Recently I received an email from a major running magazine publisher.  I quote verbatim:

When I read the examples of what supposedly makes women unique, I thought, what should an email solicitation to male runners contain, based on the copy from the giant corporation entering the world of innocent little me?

My first impulse was, why not just go with elements mentioned in the email "for women."  Surely there are guys who run who maybe also need to "figure out which sports bra is the right one."  Or, and I know this is part of the anatomy especially that us guys don't understand, never will understand, but shouldn't a guy learn "how to run safely while" . . . having a huge gut or beer belly?  As far as "whether menopause symptoms are going to affect his time in a marathon," there are hormonal changes impacting men, if quick medical news segments or the marketing of modern medicine makers on TV and in other media are to be believed.

Allow me for a moment to comment on "And that's just the tip of the iceberg!" in the "for women" sales pitch.  Was this statement written by word association stemming from hot flashes the writer was thinking about when he or she wrote about menopause symptoms in the sentence immediately before?

Now to what an uninspired copy writer might produce "especially for men" who run.  Prostate is an easy and obvious target.  Plenty of old men told me when I was growing up not to ride a bicycle because that would do things to my prostate.  By extension, I can imagine that tight running shorts would definitely be a no-no if someone had to pitch or come up with a running book "for men only."  As far as the sports bra, the "especially for men" angle would be to inform the uninitiated to at least wear band aids on their nipples and point out that now matter what men think they have learned from interaction with the female gender, those nipples never get used to handling or any fricative contact.  So wear band aids, men, because your nipples will never "man up" to go 26.2 miles without a bleed.

What else to pitch men in an email on a book about running "for men only"?  Allay their fears that they will not have "shot their wad" by exerting energy on the roads?   Yes, fear sells.  Tell men how to keep their hair in a certain way or place while sweating and racking up the miles?  Yes, vanity covers both sexes.

Actually, what this coming up with a list "for men only" runners points to is that the categorization of "men only" surely is equally unwelcome as the "women only" categorization is if it reeks of marketing.  And isn't some of that happening in our world of running?

I would love to hear from my you, runner friends, male and female, what your thoughts are on "gender pitches" in the world of running with consumer shadows all over the paths we take several times a week.

        Like so many runners who can complete a marathon at a “decent” pace, and by “decent” I mean one that provokes awe by some runners and non-runners alike, even though it is not a fast pace, I have come close to breaking the 4-hour barrier.  I wasn’t really trying to break it, but I have to admit that when I was looking at my Garmin at mile 20, I had well-hydrated delusions that if I kept up my pace I would finish with a 3:45 and really be the pride, envy, and humble achiever in both my own mind and that of others.

        After running five marathons this past year, one a month, scooting by on no more than three runs a week for an average of 25 miles per week, I convinced myself I am too tall and heavy (6’6” and 205 pounds) to run a marathon in less than four hours.  Having done some reading—reading is a dangerous thing—I told those around me that no matter how much I ate every day and before the race, my fuel tank would not hold enough, even if I ate several gels during the marathon, to allow me to finish without hitting empty.  I also told myself and those who cared and did not care to hear that I could run only three times a week and had to keep the mileage low to avoid injury at my age.  Again, I had been reading about fewer runs and the need for the masters runners to spare their joints and watch their muscle tissue.

        Since finishing my last marathon for the season, in March, I have had a change of heart.  I am not going to focus on half marathons and give up marathon running, because I think I can break the four-hour barrier, with apologies to Roger Bannister who broke a much more admirable “4 barrier.” 

        This change of heart has come while I have spent the last four months running on a machine I intensely dislike, no, let’s make that hate—the treadmill.  Exiled indoors by a climate that has 100 degree days with humidity factors at least half that number, I have tried to keep my sanity on the rubber road by allowing my mind to wander into territory of reflection.  Anchored to the treadmill for hours, I have reviewed my season of marathons on the road.

        I have realized I was having too safe a time running my marathons.  I was not running them, I was jogging them.  I remember now a spectator giving me a thumbs-up when I was at mile 12 of the Albany Marathon, calling out “You got the cruise control on.”  He was right, my marathons consisted of taking steps very close together, no extending of the backward leg they way I have seen runners stride in photographs (Ryan Hall et al).  I was running what was for me a slow pace, afraid to injure myself, paralyzed by reading about masters runners and injuries.

        Running the five marathons, I was jogging and talking to other participants, and as I write the word “jogging,” one I have always associated with people who do not move gracefully and do not deserve the label “runner,” I realize I was a jogger during these marathons, except my form was a little more graceful and I was not out of breath because I was aerobically fit.

        This jogging business I have come to realize because of the treadmill and what it has done to me.  I have set the treadmill at a constant speed and found that I can run, the electronic measurements of speed and time by the machine confirming to me that I have been performing more like a runner on the treadmill than I did on the streets.  Having done my dangerous reading, I have set the treadmill on an incline to ensure that I don’t get too much of a break from running on the rubber pavement, and I have also increased my speed, running between 40 to 60 seconds faster than my runs prior to my treadmill captivity and ensuing reflection on my marathon running.  And I have begun to run one more day a week.

