may 5/7 MILES

58 degrees
mississippi river road path, south/minnehaha falls/minnehaha creek/lake nokomis/minnehaha parkway/falls/mississippi river road path, north

7 miles without stopping. I ran slow, but I still did it. A beautiful morning. Low humidity, slightly cloudy, light breeze. Everything had a hint of green. The lake was open–no more ice. The ice out (which is what they call it when the ice is completely off the lake) happened on April 30th. Last year: March 7th! Saw a rower at the lake. Heard some rowers on the river. Ran on my favorite part of the creek path. Encountered lots of bikers. A few groups of runners. Some serious rollerbladers. Heard lots of birds. People chatting, including a woman who exclaimed, “well, they shouldn’t have the job!”–whatever that means. Around mile 6 started to have that dazed feeling. Not quite a runner’s high, but a feeling of disconnection, like I was in a dream, just me and the path stretching out in front.

3 times I encountered people stopping on the path, slightly blocking it. First time: near my favorite part of the path 2 women stopped to admire some chalk drawings that were covering the entire path–I didn’t stop to read them. Who drew them? Second time: at Lake Hiawatha, right before the bridge. 2 bikers stopped on the edge of the path, right before the bridge, at a blind corner. Lamenting something that wasn’t there this year–not sure what. I was too distracted imagining a bike going 20 mph, rounding the corner and hitting them. Third time: almost to the top of the hill on the river road path between the locks and dam and 44th street. A shirtless runner was stretched out on the ground, blocking part of the path, holding up his phone to take a picture. Strange.

may 3/5.9 MILES

66 degrees
ford loop

Sunny. Low humidity. Low wind. Warm. Too warm. 55-60 would be perfect. Struggled with this run for the last several miles. Had to convince myself to keep going by chanting, “I am flying, I am free. (And) I am where I want to be.” It worked. I didn’t stop, but the run still felt difficult. Mainly, my legs hurt. Still, I did it. I kept running and I pushed through several moments when I really wanted to stop.

Things I remember? So many birds! The bright, light (almost lime) green of new leaves on the trees in the floodplain forest. My view of the river will be blocked too soon! My feet, sometimes shuffling, sometimes sizzling, on the gritty path as I crossed the lake street bridge. Hearing a sound near the Summit ravine and wondering, is that the rush of air or water gushing out of a pipe? After hearing more water gurgling under the path as I ran over a manhole, decided it was water. Looked down in the ravine and noticed only a trickle of water in the creek bed. Is this part of Bridal Falls–the waterfall that I wrote about last fall when I discovered east river flats? Running mostly on the dirt trail next to the path on the St. Paul side. Getting a quick glance at a runner just behind me, then looking again a few minutes later and not seeing them anymore. Where did they go? Running under the ford bridge and up on the other side–much easier, the hill isn’t as steep. Negotiating with myself: keep running until you get to folwell. now keep running until dowling. now keep running until the florescent crosswalk sign. now keep running until..no? okay stop (just short of 6 miles).

Started reading a new book about running, Footnotes: How Running Makes us Human. In the introduction, here’s how the author describes the runner’s high:

The sun warms the earth beneath my feet, everything looks saturated with pigments, and if I can keep going long and steady enough a wave of ecstasy will soon break over me. And when that comes, the burrs, the static and the clamor of the everyday will be washed clean from me. Virginia Woolf called them ‘moments of being’: those few seconds when we are only ourselves, and our senses reverberate with the pleasure of the present (xi-xii).

He uses words like immediate, raw, urgent, overwhelming, calm, invincible, super-sensitive. I have felt all of these things to some degree but also other things: grateful, at peace, removed, joyful, capacious, generous, open, machine-like. I did not feel any of these things today. Today, I was too focused on keeping going to feel much of anything.

may 1/2 MILES

63 degrees
mississippi river road south/north

A quick run in the bright sun. Shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. No jacket. As predicted we’ve jumped straight from winter to summer. Time for my body to get used to warmer temperatures and higher humidity. No more pure cold air to breathe or crunchy, crusty paths to hear. I’m excited for summer–especially open swim, but I will miss the cold, clear air and the distraction of layers and snow-covered paths.

