There are organized runs in many places throughout the country, but really all you need are a good pair of shoes and some free time.

Maybe I’ll see you out on the road.

That sounds almost sincere and almost automated. It was signed by “the Editors” rather than by an individual. The email did specify the title of the story, but I’m leaning toward an automated rejection.

Well . . . onward!

This is really not going to become a running blog. Still, I am becoming a running man, and there does seem to be some cross pollination between writing and running, so here comes an account of my most recent organized run.

So, I’ve been running around again. That’s now two organized runs in six days. This time I and many members of my family and some friends formed a team for the Kansas City Color Run. This is a nationwide event, and the initial run in Kansas City sold out so quickly this year that they set up a second run for the following day. It’s what I call a novelty run. It’s more about having fun than “serious” running. In this case, as you run the 3.2 miles, there are stations where volunteers throw colored powder at you (or in one case, spray colored water on you). It sounds simple, but I learned that in practice, it’s mostly just insane.

My wife’s niece in St. Louis had done this run before, and her son, Noah, (who starts 5th grade this fall) desperately wanted to run it with her the next chance he could. So she wanted to come here since that was the next Color Run she could find. (Subsequently, she did find another Color Run in St. Louis, so her boy got his chance before he came here to run it again.) They decided to make a long weekend of it, and her husband and younger daughter came along as well. Soon my daughter from New York and my son from Little Rock decided to come home for the event. Then my in-town daughter-in-law signed up. Then my daughter’s in-laws and sister-in-law joined. In all we had twelve people on our team, which we called the Rainbow Riders. Somehow, I was team captain, which involved sending out a few emails and otherwise arranging for arriving people to be picked up and delivered here and there. I was also responsible for picking up everyone’s pre-race packet, which involved an after-work trip to the stadiums, the flashing of ID, the presentation of some signed documents (for those not present for whom I was authorized to pick up), and then a sorting of all of the swag so everyone got everything. As you can see in the photo above, our gear included a truly sweet headband that I may or may not have worn during the run. (I did wear it in the end.) Also, note that my running watch is white. More on that later.

The run was held at the stadium complex on the east side of Kansas City (where the Royals and the Chiefs play), and there were thousands of people already there when we arrived a half hour before start time. We had a mile walk from our cars to the starting line, and we streamed along with hundreds of other people, nearly all dressed in the same shirt and headband (unless they were dressed as butterflies or ballerinas or as a unicorn — as one man was who apparently is part of the Color Run organization and goes town to town with them).

Curiously, I did not have my usual pre-race jitters for this run. I guess that was because this run was not timed and because I would be plodding along with family and friends, all of whom had different abilities and goals for the day. I did, however, drink too much iced tea (unsweetened, of course) that morning and needed to do something about it before I committed my self 3.2 miles of nonstop running. Each line for the 20 Porta-Potties was easily 50 people deep when I hurried over there to use one. I worried that I would still be in line at the start of the run, and I was, but that hardly mattered. Runners were being released in pretty much self-selected waves, and the whole process took more than an hour. My team waited for me, then we merged with the thousands of other people waiting to shuffle toward the starting line. Beach balls bounced among the crowd, and as we grew closer to the front, volunteers high above were spraying us with colored water. I covered my running watch with my hand, but some colored droplets managed to find it. (Note: the sun was behind a bank of clouds at that time. It was chilly, and getting sprayed with water was, um, fun.)

Eventually, after frisbees and fanny packs and more swag were thrown to the crowd we were far enuf to the front to be part of the self-selected wave, and we were off. We had all decided to each run our own race, so there was no commitment for anyone to stay with anyone else. Two thirds of our team were going to walk the race, which was perfectly acceptable and pretty much matched what two thirds of the entire crowd had chosen to do as well. Walkers were instructed to stay on the right side of the road while we “swift” runners were told to stay on the left. That left the middle ground for runners who would sometimes walk. An informal, loose pack of runners from our team included my humble self, my daughter, my wife’s niece, and her son, Noah. We thought we would run together and have a jolly time. The together part didn’t really work out as the run progressed, but the jolly part did.

