OT: The Rotund Lady sings for the Rocky Mountain News

This is not the first newspaper to close since I graduated from Syracuse with degrees in newspaper and psychology. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution was part of a merger. The Syracuse Herald-Journal was merged as well. And all this is to say nothing of the thousands of newspaper workers who have lost their jobs in the past several years.

I'll spare you my feelings on the corporate bitches who wanted nothing but to turn a profit off the backs of ill-paid professionals who poured their hearts and souls into their occupations. And don't get me started on the mouthbreathers who blame the media for everything from McCain losing the election to furthering the "gay agenda" (whatever the hell that is) to the absence of prayer in schools. This is what the economy has wrought. Dear readers, watch your backs.

Dealing with the cold

Just for the record, I will remind my three readers that I was perfectly aware of the weather patterns of the high plains before I moved here. That doesn't mean it hasn't been a hard adjustment.

When I lived in Cheyenne, my seasons ended nicely in the fall, just as my work was firing up. And when I was ready to resume working out, I had mid-winter trips to San Diego, Las Vegas, Fort Worth, Albuquerque, etc. for motivation and warmth. In 2005 I even did a marathon on Mother's Day, which necessitated a January start for training. Though I can't remember putting in big miles while on the road for work, I also don't remember the meat of the winter being as rough as this one, so I had no problem getting the required miles in.

Furthermore, I'm finding out my wardrobe is not up to the task of a Laramie winter. My running tights, purchased at a running store in Northampton, Mass., in 1991 while on a college visit, have just a few lycra fibers remaining and offer little protection from any weather. On Saturday I plodded through what was supposed to be a 5-mile pace run with my nether regions numb from the cold. I ran the last quarter mile with my hand covering myself like a soccer player bracing for the impact of a free kick. So that means I wear my bulky wind pants until the temperature rises above 40 during my runs, probably around Easter. And all this is to say nothing of the snow flying straight into my eyes.

Now, I wake up at 6:30 a.m. each day, earlier if the stinkin' furnace kicks on to keep the mid-teen chill out of my living room. One morning I actually stepped out in the cold in my running clothes, intending to put in some speed work. When the goose bumps formed on my arms and legs, I uttered an expletive and headed back inside, poured a bowl of cereal and turned on Morning Edition. The toughest workouts to do when it's cold are speed workouts, because I learned the hard way back in high school there's no such thing as too much warming up when you're facing down sets of 400s and 800s on the track; pulled muscles can lay you up for weeks. 

And why not wait until the (relative) warmth of the afternoon? Because the wind kicks up late in the morning and doesn't let off until well after sunset. Nothing like trying to keep your heart rate reasonable when fighting the wind, either heading into it at a snail's pace or trying not to get blown into traffic with the wind at your side. Wind is my least-favorite weather condition and I've lived in three of the windiest places on earth (Lubbock, Cheyenne and Laramie).

As previously documented, I try to keep the treadmill at a minimum — once a week, if possible. That's the four-mile recovery run that's moved from Monday to Tuesday as I've blown off the chilly pre-dawn speed work. I consider it a reward to pound away on the treadmill with my loud, angry music turning my eardrums to mush and the coeds contorting themselves on the exercise spheres in front of me.

Sigh... Guess I'm looking forward to spring more than I'll admit. Tonight I went 2 hours, 15 minutes on the indoor trainer in front of three 2006 Ironmans (my year off). The noise:

"ThunderKiss 65," White Zombie

"Battle Flag," Lo-Fidelity All-Stars

"Beef Jerky," House of Pain

"Eat the Rich," Aerosmith

"Twice as Hard," Black Crowes

"Seether," Veruca Salt

"Two Tickets to Paradise," Eddie Money

"Get On the Good Foot," Parts 1 and 2, James Brown

"Baião destemporado," Barbatoques

"Ready to Go," Republica

"I'm Alright," Kenny Loggins

"A Little Less conversation (JXL Mix)," Elvis Presley

"You're an Original," Sheryl Crow

"Riding," Buckcherry

"Will It Go Round in Circles," Billy Preston

"Slow Ride," Foghat

"Cut the Cake," Average White Band

"Return of the Tres," Delinquent Habits

"Beautiful Goal," Oakenfold

"Get on the Bus," Q-Ball

"Peaches," The Presidents of the United States of America

"Free," Yo! Flaco

"Reeling in the Years," Steely Dan

"Never Coming Down (Part II)," Spacehog

"Slither," Velvet Revolver

"Oh Yeah," Yello

"Pinhead," The Ramones

"One Too Many," The Loft

"Sleep," Downside

"Fine Again," Seether

"Just Because," Jane's Addiction

OT: A night at the theatre

(Writer's note: When a post title is preceded by OT, that means it's off-topic. So if you were hoping to read my thoughts on riding my bike in front of OLN/Versus' coverage of Ironman Coeur d'Alene 2005 for the 12th time, you might skip such a post. Onward...)