What do I remember from my run? It was warm. Encountered several people pushing strollers. A few bikers. Another runner–just one? No squirrels. No snow. Lots of chirping birds that I tuned out. No rowers on the river. No more fat tires. A few flowers by the side of the path. Can’t remember anything else except keeping an even pace. I think once or twice I tried to steady my breathing, swing my arms, straighten my back.

 

 

 

april 30/5.75 MILES

57 degrees
ford loop

Windy. Almost raining. A great run. Signed up for a 10k in 3 weeks on the same course as the one I just raced. I’m hoping to redeem myself and feel strong in the second half. Hoping to run the route many times and practice better pacing. I ran it today, starting at a slow pace. It was great. Listened to my playlist. Felt like I was in a daze for the first few miles. Disconnected, almost floating. Love that feeling. Running across the bridge I put up my pink hood because of the wind; I was worried that my almost destroyed green hat would finally blow off and into the river. I imagined the log entry I’d write memorializing it. Encountered a few runners, not too many walkers, 1 or 2 bikers. No Daily Walker. No roller skiers. Thought a lot about keeping slow and strong. Anything else? Didn’t feel any rain drops. Didn’t see any more snow. No puddles to dodge. Just wind to run into. A few hills to climb. 2 bridges to cross.

april 28/RACE

45 degrees
6.2 miles/55:43/get in gear
ford loop

A beautiful morning for a bad, disappointing race. As usual, I ran too fast in the first mile and then fell apart in the second 5k.

What do I remember from the race?
  • the giant American flag and Scott remarking, “not sure where it fits on the ‘perkins/gander mountain spectrum’ but it’s big!”
  • the funky black and white shorts on the runner just in front of me
  • listening to other people sing along with the national anthem and feeling unpatriotic, tired of nationalism
  • feeling like the 15 minutes we were waiting in the start corral was taking forever
  • not seeing or hearing any of the annoying pacers
  • hearing the steady striking of moving feet of all the runners around me
  • a runner who hovered near me smelling like watermelon, which made it hard to breathe.
  • running close to the curb in the grit (mostly soft dirt, some sand), shuffling along–a satisfying, calming noise.
  • feeling like I wanted to stop, feeling like the St. Paul side of the river road was taking forever
  • a runner running by blasting heavy metal music through her headphones, so loud I could hear her approaching from a few seconds back
  • hearing a kid calling out, “mommy, mommy” as we approached the ford bridge and then a runner stopping to get a hug and drop off their hat
  • running on the sidewalk of the ford bridge with most of the runners while only a few ran on the blocked-off road
  • a car horn honking loudly–was it in support of us runners? annoyance for blocking the road? a warning?

april 26/4 MILES

55 degrees
minnehaha falls turn around

Pretty much perfect weather for running. Sunny. Not too windy. Not too warm or cold. A clear path. A sparkling, shimmering river. Ran with my shadow today. She was never ahead of me, always beside or just a little behind. What do I remember from the run? Encountered lots of runners. One roller skier just finishing up. Many walkers, some with dogs, others alone, some in pairs. I greeted one runner with a “good morning.” The falls were rushing fast and loud. The wind was in my face on the way there and then at my back when I turned around. I felt too warm after the first mile. My foot hurt slightly for a few minutes then stopped. I kept thinking that a runner was running at my same pace, but across the river road and on the sidewalk. I would glance over but never see anyone. Did I hear anything? I don’t remember sounds today. Not even the scratching crunching noise of grit on the path or a bird chirping or cawing or trilling. Maybe that was because I often felt like I was in a daze–sometimes floating, sometimes too focused on the movement of my legs and arms. Always trying to keep my shoulders back and raise my chest. Before starting my run I had given myself the task of trying to hold onto thoughts about inner and outer/inside and outside. Perhaps I was too inside the moment of running to think beyond it?

