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Disclaimer: This column will only make sense if you are a runner or an LOTR fan. If you are neither, I suggest you flip the page and check the Sports Briefs section (Spoiler Alert: The Chicago Cubs will be at Wrigley Field to sign autographs for their fan.)

As children of a librarian, my kids were blessed/cursed with my edict that we would watch no movie until we read the book first. (Except Les Misérables, the Greek yogurt of literature — critically acclaimed, yet too dense for most palates.)

At least once a year, my family and I revisit Middle Earth via the film adaptations of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of The Rings Trilogy. After 13 years, I can shamelessly recite the script in its entirety.  And as a runner, I find direct correlations between the sport and the story. See if you can identify yourself in these iconic characters.

Aragorn (“For Rohan! For Gondor! For Frodo!”)  — You’re a tough warrior, ready to take on the most daunting courses and run for charity causes. Inexplicably, you are much sexier as a sweaty hot mess than a coiffed king. (Seriously, that coronation ‘doo?  No.)

Legolas (“A red sun rises. Blood has been spilled this night.”) — Also known as Captain Obvious, you put the running in commentary. You keep workout partners informed of the climate (“It’s raining!”), course conditions (“This pavement’s hard!”) and bodily functions (“I’m sweaty!”)  On the plus side, you elves never get lost on trail runs.

Gimli (“We dwarves are natural sprinters.”) — Sure, you’re slow. Your body may not be built for running, but you have a good heart and you never give up.  Still, you find something to complain about every quarter mile and most of us tune you out.

Gandolf (“You shall not pass!”) — You’re in the Masters Division, but that means nothing because you are still the most intimidating runner on the course. Others intuitively clear a path for you. Water station volunteers vie for your attention. Crowds adore you. Keep your shirt on, though.

Arwen (“If you want him, come and claim him!”) — Elf with attitude. You can break away from a pack of Black Riders and the Witch-King himself, yet never produce a bead of sweat or muss your hair. Your workout wardrobe makes a fashion statement, too. Other she-elves secretly hate you.

Eowyn (“I am no man!”) — Gutsy and determined, you are the consummate athlete. No hill is too steep, no trail is too rocky. You handily keep pace with the big boys. In fact, you don’t even bother checking the gender division results. Score one for the shieldmaidens.

Boromir (“One does not simply walk into Mordor.”) — If you are Boromir, you’re running with shin splints, plantar fasciitis, Achilles tendonitis, iliotibial band syndrome and an arrow sticking out of your chest.  You refuse to quit, even when your injuries are serious. You might want to talk to a counselor about your Daddy issues.

Merry (“That, my friend, is a pint.”)  and Pippin (“They come in pints? I’m getting one!”) — Be honest: It’s not about the run, it’s about the afterparty, isn’t it?  You’ll wade through mud, get coated in neon paint, don a tutu, anything, as long as there’s a wild finish-line celebration. Party on, Shirefolk.

Frodo (“I cannot do this alone.”) — You’re strong and focused, but you need a running partner, someone who will keep up the chatter, offer encouragement and occasionally slay a few orcs on the trail.  Choose carefully. Some partners have hidden agendas. And split personalities.

Gollum (“My precious!”) — Forget other runners, you have one thing in mind when it comes to a race: Swag.  You want it all — every tech shirt, granola bar, gel pack, carabiner, flashlight and glow-in-the-dark zombie stress ball (yeah, I got one of those).  You won’t share them, either. Because they’re yours. All yours. Your precious.

Sam (“We’re going all the way there and back again.”) — You’re the trusted friend and training partner every runner needs. You know when to offer encouragement and when to chill. And you know how to fight off giant spiders. You can run with me anytime.


Greece native Teresa Benoit Keyes loves quiet, spider-free runs through the Bloomfield hills. She can be reached via Facebook. 

 

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by Chris Compson

Recently, while gathered with some friends, the “what would we do if money was no object” hypothetical was proposed while I worked feverishly to keep the small fire in our chiminea from erupting into a five alarm blaze. I casually responded, “I don’t know, probably what I am doing already.” The guffaw from my wife was almost instantaneous, “You’d be running or fly fishing, and I would see you for about half an hour a day.”