There were several things that made taking this job a no-brainer, not the least of which was the salary. Those of you who know I was in newspapers know what I'm talking about. For example, during my days in Denton, Texas, Jack in the Box was hiring managers at $31,500, per a sign alongside I-35E. That would have been a $10,000-a-year raise from what I was making at the time.

The other fringe benefits involve being on a campus. I have a fairly nice gym and pool in which to work out (so there's the obligatory tie-in to my workout regimen), there are roughly 7,000 college co-eds strolling across campus for me to ogle (for better or for worse), there are roughly 4,000 of the sharpest minds on the planet in this community to challenge me in my work on a daily basis, I can finally become a paying customer of the college sports I love, and any campus is the cultural epicenter of the community.

Let's not forget the work hours. I played trumpet from fifth grade through college, and since May 12, 1996, my graduation day, my horn has sat unmolested in its case through however many times I've moved. My parents are always after me to play again but I've explained to them on a semi-monthly basis since I graduated that it's hard to engage in a hobby that requires nights and weekends free (any musicians ever do gigs at noon in the middle of the week?) when you work nights and weekends. True story here -- when I moved to Denton, Texas, in 1997, I was walking near the University of North Texas Campus when I saw a flyer posted to a light pole. It said a ska band (again, this is 1997) needed trumpet and trombone players. I started to tear off one of the flaps with the lead guitarist's phone number on it when I realized what my work hours were going to be. "Sure," I thought, "I'll play horn for you. I just can't do gigs on Thursday, Friday or Saturday nights." The life of a sports writer, indeed.

Plus, the "normal" hours mean I have time to enjoy such things, if not participate in them. Like last night, I went to a theatre production. I knew all about it because it's a story I'm working on for the magazine, and because it involves so many elements (dance, drama, comedy, music, physical theatre) I couldn't help but want to see the finished product, even after sitting in on one rehearsal and a dress rehearsal. Plus, now that I have a little more money I want to support these things as much as I can, partly to compensate for not doing so in the past 12 years.

I'll see if I can synopsize it briefly. The production is called "Heyokah/Hokahey," a devised theatre production conceptualized and executed by a group of University of Wyoming theatre students, guided by world-famous mime Bill Bowers. "Heyokah" is a person in Lakota Sioux whose job is basically to be a court jester. "Heyokah" literally means "the opposite," and that person shows us new ways of looking at things, fearlessly questioning things that have gone unquestioned. So the show looks at the world, in particular some of those Lakota stories, in different ways, from the perspective of a person on the fringes of society. It was absolutely amazing, more so when you consider Bowers has been on campus all of six weeks, and that he came here with nothing more than a concept, a seed to plant with his students in the hope that something would grow from a mere idea. It's not for everyone, for sure, but if you ever see "devised theatre" in an events listing, approach it with an open mind and enjoy.

Plus, you can't help but get caught up in the passion of the performers, especially if you've spent an hour chatting with them about what they've done the past six weeks. I love watching people engage in their crafts because you know they're pouring every ounce of their being into this performance (assuming you're not watching Randy Moss run pass routes for a 4-8 team), and sometimes that passion spills over to the audience. When a cynic like me can feel this way, you know there's something special going on.

Another setback

I slept in Sunday, waking up at 8:30 to head out for an 18-mile run. It's Laramie, it's February, so I figured it would be cold, maybe a little windy.

Yep, I was right. I still set out in shorts, UnderArmour, vest and gloves. I went south with it in mind to run out for 1:15, back in the same time, barring wind. Within 20 minutes I was plodding forward at about 11 minutes a mile, leaning into the bitter wind, and my left arm was numb. I headed back after 30 minutes, went to the apartment, zipped the sleeves back on my vest, put on tights, and headed back out again. This time I headed back after 37:30, turning around at the legendary steakhouse, The Calvaryman. As it happened on the first lap, my heart rate dropped 10 beats (167 to 157) within two minutes of regaining the tailwind.