        So all this hope for the next marathon season has been building, thoughts swirling over my head like the air circulating from the fan above my stationery spot in the gym.  While I have eaten gels and consumed several bottles on the running band, I have replayed some of the moments of my marathons and realized that they cost me time, minutes that can be banked to break four hours.

        I have to admit that while I was on the treadmill taking stock and realizing some of these time-saving measures, I thought I should write a column entitled, “How to Break Four Hours and Be a Jerk,” even substituting the last noun for a part of the posterior anatomy.  But maybe there is a time for selfishness and maybe selfishness does not always attach to the word “jerk.”

        What I have been doing besides talking to slow me down during my marathons is slow down by the water stops going out of my way to accept a cup of water from a child, telling him or her thank you so much, give me five, and then looking at the parent.  I was spending time being a cheerleader for the sport (or so I mistakenly thought) and in the process wasted valuable time on my Garmin.  I have also carried with me a 22-ounce Nathan sports bottle, mistakenly thinking I needed it to be able to drink when I wanted to drink, instead of using the water stops.  On the treadmill, I have discovered I can impose a regimen of drinking, I don’t need as much water as I consumed even in the cold weather on the roads, and I have had both hands and arms free, minus the 22 ounce weight while running.  As a result, I have begun to use my arms a little more, now fully aware that I hardly used my arms while running before.  My new found wings—37 inches when I buy a long-sleeved dress shirt—will help my speed next marathon season!

        Something else I have learned on the treadmill is to set aside a period for warm-up, which I did not do for the marathons.  I just started running slowly, thinking the marathon would be warm-up enough, and somehow the finish time would magically average out.  On the treadmill, I have found that after a specific number of minutes devoted to warm-up, I can start my “marathon” and perform at a high(er) level when I set the beginning of my workout.  The warm-up does not wear me out for my timed performance.

        Yes, the treadmill, which I have loathed so much and still do not like, has been a taskmaster, a disciplinarian, bringing out in me a kind of performing athlete.  I suppose my trip to the treadmill is similar to what people experience when they travel, a change of scenery, and new-found perspective.  No longer lulled into the comfortable 9-minute plus pace of the same rut road taken and carrying a 22-ounce water bottle and talking to others—be they children, police officers holding off traffic, runners, dogs—I have found discipline and resolve, and silence, and these may make all the difference next year, with apologies to Robert Frost.
 

Epidural.  About time a man had one.  In fact, many have, I just didn’t know it until last week.

Time for a two-week flashback:  6’6” runner scrubs toilets to help his wife around the house and also to ease some of his guilt about spending so many hours training and not having energy for housework or any of the chores that are no fun.

Suddenly, as if a bolt of punishment, it strikes him in his left lower back.  Insert all sorts of words and sounds here.

The normal two to three day period of recuperation from a little back sprain does not apply this time.  A doctor’s visit, steroid dose pack, and getting up from, into, in, onto any sort of piece of furniture hurts more than it ever has in a lifetime.  Even some physical therapy is added, as subject demonstrates willingness to begin doing stretching exercises for the first time in his life, but only because everything hurts like hell and he can’t run.

Still no progress, that is, I can’t run very far without hurting.  And I have decided to abandon the third person point of view even though it helped me detach from my pain. I also visit the doctor again, have an X-ray, and then schedule an epidural SI shot.

I have heard of all sorts of joints, muscles, conditions, nutrition—mainly sciatica—but this SI joint is where my spine and pelvic region attach (this knowledge gained from a plastic model the doctor demonstrates with and from subsequent Googling).

I try not to Google overly much before the procedure, though I am tempted to watch a video showing an epidural injection into someone else’s SI joint.  But I also tell myself I must not unnecessarily frighten myself and that watching this kind of video is probably counter-productive.

So after signing about twenty sheets of paper with numerous opportunities to place initials on each page, I am ready for an a.m. appointment at my orthopedic doctor’s outpatient surgery center.  I am aware that I will be sedated, my wife needs to be there, especially when it comes to driving home.  I have also filled a prescription the day before for Vicodin, and doing so, along with acquiring the knowledge that I will be sent home with an ice pack, does not promise utter painless bliss.

As I lie with the IV started in a curtained waiting area adjoining the outpatient surgery center, looking at a painting of all things, poppies, on the wall, my wife jokes that she should take a picture of me lying on the gurney, hospital-looking, and send it to my mother.  Translation:  We would never scare the shit out of my mother and we are actually a little frightened ourselves.  Here we are, as a result of my scrubbing toilets, or the underlying issue, here we are so that I can be out of pain and continue to enjoy my running, and perhaps the pounding from my running is also responsible from my being here.