We all laughed, but she was right. These activities are my passions, and if I had my druthers I’d spend even more time than I do (which is considerable) engaged in each. Both of these activities are often the subject of metaphors about life, and each has taught me invaluable lessons that have helped me grow as a person, professional, father, and husband. But they have also taught me innumerable lessons about each other. Like the Russian nesting dolls my mother loves to display on her knick-knack shelf, these pursuits have become layered on top of each other. Each lesson adding to the collective strength of the whole.

Perhaps more so than any other relationship, my time on the water fly fishing has taught meg and reminded me of several lessons essential to running. I am an amateur fly fisherman on my good days. If I spend more time mending a natural drift than I do untangling line or pulling flies from overhanging branches, I consider it a success. For even the most accomplished fly fishermen, you will spend more time casting and coming up empty than you will imitating Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It. While the goal is certainly to feel the sharp tug of a rising trout, that cannot be the only goal, or your time on the water will be an exercise in frustration. So it is with running.

Our principle goal will always be to run faster, or run farther, or both. We will constantly cast our line into the riffles with the expectation of a record strike, but we will frequently come up short. Every run will not be a personal best. Every run will not be filled with the excitement of “landing a whopper.” So, as with fly fishing, we must make the pursuit the goal. We must learn to take joy in the action, rather than the consequence. We need to find satisfaction in the beauty of a run through an Aspen stand, or find appreciation in the exertion of maximum effort in an interval session. The quest becomes the reward.

As all good fishermen will tell you, it is in these moments, when we are lost in appreciation of the fading sunlight, or immersed in the slow movement of a perfect drift, that the “big strike” most often occurs. When all our attention is on the end result, whether it be the feeding rainbow lurking just below the surface or the 5k PR that seems just out of reach, we lose sight of what we are doing in the moment to create the opportunity for success. Fly fishing reminds me to make the current action as near to perfect as possible, and the results will come. When your focus shifts from the task at hand, the once graceful fly slaps to the water sending every trout in a half-mile radius scattering.

In running, we need to focus on what we are doing today, at this moment, during this run. Often in talking with runners, the first thing they want to discuss is how they can achieve a personal best in three months. My fist question is always, “What did you do today?” Did you run today’s run as best you could? Did you focus on stretching and strengthening? Did you consider your diet and hydration? Success in three months does not happen by just slapping a fly out on the water. It happens when we focus on making each action of our endeavor as perfect as possible.

Whether it is waist-deep in a trout stream or at the finishing tape of a road race, success is a relative and amorphous prize. It is found in the knowledge that you pursued beauty and excellence with ferocious precision, and that whether or not you felt a tug at the end of your line, you were out there. That is often prize enough.

Chris Compson has run at the state, national and international level and spent several years coaching high school runners. You can follow his posts about running and other pursuits at soulitarypursuits.blogspot.com and twitter @clcruns, or contact him via email at clcruns@gmail.com

T Keyes picTRANSCRIPT – ARBITRATION HEARING, JUNE 2014

ARBITRATOR: I’d like to thank the three of you for agreeing to meet. When Jo first suggested the idea, I wasn’t sure we could make it happen; after all, there’s a long history of tension among your three clans.
CY: Yeah, whatever. Can we get started? I’m in a bit of a rush …
JO: Of course you are! You always are! That’s why we’re here!
MO: Oh, please! I’d rather be running behind him than you, with your sightseeing, flower-sniffing, rock-collecting brood …
ARBITRATOR: Whoa, slow down! That’s what I’m talking about. If we’re going to make any progress, we need to hear each other out. Let’s try again. Cy, you first.
CY: Fine. I’ve been riding my bike since Breaking Away. I follow the rules of the road — riding with traffic, passing on the right, using hand signals …
MO: Yeah, I’ve seen some of your hand signals, Buddy.
CY: Dude, I’m going 35 miles an hour! How about making room for me?
MO: Glad to! How about ringing your legally required bell to warn me you’re barreling up my …
CY: Fine! How about taking out your earbuds, or at least dropping the volume? I’m sure Shakira will understand.
MO: I keep my music loud to drown out the sound of Carol Brady here and her six-pack of rugrats.
JO: So families don’t have the right to walk along the canal?
MO: Can you do it without lining up like the Rockettes? I feel like I’m in some intergenerational game of Red Rover.
CY: He’s got a point. Also, your stroller’s the size of the Death Star.
JO: Tell you what: If both of you would just give a friendly, G-rated warning that you’re coming up from behind, I’ll gladly make room.
CY: Fine with me. Just remember that faster traffic always passes on the left.
MO: Say there’s a runner coming up behind a walker while a biker is coming in the other direction. What then?
CY: Fastest one wins. Please don’t make us swerve. Isn’t my life worth more than your personal record?
MO: Ummm …
JO: Awkward. Moving on. Let’s talk about spitting.
CY: What about it?
JO: Stop it. Just stop it. Both of you. It’s not Camp Hockaloogie. You’re not 12.
CY: She’s got a point. It’s pretty gross.
MO: Fine. Excess fluids go off the trail, away from humans, as discretely as possible. Anything else?
JO: Eye contact. What’s with that?  Why can’t we at least acknowledge each other’s presence? Unless we’re Olympic demigods, there’s no need to avert our eyes.
MO: No argument here. It would be nice to get a smile, or at least a nod, from other trail users.
CY: True. But if I’m in the zone, I might be too focused. No offense.
JO: None taken. It’s all good.
ARBITRATOR: Wow! We’ve made a lot of progress today! See what we can accomplish when we’re willing to listen to each other? Now that the three of you know how to behave, I’ll enjoy my trail time so much more!
MO: That’s right! Wait … what?
ARBITRATOR: Oh, please! Misty and I have been cantering down those trails for years! You people don’t have a clue how to act when you’re around equines! They’re not big dogs, for the love of God! Seriously, get a clue …
END OF TRANSCRIPT