So I don't know what I gained from this. Poking around on MapMyRun, I figure I did between 14 and 15 miles, but I don't think bailing on a long run two weeks in and 10 weeks out is going to break my marathon. Next week I plan on running 16 on some trails above Laramie -- another 1,000 feet above Laramie. I'm not making up mileage; I don't believe in obsessively trying to hit a mileage target every week. It just seems like a good idea to get off the asphalt and see if I can go a little longer than the 14 regularly scheduled, and especially in the thin air.

Otherwise, I just finished a book called "Running with the Buffaloes," by Chris Lear, a chronicle of the 1998 cross country season for the University of Colorado men's cross country team. While the greatest insights came from what forges a top-level team comprised of bad-ass Division I-calber distance runners (100 miles a week? In college? Seriously?), there were so many copy editing errors it was hard to take the book seriously; the editor never sleeps, you see. Dick Patrick of USA Today said the book is to college cross country what John Feinstein's "Season on the Brink" was to basketball, and I agree. Hell of a season to cover.

Last night, I couldn't sleep at all (Yes, the Fifth Dimension reference was intentional) so I typed up a list of all the triathlons and marathons I've done. You probably know me well enough to know I have a mind like a steel trap, so with few exceptions I even knew the distances of those races. Could've been wrong, though. Anyway, the count is at 38 triathlons in 16 states over the course of 20 years. Including Ironmans, I've done six marathons in six states. The goal is 50 states on both counts, but as for sheer numbers I'll stop when someone in a white lab coat holding a clipboard tells me to. No, scratch that. I'll stop after the third medical professional tells me to. I'm stubborn like that.

And the lack of sleep plus a night assignment today scrapped my easy four-mile run for this morning. I might do it on the dreadmill and then show up all stinky for my night assignment. Wouldn't that be professional of me?

Minor setback

The skeleton of my training schedule will follow so you people know how I'm beating myself down on a day-to-day basis.

Saturday, for example, are the gold coin into the savings bank of my training -- the pace run. The thinking behind PMP training (proposed marathon pace, per Runner's World columnist/Brigham Young track and field coach Ed Eyestone) is getting your body used to that race pace. In my case, that's 7:27 a mile for a Boston qualifying time of 3:15. There. I said it. Karma is now banging on the door, demanding reparations.

The first few of these (last week's 3-miler, today's 4-miler, and the next two, possibly) I'm running on the treadmill at the gym, in part because I have very few routes mapped out in my new surroundings and in part because after 25 years of running I still don't know what a 7:27 mile, let alone 26 of them, feels like. So I get on the treadmill, dial up the pace and hammer away.

Last week I had no problem putting down three of them, all the more impressive considering I'd run 14 miles the day before. Well, today I pulled up at 2.5 miles, walked a bit, then cranked the pace back up before finally bailing at 3.7 miles. My breathing was shallow and my heart rate was in the red zone. Given a recent revelation that Ironman and marathon training are all about pushing the red line out further and further over the course of several weeks, I can't help but be disappointed.

Tomorrow's an 18-miler though I don't know if I'll go that far. It's cereal time now.

Monday: 4-mile recovery run, easy jog on the treadmill until I get some more post-work daylight.
Tuesday: Speed work. Plan calls for intervals and repeats instead of tempo runs. Hmmm.
Wednesday: Bike ride
Thursday: Long-ish run of between 7 and 12 miles.
Friday: Swim.
Saturday: Pace run, starting at 3 miles in Week 1, up to 12 miles 10 days before race.
Sunday: Long run, 14 miles every week save for a few variations, including 22 miles four weeks out.

Things you see

Facing a long day with a possible evening assignment, I did Thursday's 8-mile run before work. No, I don't reap the benefits of 45-degree days in February, but I get out of the vicious afternoon wind, which at this point is more important to me.

This was not the first time I'd been up before the sun. When I moved here, my sense of location was skewed enough that I didn't realize I was a mere mile from my office. So for the first month I woke up at 6:30, had a leisurely breakfast and then walked to work, getting there much earlier than I needed to. I shifted my wake-up to 7 a.m., but for the first couple weeks of January there still was little light in the sky. During my walks to work I'd have seen a sunrise were it not for the mountains, trees, houses, and campus buildings, but I won't begrudge the infringement of civilization on nature's big moment.

