Gone fishin'

We are what we repeatedly do; excellence is a habit, Aristotle said.  But to every time there is a season, the runner would think.  And there is a time to take a break from running. Or is that a good thing?

For me, it was time to take a week off from work and running to go fishing with two great friends from college. Tim has graciously provided a place in the Wisconsin north woods, and Phil brings his large countenance, local wisdom and various culinary delights direct from the land of his dairy farm. 

The three of us start dreaming about the whole thing in January, and when the time comes to get away it seems only right to put away all the things of routine daily life–including the running shoes.

Travel only a about marathon deep into the woods gets you off the beaten path.  In one area of our retreat, I  bet you could boat through some fifty square miles of lakes, streams and flowages without much interference.  You can spot eagles, beaver, bear and rare warblers and maybe catch a bunch of nice fish, if you’re lucky. 

In that world of woods and water I never felt too badly about not running. In fact, I rarely thought of it. It’s good enough exercise standing up in the front of a modest fishing boat, running the trolling motor and trying to flick a perfect cast toward the shore.  A couple times I practiced some tai chi exercises on a dock while watching a bobber and worm in the water.

After five days on the water I can still feel that pleasant rocking of the boat in my bones, and the effects on the leg muscles.  It works, getting away for a week and not a taking a single run.

Back home today running felt fresh, and I’m eager again to do what I repeatedly do. 

The best exercise ever

The whole thing came entirely out of the blue. In an annual physical at the company where I work, the doctor was finishing up his routine and asked how I was feeling. I said great except for a sore knee. I told him I was worried the injury was going to keep me from running in an upcoming half marathon.

He proceeded to recommend an exercise he called 10x10x20s, which he said thought would help me get through the race.

You lie on you back, raise your leg ten inches off the floor and hold it for ten seconds.  Twenty  reps on each side.  Try to remember to do the “tens” after each run, he said. Then he gave me the name of a good sports doctor in town.

As an aside, next I discover that he's a runner and we’re both competing in the Quebec Marathon, a long-shot coincidence, given the event is a great distance from Des Moines and hardly well known in our parts as any sort of destination race.

But, what a great stroke of luck to have met this fine fellow. His sound advice led me to a successful finish of the race with minimal knee pain. I’ve continued with the exercise as often as I can remember to do so. My favorite time is when watching TV rather than right after a run.

A few years ago, I learned a routine from an excellent physical therapist who was trying to help me stabilize my form. That one’s done while lying on your side. You wear an ankle weight and lift your leg from a little behind your other leg, eight reps three times. She told me it’s probably the single best routine for what I needed at the time.

These exercises aren't miracle cures, but I suspect they kept me going at a time when it was starting to feel like I was coming to the end of the road with long-distance running.

Mr. Mortality on the run

Speaking of the rare good weather one day last weekend, my niece Lindsey commented over the phone that “you don’t even want to talk about it.”  Her implication may be that if we bring something to our full attention it somehow ruins its pleasure.

One thing in this life we mostly don't want to talk about: We know that each day, each run, brings us closer to the final finish line.  Our measuring of effort, our fanaticism about long-distance training is a race against time and mortality. Not an original thought, of course, but we’re just talking here.

One reason running is a great metaphor for the human condition is because of  its routine finiteness. We put a clock to our efforts for a reason. The faster we finish a race or run, the more time there is left for the next run.

But “not talking about it” is a one way, maybe the best way, we address our limited run in this life, isn’t it? Forget about time. Run like an animal—in the moment, no memory and no mind for the future.

A favorite famous quote is one that bears on the matter: “You don’t quit running because you get old, you get old because you quit running.”

The idea has become a motto for me, because there are always good reasons, some sensible, to quit running—long distance running, at least.  Right now, for me, it’s chronic knee pain, but it could always have been something—plantar fasciitis, IT band issues, a close call with a car, and such.

There is another thought, too—that our deeper interpretations of running can be something that helps others. “The best that can come from contemplation of mortality, perhaps, is a kind of wisdom that can give others strength—not by answering questions, like those best-sellers which claims to tell you what happens after you see the white light, but by asking questions honestly,” writes Adam Kirsch in The New Yorker  of  the book “My Bright Abyss,” by Christian Wiman.

The tai chi teacher, Dr. Paul Lam, talks about how the martial arts are something you can practice all your life, that he has 90-year-olds still studying with him.  I like that idea—that there are pursuits in this life we can take to the end. I hope running is one. But I really don’t want to talk about it.