West Bloomfield resident Teresa Benoit Keyes invites runners, walkers and strollers to participate in the July 18 Patrick Parrish Memorial 5k, sponsored by the Bloomfield Class of 2015 IB CAS students. Details at http://www.bloomfieldcsd.org

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by Chris Compson

With the end of the school year upon us, we welcome summer and all the glorious running opportunities that the next ten weeks bring with them. After all, living in upstate New York, we have to make the most of these few opportunities to enjoy running in the weather that short shorts and racing singlets were made for. And there are certainly plenty of opportunities to enjoy these moments. This is the season where a single weekend offers fifteen possible 5k races, and we lay the plans for great fall running accomplishments. Whether they be running a fall marathon or setting a personal best in the 10K, the summer is the season of endless training and great racing, where goals are set, measured, and achieved. This is the season that always reminds me of my seventh-grade history teacher, Mr. Jones.

In my mind, Mr. Jones was roughly 106 years old when he led my class through early American history. More a part of the textbook than a person holding it. But as a teacher myself, I know now that the perception of age is greatly skewed by the slouched vision of the back row of room 209. Mr. Jones is one of the few teachers I remember vividly from my “school-boy” years. Perhaps it was his antics that would likely result in a call into the Principal’s office today that lodged deeply in my long term memory, like putting metal trash cans over students’ heads and banging them with a meter stick to replicate the experience of the first ironclad ship battle between the Monitor and the Merrimack during the Civil War, or reenacting the charge of Bunker Hill with a great snowball fight during fourth period in February. But when I think of Mr. Jones at this time of year, it is usually in relation to a cheesy motivational poster that hung on his wall.

It was a simple picture of a black night sky littered with glowing stars. There were no people, trees, mountains, or cute anthropomorphic animals. Just a stark black sky interrupted by celestial glow. At the bottom of the image, written in large, white block letters read, “Better to shoot for the stars and miss, than aim for manure and hit it.” In seventh-grade, the simple utterance of the word manure was enough to make me chuckle. But for some reason beyond juvenile hilarity, the phrase has stuck with me through all these years.

As runners, we often make our first mistake before we ever lace up our shoes. Countless experts tell us that we must establish “reasonable” goals or “achievable” expectations. These are comforting suggestions that allow us to lower the sights of our athletic telescope from the stars to something far more organic and “realistic.” However, when breathless Olympic gold medalists are interviewed after crossing the finish line, they never respond with “I knew this was entirely reasonable,” or “This was a genuinely realistic expectation.” They have achieved one of the most improbable accomplishments in athletics and they respond accordingly. Almost universally they state, “I can’t believe this.”

During this season of goal setting, I am reminded of Mr. Jones’s poster (which I suspect he created himself). To achieve something great, we must be willing to risk disappointment, to shoot for the absurd, to vocalize a dream of the impossible. Certainly, I will never win an Olympic gold medal, or perhaps even ever set a personal best again in the 5k. But by risking to dream the improbable, to set my sights on the stars, I avoid accepting the ordinary and the unsatisfying victory of the easily achievable and worse yet, landing among the manure.

