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.