Training Update: Stories from the Road

Here we are, just under 10 weeks from race day. The long runs are getting long, and the days are hot. That's the short version. But like any good training cycle, the day-to-day has brought so much to life. Today's post is devoted to sharing with you some stories gathered from life in training. I hope you enjoy these as much as I have.

The Day I Out Ran the Cops
One day a few weeks ago I was doing speed work in the park. It's ideal for it when a track isn't convenient. It's 1.5 miles around, and almost perfectly flat. One one trip down the eastern long side of the park, I saw a few cop cars parked next to each other. Then I saw two more drive in and park by them. Then about 6 more. What was going on?? Was there some sort of danger? Was I going to get to watch some super exciting bust go down? What?

As I was making my way around on my next lap, going somewhere between a 7:00 and 7:30 pace (speed work), I can hear this guy huffing and puffing behind me, heavy foot falls, the whole deal. He passes me, then hangs on right in front of me through the end of my interval, then kept going when I slowed down. I did my recovery, then the next interval, and it happened again, with another dude. WHAT WAS GOING ON? So I come to the corner of the park again and see one of the cops standing there with a clip board. I ask the guy what they're doing. Fitness assessments. Some sort of incentive program they're part of. I said, "Oh, then that's why your guys were so adamant about chasing me down." He laughed.

But then it occurred to me, only two of them passed me, and they just hung on. I out ran the rest of the cops. They better be glad runners aren't generally the criminal type, 'cause I'm pretty sure I just saw exactly how that chase would go down. Unless they shot me.

It Wasn't Exactly On My Bucket List...

I was out for my long run one Saturday morning. It was about 7:50 and I was 6 miles in. This was the end of the first loop of my planned 13 miles, and by far the toughest, so I was feeling pretty good about my pace and whatnot. I wasn't thinking about anything in particular; I rarely do when I run long distances. Until, oh shit, seriously? 

I looked down, and just a few feet before me on a side street laid four small, plastic, zip-top style baggies filled with a white powder. I stopped cold and stared for a second, then moved in, bent down a bit to get a closer look. They've got pot leaves printed across the top! I backed up a step, looked around to see who was there. No one. Just me and some random cocaine. Here in sweet little Salt Lake. I'm looking at bags of drugs on the street. 

What else could it be? I think to myself. Kids have toy replicas of all sorts of shit they shouldn't have real versions of--guns, knives, but not crack! Why would someone have anything like this that wasn't drugs? It's not like someone says to a friend, hey, do you have any miniature bags around that I could use for my tiny sandwiches? No one carries sugar to a cookie swap in tiny baggies. No. Holy shit! There are drugs on the sidewalk!

So I turn around and run back to my house--less than a mile--to get a phone and call the cops. The lady asks me where I saw this, and asked me to describe it, and to slow down because apparently I was speaking too quickly. Then she says, So, you saw the bags, and left them there?Yeah lady, I left them there! Sure did! 

What, was I supposed to carry them home? To, you know, that place where I live with small children?? Pick them up and wait to get beaten by whatever poor decision-maker had dropped them in the first place? Pick them up and wait for a cop to drive by and think they were mine? Nope nope nope nope nope. Sure did lady, I left them the *%#$ there. 

So later I called my best friend and told her all of this. Her response was really spot on, Well, now you can just cross that off the old bucket list. Finding drugs and calling the cops on a run. Checked 'er off. 

Mondays in Love: Thanksgiving Edition

I'm back from Thanksgiving and about ready to get back to the blog world (seriously, I'm really behind. I'm not trying to ignore you, I just haven't been home!). This very American holiday was nothing short of fabulous this year. We don't have any family in Chicago, but decided to meet up there anyway because, well, why the heck not? We got a fancy schmancy name-your-own-price hotel easily within walking distance of Michigan Ave. We made reservations for Thanksgiving dinner out, saw Being Elmo (fabulous! seriously for all ages), went to the Shedd Aquarium, did a little shopping, and fulfilled one of our very few family traditions: the mid-generation pre-Christmas martini night out.