april 24/5.2 MILES

58 degrees
ford loop (almost)

58 degrees! Not used to running in such warm air. Sunny. Wore my favorite 50ish running clothes: black shorts, black tank top, pink hooded jacket, green baseball cap. No headphones. No running tights. No long-sleeved base layer. Yes! Was able to run by the rim of the gorge in my favorite spot, near the old stone steps. Glanced down at the floodplain forest. A sea of brown. Brown floor. Brown branches, trunks, dead leaves. Felt like a late fall afternoon until I encountered a patch of snow not yet melted. Ran up the Summit Hill on the St. Paul side in preparation for Saturday’s race. This hill is at a weird spot where the path curves sharply around and above a big gulch* (or gully? or what? not sure how to describe it).

Running up it, I glanced down below, happy to see so much of the sloping hills of the gully gulch before the leaves return and block my view. The hill wasn’t too hard but it did tire me out. Not too long after reaching the bottom of the other side, I entered into some serious negotiations with my legs. They wanted to stop right away, my brain didn’t. We finally decided we could all take a walk break when we reached the Ford bridge, which was at 4 miles. So windy on the bridge. Looking upstream, the gritty wind irritated my eyes. About 5 minutes after restarting my run, I encountered an older man–late 60s or 70s?–plugging away on the path. Slower than me but steadier too.

* Asked Scott what he would call that area and he offered ravine which is, according the online thesaurus, a synonym for gully or gulch. Ravine does seem like the better choice here although I do like gully gulch

addendum:
Walking Delia the dog around the neighborhood after my run, I kept hearing footsteps from behind. Every time I looked back it was a lone leaf, dragging slowly on the sidewalk or the road, moved by the wind. I wanted to make note of this strange sensation of mistaking leaves for footsteps and of my thoughts about how certain sounds haunt but I forgot. Now, hours later, I remembered as I reread this part of a beautiful poem by Lisa Olstein:

I expect you. I thought one night it was you
at the base of the drive, you at the foot of the stairs,

you in a shiver of light, but each time
leaves in wind revealed themselves,

the retreating shadow of a fox, daybreak.

april 22/3.3 MILES

54 degrees
greenway bridge turn around + extra

Bare legs this morning! And I wasn’t even cold. Decided to run for 30 minutes to earn the apple watch “earth day” achievement. Was able to run almost the entire time on the walking path. Saw the Daily Walker from a distance. Greeted some other runners and walkers. Encountered some annoying runners taking over the path–warmer weather always brings them out. Saw some rollerbladers. No roller skiers. Some bikers. Hardly any dogs. Listened to my breathing. Felt my strong legs moving rhythmically on the un-puddled path.

april 21/3 MILES

47 degrees
greenway bridge turn around

Another beautiful morning. Don’t remember much because I was listening to my headphones. I think I saw my shadow a few times in the bright sun. Saw lots of runners, alone and in groups. A few bikers. Walkers. No roller skiers. No puddles. No ice, except for under the lake street bridge. Ran faster and felt the joy of working harder. I definitely need to do some more speed work to get used to pushing myself.

Encountered a wonderful poem that reflects my feelings about the slow arrival of spring:

The Change/ Alicia Ostriker

Happening now! It is happening
now! even while, after these
grey March weeks—
when every Saturday you drive
out of town into the country
to take your daughter ot er riding lesson
and along the thin curving road you peer
into the brown stuff—
still tangled, bare, noting
beginning.

Nothing beginning, the mud,
the vines, the corpse-like trees
and their floor of sodden leaves unaltered,
it makes you want to pull
the steering wheel from its coket,
or tear your own heart out, exasperated
that it should freeze and thaw,
then freeze again, and that
no buds have burst, sticky,
deep red, from their twigs—

You want to say it to your daughter.
You want to tell her also how the grey
beeches, ashes and oaks on Cherry Hill Raod
on the way to her riding school
feel the same, although they cannot
rip themselves up by the roots, or run about raving,
or take any action whatever, and are almost dead
with their wish to be alives,
to suck water, to send force through their fibers
and the change! to change!