We started with the masses and wove our way to the left side of the course. I had no problem letting hundreds of other runners surge ahead of me as our little pack assembled itself. Then we settled in. The course was around the parking lots of the stadium complex, which was not all that inspired but that allowed sufficient space to accommodate the thousands of runners and the “activities” along the way. Soon we were running up a long hill. (I much prefer steep hills that are done with quickly. These long, gradual hills are killers, which I think I reported about in good detail on the recent Memorial Day run.) Young Noah, who will learn the subtleties of pacing (as I am learning), had started out too fast and was getting whipped by the hill. His mom stayed with him, and my daughter and I held back as well. Soon we were walking up the hill, but that was okay since it wasn’t a timed event. Once at the top, we took off again, and soon we were approaching the Yellow station.

This was pretty much the whole point of the Color Run. We would pass through a huge group of volunteers who would throw colored powder at us, festooning our white shirts with the stuff. (Also: our faces, our hair, our expensive running shoes, and our expensive, white running watches.) I was new to this, but the other three I was with were not and walked through the spraying with arms held high to be sure to get the full effect on themselves. (I was still trying to protect my watch with my free hand.) By the time we reached the Yellow station, thousands of other runners had already passed through. The ground was covered with the yellow powder. The air was thick with it. My glasses were soon coated with it. And I wondered just what my lungs thought of it since there was no way to pass through the yellow fog without breathing in some. (It didn’t seem to affect me or anyone else, which I suppose must be a requirement.) I didn’t emerge from the Yellow station nearly as colorful as everyone else, which at first I thought was sensible. That attitude changed.

Once through, we kicked up to running speed again, but Noah was feeling the effects of his early enthusiasm, and soon my daughter and I were trotting along ahead of them. This was okay; as I said, we’d all agreed to run our own races. I hadn’t yet passed the mile mark at this point, so my body was trying to tell me to stop this foolishness and quit running. I knew that once I had gone a mile I would feel differently. Plus, I was running with my daughter, and I couldn’t look weak and pathetic before her! We pushed on, darting around slower runners and runners who had begun walking, making our way around families with strollers (expensive and now colorful strollers) and wagons, and finding a path among groups walking five and six abreast, having a good time but apparently oblivious to being in everyone’s way like that.

Then we came to the Orange station, and the dousing with colored powder repeated itself. This was the first time that I saw people actually rolling on the ground to get a better coating of the colored powder. There were kids of course, sweeping up handfuls of the stuff and wiping it on themselves. But there were adults doing this as well. I think I mentioned that this run was for fun, right?

I did a little better getting plastered with the powder, and my daughter assured me that my watch would come clean, so I wasn’t as protective of it, but I still wasn’t as colorful as many of the other people around me.

Sometime after this, my daughter fell back to run with Noah and his mom, and I just went ahead on my own, which is my normal company of runners anyway. I kept hearing my daughter run up to me and then match my stride, but when I looked over at her, it was always some other woman. I seem to be a handy pacer for many people on these runs. If other runners aren’t using me as a pacing benchmark (probably for their resting running), they use me as their sign to pick up their pace as soon as I pass them. It’s a service I can provide, I guess. So I was out there, running my own race, on my own, fully expecting my marathon-running daughter to pull up at my side at any moment, and just eating up the distance.

Red was the next color station. I was well slathered with it here, and I saw the same displays of adults and children rolling on the ground to better coat themselves. Plus, my lungs weren’t bothered by passing through the red cloud. I walked through this station, expecting my daughter to appear, but she didn’t. So I was off again.

