I ran with the watch for a few weeks before complaining on social media that waiting for Mr. Dawg to pee and poop made my times slower. My friend Wendy, a writer and ultrarunner from Colorado, posted that I could start and stop the watch with the push of a button. Amazing!
***
When Ed told a woman in our book club I was running, she suggested Born to Run. “I never thought I’d like a book about running.” She said it read like a novel.
I checked the audiobook out of the library and listened in my car. This nonfiction mystery, thriller, and running encyclopedia rolled into one so enthralled me that I’d sit in the garage (with the car off) to listen to the end of a section. It wasn’t lost on me that, decades before, I’d sat in a different car in a different garage, trying to summon the courage to kill myself. While those thoughts sometimes still floated through my mind, they no longer threatened to become reality.
In the book, author Chris McDougall sets out on a quest to find ultrarunner Caballo Blanco and the Tarahumara tribe of Mexican Indians, interspersing facts about evolution and the human body. As ChiRunning claimed, McDougall found heel-striking and over-striding harmful. McDougall also touted the benefits of chia seeds and eating salad for breakfast. Most important, he claimed human beings are genetically engineered to run.
I was most influenced by Caballo Blanco’s instruction to McDougall:
Think Easy, Light, Smooth, and Fast. You start with easy, because if that’s all you get, that’s not so bad. Then work on light. Make it effortless, like you don’t give a shit how high the hill is or how far you’ve got to go. When you’ve practiced that so long that you forget you’re practicing, you work on making it smooooooth. You won’t have to worry about the last one—you get those three, and you’ll be fast.
The book fueled my determination to not let my ankle keep me from running. I’d already experienced what Christopher McDougall described and wanted more. I wanted to run longer distances faster. It helped me mentally prepare for the upcoming 5k.
***
From Born to Run, I also learned the history of the running shoe industry. Maybe the shoe industry didn’t change models each year to get people to buy multiple pairs in fear of their favorite going out of style, but that was the result. They designed those cushioned, high-heeled running shoes to compensate for heel-striking. Perhaps changing my form and running in minimal shoes would cure my wonky ankle.
The Penguins suggested water shoes, the slip-ons made for water aerobics. Cheaper than trendy minimalist shoes, they were as minimal as you could get without going barefoot. I began to run in those one day a week and walk in them other days, but they quickly wore out. At the sporting goods store, where I went for a sturdier pair, the clerk gaped when I told him I intended to run in them. I explained about the Tarahumara Indians and the research to support minimalist shoes. He shook his head but sold them to me anyway.
***
In the ChiRunning class, Doug explained foot turnover. The average runner’s foot turnover is around 150 footfalls per minute. An elite runner’s is closer to 180. When a woman asked if that was why elite runners were so much faster, he said yes, but “not for the reason you might think.” He showed how his foot turnover stayed the same no matter his pace. “Elites are more efficient.” Having your foot on the ground for a shorter period of time uses less energy and is less jarring.
Doug suggested using a metronome to determine our current foot turnover rate and pointed to the small model clipped to his waistband. We were to turn the metronome one beat higher than our current rate and run at that for a week. Once that felt comfortable, we would turn the metronome a beat higher. Gradually increasing the footfalls per minute would not shock our systems, training us to run at a faster cadence with minimal stress. “Gradual progress” is one of the main principles of ChiRunning.
If there’s anything I love, it’s a good gadget. Like the kitchen timer, the metronome was familiar and friendly. I’d used a much larger one in high school when I played flute. “Beep. Beep. Beep,” went the clip-on model, keeping time with Doug’s footfalls.
I ordered a gray metronome, less intimidating than black. If they’d had a rhinestone “Hello Kitty” one, I’d have bought that.
Once it came, I clipped it to my waist and leashed up the dog. Again, that old fear of what people thought surfaced, so Mr. Dawg and I jogged to the ravine, where I hoped no one would hear me beeping. Ridiculous, but I didn’t entirely believe no one was watching.
In the ravine, the dog tugged when I stopped, but I had to read the instructions. He found a shrub to pee on and a tantalizing scent in the mud. After staring at the contraption, I figured out the volume, mode, and speed. I jogged with my finger on the speed button, and the dog followed. As I jogged, I pushed the button to sync with my footfalls. The number was 153, the cadence of an average jogger.
Doug had used a three-beat rhythm like a waltz: left, two, three, right, two, three, left, two, three. Setting it to beat on each footfall was too fast, but using every other step sometimes resulted in hitting too hard repeatedly on the same foot. I divided my number of footfalls, 153, by three, which equaled fifty-one. In keeping with Doug’s gradual progress admonition, I set it for fifty-two, and jogged down the road. Since “more” is always better, part of me wanted to jump to fifty-three. But I remembered “gradual progress.” We would take it slow. It was almost time for the 5k.
“I’m looking for packet pickup,” I told the running-store clerk. It was the day before my first race, the inaugural Steps for Sarcoma 5k.
A trim young woman smiled knowingly from behind a folding table stacked with T-shirts and plastic bags. She looked up my name, then handed me a T-shirt, a “bib” with my race number, and a plastic sack filled with flyers and four safety pins. I thought I should buy something, but none of their socks appealed, so I left, clutching the bag like a child holding Halloween candy.
To quell my fears, I’d researched race etiquette and asked the Penguins. The safety pins were for the bib. It went on the front. Putting it on the back meant you were an amateur. I was an amateur but wanted no one to know.
Ed and I had driven the course the week before after I’d looked at the race website which had an impressive online course map. I’d only just started using the technology. As we drove the streets of the neighborhood near the park, I imagined myself running them. We walked through the park to get a feel for it.
I’d already walked or run nearly that far. On race day, the bib would be the difference. In addition to my number, 18, the bib bore a computer chip to track when I crossed both the start and finish lines and record my time and pace. Plus, people would be watching. I was still apprehensive about running in public, but willing to try, since it was for a good cause. Ed agreed to take pictures.
The night before the race, I went with friends to an Amish restaurant, where I filled my plate with mashed potatoes and gravy, carb-loading despite the articles I’d read condemning this time-honored tradition. The articles had been about marathons, not 5ks, but I ate as if it were a marathon.
***
On race morning, a bright autumn day, I made the mistake of saying the word “run” while dressing, and Morgan dashed over. With the dog underfoot, I pulled on my new running bra and a Kelly-green tank which read, “If found on ground, please drag across finish line.” I hoped I wasn’t borrowing trouble. I pulled on the running shoes, since I didn’t think my water shoes were sturdy enough. Plus, someone might think them odd.
We don’t call Morgan the “ever-hopeful dog” for nothing. He continued to track me, even as I explained that a race was different. “There might not be other dogs,” I said.