Running the Canyon

I enjoyed my Friday. Didn't have many obligations--mostly just hung out at home, doing chores. Oh, I could relate hair-raising tales of overcoming laundry challenges, braving the scalding water involved in dishwashing, or deftly avoiding being injured by the horrors of vacuuming...but those tales would probably bore anyone with even modest housekeeping skills. Sure, for me, such routine tasks present difficulties and risks, as well as the possibility of personal injury -- but sadly for you, I have no bloody incidents or flaming furniture to report. This time.

On Saturday, I met with my friends Joe and Kristen at Waterton to go for a run. My plan was to run to the sign and back, which would be about 12.5 miles.

The Waterton canyon road is a well-maintained dirt road that follows the river from the Kassler Water Treatment Center up to the Strontia Springs Reservoir. "The sign" is a marker that shows the trailhead for a single-track path that loops around for a few miles before intersecting the Colorado Trail. According to local legend, you must touch the sign for good luck before turning around to head back down the road. I personally think that the "legend" sprang up as a practical joke by someone who enjoyed seeing runners have to get out of rythym, navigate past a big rock sitting beside the sign, and then have to start up again from a dead stop. It's cruelty, that's what it is, and I suspect that the Water Department workers who are within view of the sign from their workshed are the culprits responsible.

But maybe not. As I think about it, I realize that most of the runners who make it that far are talented athletes who have no problems with a brief stop and restart. I may be the only person for whom this ritual has such debilitating consequences. But more about that later.

As we started our run at the bottom of the canyon, it was quickly obvious that Joe was planning to run pretty fast. Kristen told the two of us to go on ahead, so we did. I have no idea how hard Joe was actually working to maintain our pace, but he sure made it look easy. I, on the other hand, was laboring pretty hard. Joe could talk easily as he ran, but I needed to break my sentences into two-word chunks in order to catch the gasping breaths necessary to keep my legs churning at that rate.

When we reached the three-mile mark, Joe turned around; his workout plan called for a 6-mile run. Thanks to the pace he had set, I had visions of possibly making it to the top in around 1 hour, which would be a pretty good time for me. I tried really hard to maintain a good pace.

Unfortunately, the headwind was blowing pretty hard. It almost always does, so I wasn't surprised, but I had chosen to skip my sweat pants this morning. Overall, my core temperature was fine; I had my jacket and cap, and hadn't felt the need for my gloves since the first mile or so. But within my shorts, I was beginning to feel the cold.

I hadn't seen anyone else on the road for a while, so I figured I could add some insulation into my shorts without offending anyone. I may not be able to drink efficiently while running, but I seem to be OK with actions such as reaching into my jacket pockets, which I did without breaking stride. I took out my gloves, and without ceremony stuffed them down the front of my shorts. A few hundred yards was all it took to recognize that my strategy seemed to be a good one. The wind's bite seemed less ferocious, and the extra bulk didn't seem to affect my stride. I resumed my concentration on trying to hold a good pace, and checked my GPS to see how much further I had to go before I reached the sign. About a mile. All was well.

As the title of this site implies, I have been accused of occasionally going overboard on worrying about pace—Doing math to figure out predicted finish times, and so forth. I found myself thinking that with the wind blowing down the canyon, and with the slope going down on the way back, my return trip would be much faster than the first half of the run. I began to think that I could make the entire round trip in under two hours, which is a very good time for me.

The last quarter mile up to the turnaround sign is quite a bit steeper than the rest of the road, so my pace slowed as I struggled up the last hill. But I touched the sign at 1:02, which I thought was still in range of a 2-hour total time. Coming down the steep part (where the Water workers are most likely to be laughing at me), though, can be a tad problematic. After running 6 miles with my questionable body mechanics, my knees can be a little flaky on the downhills. And sure enough, my right knee began to feel a stabbing pain as I began my descent.

Dang it. I didn't need that! No problem, though, I thought...I'll just walk for a bit, and then start my sprint to the finish when I get to the more gentle slope, at the outhouse that represents the 6-mile mark.

But things did not go as planned. The pain in my knee did not abate. No matter what sorts of stride distortions I tried to apply, each and every footstep shot a needle of agony directly into my right kneecap. I had gone from running at a good pace to hobbling like Quasimodo, all within one quarter of a mile.

These are the times that test one's toughness. You see, I knew that I would eventually be able to pound my knee into submission—there are many times when it begins to hurt me, but if I keep running, it seems to magically smooth itself out. (I've never figured out whether it's becoming warmer, more lubricated, or what, or even that I'm just getting numb from overloading my kneebone neurons...but after a while, it seems to get better.) I knew that all I had to do was keep going, and I'd soon be back at my downhill, wind-aided, goal pace.

Except that it wasn't working. I was definitely failing the toughness test. I tried some more walking, some ambulatory meditation, stopping to strech, and even the old Sarah Conner Yelling at Wounded Reese tactic. But nothing worked. I began to redo my math. I was supposed to meet with my son around 11:00 -- if I walked the rest of the way, would I make it there on time?

No, I'd at least have to shuffle-jog. I imagined that I looked like an extra from a zombie movie, and was guessing that even the look on my face would match that image. But I saw someone else running up the hill, so in order to preserve some small amount of dignity, I tried really hard to make my stride appear as if I were among the living.

The guy seemed to be watching me closely as he approached, and even appeared to make his way closer to the side of the road I was on. At first, I thought he was moving toward me because of a Florence Nightengale syndrome -- let's go help that poor injured man -- or something like that. But suddenly I realized that it was probably because he had recognized me and was going to say "hi".

It was Tyler, the husband of one of the women on my swim team. He gave me a friendly smile and a wave and said "hi" with all the enthusiasm that comes from someone who runs well and didn't have bad knees. I croaked out a lame greeting in return, and attempted a feeble wave of my own.

But just as he passed, did I detect a funny look on his face? Was it just my imagination, or did he appear to be puzzled by something he saw as he passed me? Sure, my form sucked, but I wondered if there was something else.

And then I remembered my gloves. I probably looked as if I had a entire pasta dinner shoved down my pants, which would be weird, even in street clothes. Jeez. Glancing around to make sure no one could see me, I reaching into my shorts and quickly returned the gloves to my jacket pocket. The wind was behind me now, and I should be fine the rest of the way.

And oddly enough, my knee began to regain functionality. Oh, I still couldn't go as fast as I had gone when running beside Joe, but I began to feel as if I might possibly be able to finish the last few miles at a pace that would get me back to the parking lot in time to make my exit before Tyler made it back down. I used that thought to help me push the pace the best I could to get this horrid run finished.

I crossed the line at 2:09. Nowhere near my goal of 2 hours, but not as bad as my knee-driven recalculations had predicted. I guess I would have to count it as a moderately successful workout, once you averaged all the good and the bad together. And some days, that's all you can hope for.

Now all I had to do was clean up, get something to eat, and go meet up with Tanner. And that's what I did.

Have a great day!