So I ran west from my house and crossed the bridge that spans Curtis Street, high over the train yard that bisects Laramie into east and west. At the apex of the bridge I saw the day's first light over the Laramie Mountains behind me. And ahead of me the Snowy Range was illuminated in orange. Both beautiful sights filled my spirit as I strode through the run.

At about mile 3, the Laramie River Greenbelt feeds on to a street briefly before returning to the scrubby savannah that occupies the geographical middle of town. In one yard I saw an absolutely ingenius contraption -- a mountain bike with an old-school push-mower where the front wheel ought to be. Basically, this homeowner hops on his bike and mows his lawn. Someday I'll take a camera along in the hope that this machine is still there, because it's damn sure not available in stores.

The out-and-back run otherwise finished without incident. I had the path practically to myself, save for a woman in a black beanie towing a golden lab along for the run. Breakfast, showering and stretching followed before I made the stroll to the Bureau of Mines Building, where my office awaited.

As a sidenote, when I haven't been working out with music, the song most prominent in that jukebox in my brain has been Ziggy Marley's "Into the Groove." It's more appropriate than you can imagine.

Take it outside

With a couple of night assignments today I had no choice but to brave the cold before work. It was 21 degrees, but no wind. And thanks to a recent thaw there was some pavement to spare.

That pavement led me to Labonte Park, a pond-centered green space around the corner from my house. There's an asphalt path around the perimeter of one side of the park, and a city sign at one corner of the park says "One lap = .623 miles," or .002 of a mile longer than one kilometer. That's the distance between two young cottonwoods on the north side of the park along Shields, a good place to begin and end my intervals.

I jogged 1.6 miles for a warmup and dove right in. The workout was 3x1km at 10k race pace; for me, that's around 4:20. I ran them in 4:20, 4:13 and 4:27 with about a half-lap jog between each repeat. Here I was hoping the monitor would tell me what my heart was doing on each rep but I just now noticed that's not the case. Still, it does say I maxed at 181 beats a minute, four beats short of my max, which would have been exceeded easily a week ago.

Point here, through all the technical jargon, I'm getting in shape. I'm not saying I wasn't winded this morning, but my body is starting to accept the task at hand -- altitude, weather, training intensity, end goal. It should be a trip down memory lane for my heart and lungs, and the coming weeks will reveal what they remember and how to process it.

Holy cats, what a weekend

The plan to run at race pace did not backfire. Quite the opposite.

I woke up this morning and the quadriceps minors on both legs were still tight. I read in one of my fitness-related publications that one of the causes of such tightness (or the feeling like they've been dipped in concrete, as it were) is increasing distance or intensity too soon. Well, no shit. Nothing that my nightly stretches can't heal.

That said, I still trudged up to Half Acre and found myself a nice treadmill next to an attractive lass running (as it turned out) as hard as I had planned to. I warmed up at 6.5 mph and once I'd covered 10 minutes, I cranked it up. The workout called for three miles at race pace — for me, in the neighborhood of 8 mph, or 7:30 per mile. Mission accomplished. Furthermore, my heart rate stayed under my max for the second day in a row; I knew something was up when my heart stayed under 150 for most of my 9:00 per mile warmup. The total time was around 22:59. Should have been 22:30 but I wussed out and did a half mile or so at 7.9 mph. It was tough, but worth it.

The questions facing me this week: How wise would it be to move up to 18 miles per my schedule for Sunday's run? And how many miles will I face before I sac up and go outside, leaving the womblike cocoon of Half Acre? 

Bottom line, I needed this. Badly. In a previous post I talked about how my goals for St. Louis get more and more "realistic" every day. Now I feel like I can go back in the other direction.

The playlist: The first nine tracks of 1:45 Playlist B

"Suckerpunch," Bowling for Soup

"Army of Me," Björk

"Say Goodbye to Love," Kenna

"Big'uns Get the Ball Rollin'," Stanton Moore

"Vapor," Soulive

"Sexx Laws," Beck

"Into the Groove," Ziggy Marley

"Shu Ba Ba Du Ma Ma Ma," Steve Miller Band

"Travelling Riverside Blues," Led Zeppelin