I am rolled into the operating room (I am only here to get a shot!), and I help out by sliding from the gurney onto the operating table (shot table, let’s call it).  Speaking of shots, in front of me a beautiful freckle-faced nurse takes out what looks like a glass syringe, a very big one, with clear liquid, and slowly presses whatever you call the part the syringe to inject that liquid into my IV.  I don’t get to see glass syringes very often.  This must be serious stuff!

She talks to me about running and I tell her she is probably only doing so to see how awake I am or to speed up my going to sleep.  A clear mask is put onto my face.  I just go on and on about running in a way that seems inane to me, but it must be a really short time . . .

“It only took seven minutes!” I am told as I have been returned to the pre-op curtained waiting room, where I am met by a can of Sprite with a bent straw and my wife.  I still don’t know in which order.  Groggy me gets dressed, and I am clear-headed enough, I think, to be able to instruct the nurse that I will be just fine walking and I take full legal responsibility for falling, I just don’t want to ride in that wheel chair to the car. 

I walk between my wife and the nurse to the car.  I have not fallen.

Home, drink a whey-protein drink, eat a banana, and into bed. 

Asleep until my internal lunch clock wakes me up.

I sit up, and somehow, as I begin to return to this world, I realize, turning over Emily Dickinson’s words, in a bizarre twist, “Because I could not stop for Death—/He kindly stopped for me—” that I stop for running, not it for me.  Yes, I will go to any lengths to be able to continue to do what I consider essential to life.

A nice big bruise like a poppy flower on my arm where the IV went in reminds me several days later that I will do anything for running.  Even “man up” to epidural after all these years.

The Mission of The Marathoners for Humane Portable Toilets Society is to advocate that marathoners be treated humanely by portable toilets. The Society seeks to be the voice for marathoners who want a better portable toilet experience, one which is not merely barely endurable but highly enjoyable. The enjoyment the Society seeks from portable toilets is one that appeals to all senses.

--Yes, t-shirts will be available!   For now, for your free membership and certificate, email Ulf at ulf@kirchdorfer.com or tweet @runningdetectiv [no e at end]. Membership and certificate are FREE!  Surprise officials will sign your certificate of membership!  Can it get any better than this?
                

            Living in the South, some ways which I won’t go into here, is much like a reverse reality of the northern regions of our nation.  During the winter season I happily run outdoors in 50 degree weather and a marathon or two in Georgia and Florida, where runners shiver in the 40’s as they begin races on mornings that have not, and will not, bring snow or sleet.  In running magazines I read about the miseries of runners of the North condemned to a kind of icy penal colony wearing garb I might have tried on once or twice in my life. 

            But summer here in Georgia is payback time.  In May temperatures are already in the upper 90’s, and in the part of Georgia in which I am exiled the humidity matches that number easily most summer days.  No running outside, even if I get up early in the morning.  Even if naked running were approved in the Bible Belt, or running with just a belt to carry hydration bottles, it would be an unhealthy situation for most of us, as we turn into a kind of hybrid fish-human creature, sucking down moisture our lungs, desperately gasping for air, out in a boiling water environment in the name of running.

            So what is a good man or woman to do?  If the people of the North can use treadmills during winter, this is the season of the treadmill for the South.  It is a war no one wins, if we are fighting a war against boredom and a feeling of entrapment. 

            I do not listen to music when I run outside and when I run inside on the treadmill I also do not listen to music.  Honestly, I cannot think that even the most Scandinavian of composers or lyrics celebrating winter would help me keep cool and entertained on the treadmill.  Christmas fare, such as songs about building a snowman just won’t cut it when my feet hit the rubber.  And chestnuts roasting in the fire—that will get my ire as I am confined to a treadmill.

            Who are those people who can seriously run on a treadmill and watch television?  I don’t care how sophisticated the gym, ergonomic mounting of the monitor each runner befitting is not possible.  And do I really want to be limited to the narrow choices of viewing dangling before me as endure the treadmill?

            There is the aspect of people watching.  A certain amount of titillation can inspire  you to increase your pace momentarily if you do not fall off after having viewed someone’s physique. 

            There is the conversation, usually “one-sided” of someone who insists on complaining about their talented children not being chosen for the football team or other “centrist” monologue coming from someone who does not work during the day and is ready to unleash words on the runner who wants nothing more than freedom and is finding curtailed movement at best on the treadmill.  Turn your neck a few times to be polite and see what your neck tells you.

            I know the treadmill has benefits.  It can keep me on pace, allowing for no fluctuations, unless I want to fall off the moving belt.  But please, allow me a slight fluctuation when I grab my water bottle and seek to rehydrate on the belt.  And I like to change my stance just slightly when I drink.  Could someone make a wider belt for this treadmill?

            I think it is the name of the machine that evokes impending gloom and doom.  “Tread-mill.”  For God’s sake, treading and a mill?  Am I being condemned to treading water or being ground up like corn in a mill?

            If you should like treadmills, I suggest you live in the North in the winter and in the South in the summer.  In the meantime, tread carefully and have your feet dream of feeling what a real surface offers—your tread, your pace, your freedom.