At the Blue station, I gave myself over to the colorists. As I approached it, I could not see the road beyond it through the fog. The air was that thick with the blue powder. I walked slowly past the volunteers with their spray bottles and held my hands high so my torso could be plastered. I walked carefully over the slippery coating of powder on the ground. And then I was through and in the last stretch. By my watch, I still had about three quarters of a mile to go before the finish. I was on my own still, and I just took off at what seemed a comfortable pace.

By this point in the race, the crowds on the course with me had thinned. (There were plenty of other waves still coming behind me though.) I had no trouble sticking to the left side and just trotting along. I passed a few people. Many more passed me. And I just kept going. I could see the finish archway long before I would reach it, and that’s always a tiny bit disheartening even as it means I’m almost done. My daughter never found me, and I finished the run on my own. As usual, especially with an event that has so many walkers, the finish line was crowded. Since it wasn’t a timed event, though, there were no finish mats for me to be sure to cross. When I passed under the archway, I turned off my watch. The morning had warmed by then, and the sun was out, but I was not exhausted or blind with fatigue. I managed to eat three granola bars offered by the generous volunteers and then found myself a bottle of water to sip on. (I was curiously not thirsty.) Then I just stood around and waited for friends and family to arrive. (It was odd being the first to finish among my group since at least three of them could have easily left me in the colored dust. The average pace my watch reported was decent enuf for me, but later when I plugged it into my computer, I saw that the last part, from the Blue station to the finish, was really, really fast for me. Clearly I was warmed up by then, but I had just tried going at a comfortable pace, and it turned out that pace was pretty much the fastest sustained rate I have done so far. I hope that means I’m improving.)

Eventually, my daughter, Noah, and his mom arrived, and soon after, three more friends arrived. We milled about for a while then decided to take ourselves out on the course a short way from the finish and cheer the runners and walkers until the rest of our group came along.

Being made of schmooze, I, of course, shouted all kinds of flattering things to the ladies coming toward the finish. (I was a gentleman.) All of the little kids coming in were fun to watch. As usual, some looked utterly beat while others looked fresh and not bothered at all. Most of the people were covered in color, and some had painted their faces and hair with it. Curiously, there were a few people who came in clean including one man in a spotless white dress shirt. Even walking around the color stations would have meant passing through part of the color cloud.

Soon, the rest of our group appeared, looking happy and colorful. We walked in with them and then gave each other accounts of our adventures. Everyone was happy. After snagging more granola bars and water, and finding that the pizza tent had temporarily run out, we decided to take ourselves to a breakfast restaurant near my house. I’m sure we were quite a spectacle, coming in doused in colorful powder. When I visited the rest room there, I got my first look at myself. My hair was blotched with the rainbow, and I had a bright orange streak running down the side of my face. My shirt, of course, was brightly sparkled. People at the nearby tables marveled at us for a while, and then we pretty much just lost their interest.

My white running watch sits on the desk beside me. I’d like to say that it looks festive and colorful, but all of the colors, combined with my own sweat, have blended into a dirty brown color. Plus it feels gritty. I did a little work on it earlier with a wet cloth, and it should clean up fine. Beside it is my headband from the run, splotched with color. I’m reluctant to wash it, and I’m told if I soak it in vinegar, the colors will stay.

I have another organized run coming up in two days (National Running Day). Then one on Father’s Day. And one in the middle of July (underground again). Then likely more after that. Then that scary half marathon in October. Yeah, I’ve become that guy.

It’s not really writing related, though I have made a few posts here connecting my running to my writing. And since running really has become a big part of my life, and since several of you fine people are also runners, I thought I might post accounts of my runs for your entertainment.

__________

We were in St. Louis for the Memorial Day weekend to attend the wedding of the daughter of some long-time friends, so of course I had to see if there was an organized run I could do. And there was. And I did.

There is a 10K run that is believed to be the oldest west of the Mississippi — this year was its 39th running. It’s called the University City Memorial Day Run, and there was both the 10K and a 5K. I, being the smug, “experienced” runner that I am, now think it’s hardly worth the trouble of lacing up if I don’t go at least 5 miles, so I chose the 10K. I was in need of a little humbling it seems.

