A Noble Spirit Embiggens The Smallest Man

My chip fell off the sandals that I wear

We might have won a valiant battle, where?

I can't be sure, the details slip my mind

I missed the Gu at Mile Marker Nine!

-Pheidippides
(uttered, in iambic pentameter, while collapsing at Athens)

Luckily, Herodotus pieced the story together later. The take-home lesson: a marathoner can't be counted upon to recall anything reliably; last year is already a fleeting memory for this runner. There were some cold mornings in the dark, forgotten band-aids, and a sprint across muddy grass to a start corral.

And so we roll on, based on what we're left with. Last week my calf spake thusly: "whatever you did last year, please stop." So a near-week of sloth ensued. You know how it is... that first day or two of not running is unsettling, after that it becomes easy, then a habit. So I converted to the weekend warrior, trying to buff the mileage resume with a Fri-Sat-Sun's worth of roads... no better recipe for the injury cycle! The calf pain merely migrated south to the Upper Achilles Delta, where we're in a standoff.

I may run tomorrow; I may not. I may let you heal; I may not. I'm compelled to move forward by nature. Tendinitis is 90% mental. Right?

I can only rarely override these hideous keep running circuits by emulating my heroes. In this case it's the inspirational Two Moon Pie Hobbit-Potamus - the Mercer Island Marauder. He goes by many names. That slack smile of the well-fed couch monkey belies a deeper knowledge: he knows something we don't know.

Like him I will rest fiercely, unapologetically, beyond the limits of human reason. I will sleep in. I will watch subcutaneous fat return to my face. I will not ski unless I consume more than double the amount of calories burned. Fried potato products are my friends. Sports on television are to be regarded as welcome opportunities for nap interval workouts.

When The Fluorescent One passed me fennel-flavored Gu in Portland, he flashed a little forearm and I saw this strange tattoo:

I recognized it immediately as a partial Beardsley training log from the weeks preceding his epic battle with Salazar in the Boston Marathon. Every Nashvillian runner knows it on sight. Note the Saturday 03/20/82 workout: included is a "training run" where Beardsley won a race on the 11.2 mile hillacious loop currently used for the Flying Monkey Marathon. That the Hobbit-Potamus found this, located a tat artist who could ably reproduce it, and saw fit to permanently mix it with his melanin can only portend ominous things for the rest of us! (For those brave enough, the full training regimen will be found here.) The Rein Rope-a-Dope has begun! He has lured yours truly, the fleet sister, the NYC co-runner and a host of others into a dulled sense of relative speed. Make no mistake: he is coming for us on mitochondrial overdrive, with old school training and a cheshire cat's slyness. I have seen 2009 and it is distinctly Reiny.

Speaking of, I am highly concerned that the Cascade Lakes Relay will sap Rein-related resources from our Spokane-to-Sandpoint team. Highly concerned. Only two weeks separate these prestigious events. Are we planning on doubling up? Just asking.

I don't know what the Eugene countdown has reached, if I'll be healthy, and who is in charge.

No matter. I'm blissed out now that I've discovered the secret to everything: wardrobe! Both of my late fall PR marathons were run in (1) comfy comfy underarmour hi-tech boxer-briefs (what was I thinking running 8 previous marathons in cotton? Yeck!) and (2) arm warmers. As tactfully pointed out to me by Portland Marathon alumnus Mark Swindle, my Rita Hayworth resemblance is uncanny....

Clearly, I'm in good company.

-Monkeystador

(apparently they'll let anyone post here)