IMG_1460I started physical therapy this week for a hamstring injury. It is silly. Lie down on your back. Bend your leg up toward your chest. Ooooh. Feel the burn.

Sorry, but I don’t really feel much of anything. I don’t experience a strain, a hard tug, a twinge of pain. And that’s the point, says my physical therapist. I’m retraining my body after an injury, not punishing it for getting injured in the first place. I wouldn’t go to a mental health therapist who treats my fear of clowns by wearing a rainbow wig and facepaint; I shouldn’t expect my physical therapist to contort my limbs like Auntie Anne’s pretzels.

It’s those expectations that get me into trouble. When I was training last summer, I expected my body to run like a well-oiled machine, despite my lack of attention to strength training, adequate sleep or proper hydration. Once injured, I expected my body to heal quickly, defying all the laws of physiology, anatomy and gravity. Upon receiving the death sentence (“no more running”), I expected my family and friends to grieve with me, keening for my loss and offering sympathy bouquets, back rubs and Kit Kats. None of this happened.

A friend once told me that expectations are simply premeditated resentments. I get irritated when the world doesn’t follow my script or adhere to my schedule. I want what I want when I want it, whether it’s in my best interest or not, apparently.

It reminds me my first pet, Pytheas the Gerbil. My sister Barb named him after the Greek explorer, and much like his namesake, he spent most of his days attempting to explore the world outside his little cage. Unfortunately for him, his cage was a glass aquarium set on a high bookshelf, so he wasted hours diligently scratching at the corners, certain that someday, as Gerbil-God was his witness, he was going to break free and traverse the carpeted hinterlands. Unbeknownst to Pytheas, directly below his cage and just out of sight, sat our obese tomcat, Cree. Every day, that gerbil would digdigdig, begging Gerbil-God to set him free. And every day, Cree would watchwatchwatch, begging Cat-God to do the same.

I don’t want to find out what predator lies in wait for me as I slowly regain my strength. This time, I am paying attention to all the signals my body — and the world — are sending me. Case in point: A few weeks ago I was determined to start biking, even though I did not have clearance from my medical team. But heck, since I always know what’s best for me … right? I went to remove my bike from its rack in the garage and discovered a robin’s nest, complete with four perfect blue eggs, perched atop my wheel. Removing the nest would get me what I wanted, but it most certainly would have meant disaster to those tiny birds. Perhaps the universe was reminding me that I need to trust its timing. Perhaps Bird-God heard Mama robin’s prayers. Whatever the reason, I left my bike and its tenants intact.

Silly or not, I’m following my physical therapist’s every instruction. She’s ready to help me hit the road again, as long as I’m ready to let go of my expectations and slowly work my way back into my running shoes. I hope to run a 5k in late summer, but we’ll see what Runner-God has planned.

Teresa Keyes began running in 2006. She and her husband, Corey, have two kids, one dog, two cats, four baby birds and one slightly nervous mother robin. She can be reached via Facebook. Birds on my Bike

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by Chris Compson

Runners have strange prerace nightmares. We wake fitfully to quadruple check that we packed our shoes. We toss and turn over thoughts of body-chaffing in unmentionable areas. We avoid fiber for weeks to quell the fever-inducing thought of race-day incontinence. We spend our taper weeks of relaxation wound tighter than the Gordian Knot imagining the million ways our race goals could become unraveled. It is the stuff of great psychological thrillers.

So what if? What if all those nightmares came to fruition on race day? What do you do? How do you respond to your running-world collapsing around you? These are questions every runner must answer at some point, because I guarantee you will have a race where “the wheels fall off.”

For me, this race could not have come at a worse time, the 2014 Boston Marathon. Motivated to participate as part of the response to the tragedy of the 2013 marathon and to redeem myself from a poor showing in the record-setting heat of the 2012 marathon, I put together my best season of marathon preparation and felt primed to set a personal best time at the world’s greatest marathon. Pouring over the data from my training, including a personal best half-marathon time and stellar long runs, I felt confident my 2:45 goal was all but certain. All I had to do now was run the race.

Through the first 13.1 miles, I felt great, fantastic, marvelous. Visions of the finishing clock danced in my head like pre-Christmas sugarplums. I “may” even have sacrificed a few seconds as I ran through the famous female scream-tunnel of Wellesley College and their clever and persuasive “kiss me” signs. I was running light, fast, and on perfect pace.