For some unaccountable reason, I still get nervous before a run. I don’t know why. I’ve done enuf of these to know . . . what? That I’ll survive. That I’ll do decently for my level. That no one will ridicule my pace and just about everyone will be encouraging. But I get nervous, so, of course, I had to get to the race site a full hour before the start so I could fuss and fret and try to settle my nerves.

The day before, when I picked up my race packet, I had driven the course (well, what I thought was the course given the quality of the map they provided) and soon regretted it. One of the techniques suggested for pre-race jitters is to drive the course so you can know what to expect. I shouldn’t have. The damned thing was all uphill! And that is, of course, impossible since it started and ended at the same place. Yet for all of the uphill going, I didn’t see any downhill compensation that wasn’t immediately followed by another hill that had to be beaten. So I had that bit of perceived reality to gnaw on for the morning too.

But the other runners were gathering, and the 80 percent chance of thundershowers turned into 70 degrees and clear blue sky with benevolent sunshine streaming down on us. (The rain came in the afternoon when we were around a bandstand in a park listening to patriotic tunes.) There were more than 1200 runners registered, though it seemed like fewer at the starting line. My wife was with me the whole time, reminding me that I always do fine on these things and that this time would be no different. Part of me understood that; part of me didn’t.

As the appointed time neared, I separated from her and joined the throng behind the starting line. Then I turned on my watch and waited for it to grab some satellites. At the horn, the throng herded ahead, but we only started actual running as we crossed the starting mats. (Probably 30 seconds passed between the horn and when I was underway, which I believe dragged down my official pace, but I never give too much credence to those things anyway.) And so we were off — straight uphill! Nearly a mile of uphill, folks! Seriously! Nice way to start. As usual, the throngs were racing past me, but I have this tendency to start too fast on these runs, unconsciously keeping pace with those around me, charged up by all of the energy of the event, and I burn out quickly. So I deliberately held back my pace and let the masses move ahead. It wasn’t very long before I had a nice, open space around me, with a few runners beside, a few ahead, and a few behind. Pretty much perfect conditions. I could vary my pace as I needed to without hindering others or being hindered by them.

And so I pushed on. The first water station was just after mile 1, and while they offered both water and Gatorade, I was disappointed that they didn’t have any Bud Light. (I did ask at each station though. Curiously, they kept telling me the beer was at the next water station.) This was on one of the few downhill stretches of the run, but it was a tease, because it merely distracted us from the next, long uphill stretch we had to face.

At about mile two, the 5K runners peeled off on their route, and we (fool)hardy 10K runners kept on our route. I generally ignore the screams of anguish that my body gives me during the first mile of a run. That’s just the shakedown, and while it seems as though I’m going to die horribly and certainly not be able to complete the run, I know it’s just griping. At about mile two I have a better sense of how I’m doing.

So at mile two I listened to my body and was hearing screams of anguish, certain that I was going to die horribly and not be able to complete the run. I routinely run 10K on my own several times a week. There was no reason for this 10K to be any different. Except for those unceasing hills. They weren’t steep. They were long. Loooonnng! They were pulling all of the energy out of me, energy I was hoping to conserve for the latter part of the run, but as Yogi Berra said about baseball, “ninety percent of the game is half mental.” I really knew I had to power through the hills and that I would still have the strength to keep at it on the flat stretches. Also, I was proud that I did run up all of the hills while many of those around me walked them and only began running again at the top. And those flat stretches did come. There were even some short downhill parts, but they always seemed followed by more hills.