Me (rocking the Shirley Temple), Mr. Joanna, Kdot, and ODP

This tradition started almost a decade ago when my brother and I escaped from our parents' house for some last minute Christmas shopping and from listening to Anderson Cooper at 14 decibels (my mom finally, years later, got hearing aids, thank goodness). We found ourselves at an outdoor mall near noon on a Monday feeling like.....um, yeah.... I looked at the predictable Applebee's, looked at ODP, and told him we were going in for a drink. So there, noon on Monday before Christmas, we had martinis. And a tradition was born. I love this tradition.

We got back from Chicago late Saturday night and today we're fully back into the swing of things and I'm back to running. THANK YOU Cyber Monday for letting me buy my coveted maternity running top at $15 off!! Can't wait for it to arrive. In the meantime, give me a day or two to get caught up with blogs! 

Mondays in Love: Toblerone and Perrier

If history would teach me anything, it's that you guys don't know what to make of my crazy family stories. But this morning I impishly posted a Facebook status about wanting some Toblerone and Perrier, just to rib my brother about something that happened 13 years ago. I was surprised about how many responses the status got, mostly from people who thought it sounded like a lovely Monday. I had a whole other post planned for today, but after that, I had, had to ask my brother, ODP, to guest blog for me. So without further ado, I give you Toblerone and Perrier.

Gene's apartment was something between student housing, a commune, a speakeasy, and a rehab facility.  In fact, it served all these functions during his 8-month stay there.  He had a 50-gallon trashcan with "Pook Buket" written across the side.  We once made a 4:00 AM trip to WalMart to buy a blender, at a moment that was identified as ideal for margaritas.  Wrestling night was not to be missed.  Sometimes there were naked people.  Sometimes there were personality disordered stoners.  Sometimes there was hard-core pornography and the Cranberries playing simultaneously.  Sometimes there was an angry elderly neighbor demanding the return of his newspaper.  We hadn't taken his newspaper, but we undoubtedly appeared suspect and I can't fault him for blaming us.

As a foolish youngster, I made a baseless and tragically responsible decision to remain sober during this time.  As a result, I believe that I have the only cogent recollection of November, 1998 in Gene's apartment.  Given my dysfunctional level of sobriety, I was often asked to make trips to the store.  One afternoon Gene handed me some cash and asked that I go out for milk, Marlboro Lights, etc.  On my way out of the apartment I casually asked if anything else was needed, to which Shawn responded, "I'll have a Toblerone!"  Perhaps I was not functioning on the same level of consciousness as the rest of our company, all of whom recognized the joke.  It seems that it's strange for 19 year old guys in West Virginia to eat Toblerone.  Who knew.

A while later I returned to Gene's apartment.  I unpacked the bag.  Marlboro Lights.  Etc.  Toblerone.
"ODP, where's the milk?" asked Gene
"Oh, there wasn't enough money."
"How?  There should have been."
"The Toblerone put us over budget.  So, no milk."
Blank stares all around.  I handed Shawn his Toblerone.
"Uh, thanks," he said.
"Sure."
"ODP," replied Shawn.  "Who the fuck eats Toblerone?"

A better question was, "Who, in that apartment, was drinking milk?"

In fact, I ate Toblerone.  Not frequently, but once in a while, it hit the spot.  I still remember my first Toblerone.  It was a rainy afternoon in rural Italy...  I also had my first bottle of carbonated water on this high school Latin club trip.  It seemed like a good combo at the time and I failed to notice that my new-found europhilic snacking preferences put me in a strange minority in our little rural town.  Perhaps I had shown up that day with a bottle of Perrier.  I did that sometimes.  In combination with the Toblerone, an impression was struck.  Ever since, I've been pegged as that guy who snacks on Toblerone and Perrier.

I can only express profound satisfaction that Jo's FB status regarding Toblerone and Perrier has attracted such attention.  Perhaps I was just ahead of my time.  Perhaps I was, and still am, kind of weird.  Whatever the case, I am awesome, and so is Toblerone.

Cheers,
Daniel (ODP)