome.

Harry K. DeWolf

Social media (even you Strava!) is the shiniest wallpaper. Admittedly, the voyeur in me loves the glitter of the swiped stream, and I can't avoid admiring the runner selfie. And while I tend toward runs based on gear and trinket minimalism, I do support the stop-and-snap preservation of a good jog.

Personally, I refuse to tote any superfluous swag, so I rarely have the opportunity to pause for a picture. That said, anyone who knows my running preferences knows my runner selfies would be dark rectangles.

There I am!

The only run that requires the phone departs from a hotel room on a shakeout or a post-race/pre-travel slog. And even on those runs, the setting or conditions must justify the process of stopping in order to remove, swipe, snap, evaluate, delete, re-snap, evaluate, stow, and start up again. (Even thinking about that to-do list made me want to keep jogging.)

MCM, 2013: On Capitol Mall in Washington, D.C. Shaking out with Bart Yasso and the Runner's World crew.

Very few trips offered the right conditions to inspire an image. (Surprisingly, the evidence indicates I wear/re-wear the same half-zip when I travel and run and run early.)

Shakeout before Boston, 2014: Sunrise between Portsmouth, N.H., and Maine.

The most recent opportunity, in April, followed a tough and rewarding race in Big Sur. I woke with some restlessness, feeling the need to "move." I started walking in the dim darkness, but soon pushed to a jog, moving southwest along the bike path through Fisherman's Wharf, Cannery Row, and into Pacific Grove. Two miles from the hotel, I stopped near the turn toward Lovers Point. I admired the eroding coastline, the soft sloshing of the surf, and the picturesque, overpopulated perch above the bay.

The sun had started to show deep purple colors in the clouds. Nothing fell from the sky, and the air felt brisk--not too cold to manipulate my pockets. I shuffled through the contents of my belt, carefully maneuvering past the cash and the room key, seeking to capture the rare, yet certainly appropriate, selfie sunrise.

 

After framing the ubiquitous cypress and surf, I framed a second photo, this one of the northern coastline, toward the military-base-turned-university I called home for four years. It was a random moment, on another morning, after yet another marathon.

Twenty minutes later, after I'd slipped back into the hotel room and kicked of my trainers, I answered an early call from home. My intrepid, iconic grandfather decided the previous day would be his last. Long after I'd raced and relaxed and celebrated my final sip of celebratory wine, he too decided it was time to rest.

Given his condition and our progressing understanding there wasn't a ton of shock, but in the throes of subsequent travel I succumbed to undeniable connections that welled up from within. I recalled, eventually, the morning's photos of the northern coastline--the ones toward Fort Ord, my undergraduate stomping grounds. It was, I recalled, the last place my 91-year-old grandfather called "home" prior to his deployment for World War II.

I considered my undaunted pursuits of the mornings--those repetitive cycles of waking to train--and began to understand the ways he, too, set out for epic, brisk walks for all those years. He attacked the days through moving and living and thriving. 

My selfie--and it's rare occurrence at this moment--had to mean something. Right? 

As the days roll on, I refuse to impose any further meaning. When I try it feels disingenuous, and I know I'm painting with too broad a brush. I find solace in its peace. I know if that if he was of a generation of individuals motivated by selfishly trumpeting of fitness adventures, he'd likely shrug at their insistence on preservation and march on. 

Though that said, any selfie he might manage to capture would be nothing but a black, pre-dawn rectangle.

Thanks for the push. Love you Harry.

How my students shaped my training this week: There was a lot of on-the-fly teaching this week. That said, I didn't set many alarms in order to accomplish my running goals. Both went really, really well.

What my son taught me about running this week: There are a lot of things a toddler says that only he understands. He keeps sounding off, moment by moment, telling it like it is. Why I ran such high mileage for someone with no set goal or training plan only makes sense in the moment. That doesn't mean I won't keep waking up, lashing out, and pretending I know what the hell I'm doing.

B2B, to be.

It's a questionable description. I know because I was there in 2013, fresh off a big marathon PR, sussing out bits of information while locked down in the Marriott Copley waiting for an all-clear. So when I say this year's Boston Marathon was "carnage," I understand the connotation.

But it was. I picked up hubcaps from Framingham to Boylston Street. The wheels, as they say, kept falling off. I was lucky to have my wits. I eased off the target far earlier, choosing instead to shrug off hopes of a 2:40 and run moderately-paced miles through the heat, into the wind, and down to Boston.

After my shower, I sought a beer (first it was coffee, then that "beer" was actually a glass of wine) and some solid calories. The stories circulating at the table were even uglier. One mate, who trained in sweaty Houston, managed an admirable 2:49. The sole surviving positive story, from a B.A.A. vet called Chris, was told with a smile and a shrug. "Sometimes you get it," he said, and returned to feeding his infant daughter her bottle.

I didn't immediately rue the day or all the mysterious forces conspiring to destroy so many of us. In fact, at that moment, I yearned, like Chris, to nonchalantly switch back to Dad-mode. Though lucky to have the company of my friends, it was easy to long for my wife and son. The marathoner in me had changed; training and traveling and celebrating were now married to wrangling and guiding and guessing of parenting. With my wife and son back in California, the moment felt slightly more than two-thirds empty.

Six days later I found myself on a hotel floor in Monterey, between two queen beds, changing a diaper. I hadn't yet untied my HOKAs, a mere hour off a strong finish in the Big Sur International Marathon. I remembered the longing that came, unordered, alongside my Cabernet in Boston. I smiled. This is more like it.

The double behind me, I'm back to sneaking out quietly before dawn to keep grease on the gears. Nice and easy for now, but padding the mileage soon enough to prepare for Pacifica 50k in July.

How my students shaped my training this week: It's clear that despite the age and maturity differences, we are a roomful of moody bitches. Too much screen time, to little sleep.

What my son taught me about running this week: On a walk around the block last night, I watched the correlation: the further we got from his halfhearted attempt to eat dinner and the closer we got to bedtime, the worse his attention and reflexes grew. I realized that I should consider late-race fueling a new priority. I'd hate to have the finish line in proximity and diminish my accomplishments by stumbling on phantom blades of grass, losing time by yelling at garbage bins, and dropping to my knees in protest of... life.