Your daughter, surly, unconversational,
a house locking its doors against you,
pulls away
when you touch her shoulder, looks out the window.

You are too old. You remind her of frozen mud.
Nevertheless it is happening, the planet
swings in its orbit forward,
she cannot help it. And what has melted
trickles under the ground, to ends of roots.

april 19/4 MILES

45 degrees
5% snow-covered
mississippi river road path, north/south

Spring is coming! Spring is coming! High of 50 today. 60 this weekend. So much snow still on the ground and the walking path, but the sidewalk and the bike path above the river were clear. And the sun was burning bright. And the birds were chattering.

Before heading out to run, I reread Jamie Quatro’s wonderful op-ed about Running as prayer. I wanted to think about what happens to the inner and the outer as we run. What is the relationship between the inner (soul? mind? thoughts? imagination?) and the outer (other people, landscapes, the air, the path, trees, the river, the gorge, etc)?

Quatro writes about a deep layer of consciousness that we can access during long runs:

a state of prayerlike consciousness. Past the feel-good vibes, past the delusions, my attention moves outward: I’m intensely aware of the cadence of a bird’s song, cherry blossoms weighted-down after a rain. Things light up and I experience an interior stillness that somehow syncs me more profoundly with the exterior world. It’s a paradox: only when I’m fully present in my body do I begin to experience the absence of myself.

I read the op-ed with the intention of thinking about inner/outer while I ran. In the first mile, I did. I kept thinking about how porous my skin is and how I inhale and exhale the outside air and how my feet strike down on the path and how the inner and outer work with and against each other. And I wondered about what it means to be a self moving through a landscape–when are you just admiring the view, looking down at the river while perched on the edge of the gorge, and when are you a part of that landscape? Am I part of the Mississippi river road path more than the person driving their car next to it because I am moving through the outside air, feeling the path, smelling the melting snow? I want to shout Yes! but why is it the case? Looking down on the river today, I felt connected and removed from it, like I was admiring the scenery. Does my self dissolve in these moments of moving, becoming a part of the path, not feeling anything, just moving and being?

All of these thoughts came to me about 5 minutes in. I tried to hold onto some of them–and maybe I did, fleetingly–but other thoughts about how fast I was running or whether or not my left thigh was working as well as my right one or if I should try to catch up to and pass the runner ahead of me or how to slow down my breathing kept creeping in and taking over. On most of my runs, which last around 36 minutes, I would guess I spend 10% on deep thoughts, 25% on smells/sounds/textures/interesting images and the rest (65%) on mundane running things: form, breathing, pace, possible injuries, how sore my legs are, how to avoid people or debris or other animals on the path. Is that accurate?

Anyway, that was how I started my run. What else do I remember? Mostly the wind was fine, but occasionally, when the path curved slightly, I ran straight into it. Yuck. There was no ice on the path. Few puddles. One or two dogs. Less than 5 other runners. No Daily Walker. I smiled at people, but didn’t greet anyone. Heard some geese down below the Lake Street bridge. Saw lots of bikers. I encountered one biker coming from the other direction who was playing music on a radio. As they passed, the music warped–must have been the Doppler effect–and I couldn’t recognize it. Another biker, this time a fat tire, slowly creeped up from behind as we were both climbing a hill. They were biking so slow I was almost able to keep up. Then they crested the hill and disappeared. Running north, with the wind in my face and the sun on my back, I was pleasantly warm. Running south, I was hot. No wind. Bright, burning sun. An extra layer of clothing that I couldn’t remove. After my run, as I walked back home, I noticed all of the melting. Water slowly streamed down the alley into the street and also dripped down from the gutters. I think this is “The Great Melt, part 4”.

Addendum: Just discovered this amazing short film. Wow! I want to write about this soon. So fascinating. I love the music and poetry that accompanies it.