Somewhere about mile 3.8 I got my second wind. This usually hits me in mile 4, so I take it as a sign I’m improving my stamina if it’s arriving earlier. That was also just over the halfway point and, it seems, all of the hill climbing was done by then. There may have even been a barely perceptible downhill slope from that point, but the full force of the once benevolent sun cancelled that completely. I was sweltering. My face was hot. The sweat was rolling, and there were miles to go. I had stopped at the first four water stations to sip a cup of water (and catch a minute or two of rest), but not long after the fourth, I began to see a miscalculation in this. Though I had no breakfast (other than a banana), I felt as though I needed to empty my stomach. Unwillingly. Beside the road. This had happened to me one time before when I took too much water in the middle of a run, but two weeks ago I got a terrible cramp in my calf during a run apparently from being dehydrated, so I was trying to be mindful of that. I managed to take my mind off my stomach by concentrating on the screaming of my lungs and the wobbly feeling in my legs and the general anguish I felt all over. That’s the power of positive thinking.

And I pushed on. I was on the long, flat, straightaway before the last turn toward the finish line. Though I was among the last coming in (well, there were 30-40 behind me), there were still people on their porches and driveways cheering us on. And the police were vigilant at every intersection to keep us safe. (I thanked every one of them as I trudged past.) And then, about a mile from the finish, I heard a familiar voice.

My wife had come out to meet me. Perfect excuse to stop for a moment and say hi. She took a few photos — I look terrible — and then I got going again. I really felt drained, but the legs seemed to be working on their own by then. People were still giving me thumbs up and encouragement from the sidelines, and as I made the last turn, I saw the finish archway far ahead. Very far ahead. Impossibly far ahead. So I did what I always do in these cases. I just looked down at the ground before me and kept going.

Part of me knows that I have more energy than I let myself believe. When I set out to do a 7 mile run, I can breeze through the 5 mile mark with no trouble. But if I set out to do a 5 mile run, I have to fight with myself to get to that fifth mile. So it was with this 10K. It’s only 6.2 miles, and if I had started out planning to eat 8 miles, 6.2 would have been nothing. (Well . . . ) And that may have been at the back of my mind as I approached the finish. I straightened up. I put a little more flash in my stride. I painted a smile on my face. And I came in looking strong and happy. (For the photographers.) I summoned the ability to do that because it was there all along. (This is the part of me that tells me I will be able to do that half marathon in October that is currently giving me grief and worry.)

Then I gasped and panted and wiped my sweaty face with my shirt and staggered around in circles and assured strangers who asked that I was okay. And I was. Because she had gone out to meet me, my wife was not at the finish line until later. I wandered through the booths, but there was no chocolate milk and no bagels, which seems criminal, but maybe that’s a St. Louis thing. They did have samples of burritos, yet not only was the line for these really long, but I really didn’t want to risk a burrito on my stomach at that point. I did dare a cup of water, and I managed to keep it down. And then my wife arrived. I checked my time and found that I had once again successfully defended my spot as slowest in my age group, then we got in our car and drove to the bed and breakfast where we were staying. I partly disrobed and then fell into the swimming pool there. Many distance runners will take literal ice baths after a run. This wasn’t exactly the same, but the water was cold, and I don’t think the temps were in the 80s yet, so I got a sense of what an ice bath must be like. My thighs felt like pudding, but it was nice to wash the crusted salt from my face. And out of my running cap, which had gotten a bit grungy lately. I was only in the water for perhaps 15 minutes, and then I sat in one of the poolside lounge chairs and let myself bake in the sun for a while.

I was beat, but I was not beaten. I had not set out to take on a challenging run for this trip to St. Louis, but part of me thinks that I need to do it again next year just to see how much I can improve in that time.

__________

For those keen of eye, you will have noticed my running shirt in the photo above says “Olathe Running Club.” That’s the group I joined at the turn of the year to get encouragement and advice, which I have gotten. But I’ve also gotten fellowship, which is an unexpected benefit. “Olathe” by the way has three syllables. o-LAY-tha. Now you know. Among many runners I know, it is traditional to post a photo of your running gear before a race. Except for my compression shorts, what you see above is what I took on the road with me.

