X-Treme Running Camp

The Fork in the Road By Laurie Gordon It was a dog day of summer. The thunderstorm that had roared through Stillwater had caused a ruckus and given the land a good soaking, but instead of cooling things down, in its wake came yet hotter, stickier weather. It had been a long day: one of those days where everything seems to take twice as long and twice as much effort. My husband surprised me and came home early to watch our baby so I could get in a good run before I had to work at 6. I was delighted at the opportunity to get in a good run, but as I headed down Edgewood Drive, my body felt extremely lethargic, the result of the type of day I’d had compounded by the intense heat. I nearly turned around to trade in my run for a go on the Nordic Track machine in our basement. Less effort and cooler. It sounded good, but I was a runner with an opportunity to run so I kept on going. Two miles later, the lethargy was still in my bones, but it was getting a little better. That’s when I came to the fork in the road. If I headed left, it would be a 7 mile run, but part way through, there was another left I could take to whittle it down to 5. If I headed to the right, I was locked in to a 10 mile run. Left would be prettier, and maybe I’d be motivated to bounce into the Park for a loop. Who was I kidding. I knew chances were, if I headed left, I’d do 5. Though my pace was slower than usual and my back was hurting from picking up 20-pound- 6-ounce Ashley Rose up the wrong way, I knew what my choice had to be. I went right. There are days when one should commend ones self for just getting out the door: the days when you’re tired or sick or unmotivated. This was one of those days, and now I was really raising the bar: committing to 10 miles. A half mile later, I passed a church. It was a sweltering stretch, and I looked up at the steeple and prayed that I’d finish the run. Another half a mile, and I passed Mengo’s Pizzeria. Hot and hurting, the smell of the tomato sauce nearly made me throw up, but I swallowed hard and kept on going. The back side of Swartswood Lake isn’t nearly as shaded as the front side: the side I’d have chosen if I’d gone left. Any sign of storms had passed, and the late day sun scorched down on the pavement. Finally, I hit Dead Man’s Curve, a double twist in the road on Route 519, and thankfully, a section of shade. Unhappily, this part also involved two hills. That done, it was time for what I realized would be the most brutal portion of the run: Pond Road. There is no shade and it’s a very boring little-over-a-mile stretch. Perspiration soaked my blonde hair protruding under my Runner’s World cap, and my once light blue shorts were dark with sweat. The only thing I looked forward to was perhaps catching a glimpse of a farm animal or two by the big barn on the left part way down the road. There were no animals. They were all in the barn…in the shade. Finally, Pond Road was coming to an end, but two issues were left: the dogs that live at the house on the corner of Pond and Route 619 and the infamous Brannigan’s Hill that I had to surmount to get back to my neighborhood. The dogs don’t get loose -- well, once they did, but that was years ago -- but they are annoying yappers and there is that perpetual threat of them getting loose. As fate would have it, I always seem to pass them late in a run, so it’s a big question as to whether I could muster enough umph to out run them if they escaped. Yap, yap, yap: there they were, seemingly unscathed by the heat, running around and then, when they sensed my presence, as fast as they could to the brim of their electric fence with drool on their faces. Few, no escapes, and I threw in a little charge as I passed them up the slight incline that leads to Brannigan’s Hill. Now the hill loomed. The pull in my back was becoming an issue rather than an annoyance, and I had two miles to go. With the heat index over 100 my only hope of getting up Brannigan’s Hill was to coach myself as I do the kids I train. “Use your arms, lift your knees, lean forward,” I mouthed to myself. I knew what to do, but knowing and doing can have a problem syncing in such abominable conditions. It wasn’t the pounding sprint of a race horse, but rather the steady, persistent crawl of a tortoise that got me to the summit of Brannigan’s Hill. I thankfully let my body fall into a flopping clop into the shaded downhill of the other side. I made it another half mile, and then my sweat-drenched body could take no more, and I was reduced to a walk for the final stint that led up Edgewood to my house. On days like this, I can’t drink anything too cold, and I knew, with two miles to go, there was a bottle of green Gatorade in the trunk of my car. Wiped out, heated out and drained, I reached for the bottle, and when I drank it, I could feel it going to every inch of my body. That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about my run. At first, I was disappointed at how tired my body had felt and how unable I was to snap out of the fatigue and battle the heat and humidity. But then the disappointment turned to pride. Despite how I’d felt and despite the conditions, I’d chosen the right fork in the road, not the path of least resistance. And, though I’d had to walk at the end…I’d finished the run. I fell asleep with a smile on my face. ...oh, and then 5 minutes later, the baby was up for a bottle. I'm the point man, but I'd have it no other way. Another reason to be proud of the run. If you don't have kids, you neither know nor appreciate a good night's sleep... nor how you'd gladly trade that sleep in for anything just to see your baby smile. Ashley Rose was down 20 minutes later and then, once again. Not bad for a 1 year old. Ok, most kids sleep 7 to 7, but she's experiencing life things no other kids do. I not only appreciated the run, then, but the sleep. And her even more.