Then it happened. A small twinge just below my left rib cage; a warning shot fired at my bow. The first tremor announcing an oncoming earthquake. At the next aid station, I doubled-up on the fluids trying to stave off disaster. I alternated my breathing pattern and focused on dropping my shoulders. I cursed the running gods and tried to ignore the growing knot away. For a few miles, it worked, until it didn’t.

After climbing the first of Newton’s famous hills, the entire abdominal wall revolted. Crushed with cramps, the fluidity of the first half of my race became a staggering, halting, bent-over stumbled onward. With each passing mile, my goal time drifted further away until it became certain I would not run a personal best, but a personal worst on running’s biggest stage.

So what do you do when “the wheels fall off”? I am no Buddhist monk, nor peaceful saint. As I staggered through Heartbreak Hill, I wallowed in my own personal pity parade and sulked through my steps. But sulking for six miles grows tiresome. With my time irrelevant and my plans left scattered somewhere behind me, I slowed to a jog and looked around me. They reported that over 1 million people lined the streets of Boston this year. How could I drown out all that joy with my own despair?

When the wheels fall off, we have a choice to make, swim along the surface of the experience or drown. As my teammates, athletes, and family will attest, setting my competitive spirit on the back-burner was a break from character. But it was the best decision I have ever made in a race. I slowed to take pictures with spectators, high-five kids cheering and jumping on the street corners. I danced with a brass band and happily accepted a freeze-pop from a ringlet-headed five year-old who could not have been happier to share. I lost over twenty-minutes from my goal time when my wheels fell off, but those twenty minutes have become some of my fondest running memories.

Chris Compson has run at the state, national and international level and spent several years coaching high school runners. You can follow his posts about running and other pursuits at soulitarypursuits.blogspot.com and twitter @clcruns, or contact him via email at clcruns@gmail.com

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There are some activities at the Keyes homestead that require us to keep our pets safely inside – weed whacking or archery practice, for instance. Junie, our faithful cocker spaniel, takes great offense to this.  With her chicken-nugget-sized brain, she cannot comprehend the danger and will thrust herself against the glass door, wailing like a banshee, certain that we are HAVING FUN WITHOUT HER.

That pretty much describes me these days, minus the snot streaks across the window.  I’m watching happy athletes jog past my window and I can’t join them.  I know how much they’re enjoying themselves. I’d give my life’s savings to be out there with them.  But it is neither wise nor safe for me right now, thanks to an injury, or more accurately, a re-injury.

Back in July, I fell after a training session and strained my hamstring. For months, I dutifully followed all the advice of trainers, doctors, massage therapists, Runner’s World editors, WebMD ghostwriters and yoga instructors.  It wasn’t getting better.  In desperation, I went to the charming Dr. Grimm who, in addition to having the most awesome Hogwarts-worthy name, is an expert in orthopedics.  X-rays revealed that a quarter-sized piece of bone had detached from my pelvis.  Apparently this happened when I was a child. It lay dormant until the July fall, when, like Smaug, it awoke and began gnawing on my tendon.

The past few months have been filled with consultations, MRIs, cortisone shots and plenty of tears.  I want to run. I live to run. It shapes my social life. It keeps my weight and blood pressure down. It relieves stress and clears the mental fog.  It feeds my ego and helps me set goals. Not running these past months has been hellacious, not only for me, but for my family, especially during this terminal winter. They’ve been living with a feminine version of Jack Nicholson’s character in The Shining.  All work and no play makes Teresa a dull girl, indeed.

Bottom line: Hamstring injuries are bad. They can end a running career. At my age (oh, how I HATE that expression), I don’t heal quickly. Surgery comes with risks and no guarantees.  Running right now would be the equivalent of Junie playing fetch with the Lawn Jarts.  The enjoyment would be fleeting and followed by lingering regret.

I’m not sure what comes next for me, but today, it’s not a run. To everything, there is a season. For many lucky people, this spring is the season for running.  I truly am so happy for you! Be safe, set goals and have fun.  Enjoy the journey. I’m with you all in spirit. And who knows? I just might catch up with you someday.

 

Greece native Teresa Benoit Keyes began running in 2006 and completed her first marathon at age 50. She lives in West Bloomfield with her family.

 

 

 

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