As I was strolling about the streets of St. Louis this morning (here for a wedding and a 10K and a long weekend of indulgence at a very fine bed and breakfast), I saw a bumper sticker that read,

Love People

Cook Them Tasty Food

Some clever wag, however, had taken a Sharpie pen to the bumper sticker and modified the punctuation:

Love People

Cook Them; Tasty Food!

So, yeah, proper punctuation sometimes has its place.

So I’m still around, and I read your blogs (especially yours). Oh, and I’m still running too.

Apparently it wasn’t a good fit; I got a form rejection in my email. But I’m not too broken up. As I recall, it was mostly a spontaneous submission, and the story is out at a couple of other places now too.

So I soldier on.

Of course I had to do it with “Open Country: an allegory” too. I made a rough count last night (whilst drinking a semi-sweet red wine, so don’t hold me to the numbers). My violations weren’t as serious as in the first story. I counted 108 sentences and 9 fragments in the latter story. Once again, I counted fragments that were dialog to be whole sentences, so once again, it could have been worse.

The editors didn’t blanch a moment over my many violations. Makes me wonder whose advice I should listen to and whose to ignore.

Okay, my rant is over.

So take your fine self over there if you’re so inclined and give the story a read. Then let me know what you think.

Fast forward to April. I completed the Trolley Run in Kansas City last month, and I finally felt I was ready to begin that running story. Now, there are a couple of things you need to know. First, unless a plot bursts fully formed in my mind (and I’m not sure that has ever happened), I tend to “accumulate” a story in pieces. Images present themselves. Bits of dialog. A theme that seems worthy of developing. I collect these bits and copy them into a file that seems suitable until the story itself begins to gel. When I reach some intangible tipping point, I generally start writing the first draft of the story, knowing that it will evolve from there, sometimes in far different directions than I ever imagined.

The second point is that the Trolley Run was a watershed for me in many ways. When I first began trotting around the dog park with my Border Collie a year ago, I couldn’t conceive the notion that I could run a quarter mile, much less the 3.1 miles of an entire 5K. But I thought that if I stuck with it, pushed myself farther, and kept my eyes on a goal, maybe, just maybe, I could do it. I set the Trolley Run this year as my goal. (I didn’t know at the time that it was 4 miles long, longer than a regular 5K.)

The running story continued to accumulate, and the general outline of the plot revealed itself to me. Basically, a son it taking up running, which is an activity his father doesn’t share, and though this is a good thing in general, it becomes another thing that divides the two. (My working title right now is “Runaway” with multiple possible meanings, of course.) I thought that the Trolley Run, which is an annual event of some renown here in Kansas City, would be a good setting for my running story. Thus I had to wait until I had done the Trolley Run before I began the story in earnest.

Well, I completed the Trolley Run, and last weekend I started on the story. Even though I’ve done a half dozen 5Ks and three 10Ks, and even though my afternoon runs are generally far longer than 4 miles, the Trolley Run had become my psychological barrier. Because it was the goal I had set for myself a year ago, it was far more meaningful for me to complete than any of the other runs I’ve done. Well, I burst through that barrier (at a pretty decent pace for my ability, even setting a PR), and while I’m not sure that’s given me any insight to my story, it’s given me the raw, real-world material I needed.

I had reached the tipping point. As I said, I started on “Runaway” over the weekend, and I think I made pretty good progress on it. I’ve mentioned here before that I really need to devote some effort to working out the timeline of these stories. Three generations of men, spanning a lot of years, but so many of the stories are particular moments in their lives, not sweeping themes. How old is the central character in each story? When was he born? When does it have to take place so that subsequent (and prior) moments fall in line properly? Does it make sense that he is this or that age when this or that happens? And so on.

Right now, I can write most of these stories without obsessing too much over that. But someone needs to tell me to buckle down and work out the timeline.

(I’m training now to run a half marathon in October. It’s my new psychological barrier. Yikes!)