Daddy-daughter running diaries

Not long after I published my mushy Mother’s Day post, a good friend—and loyal blog reader—of mine pointed out that I sure as heck better write something equally sappy to commemorate Father’s Day. Of course, I was already planning to do so because (a) my dad is awesome and deserves mad props for his awesomeness, and (b) writing this blog post was much cheaper than buying and mailing a card. (Thanks for teaching me how to budget, Dad!)

My dad and I chillin' like movie stars in SoCal (Brad Pitt is taking the picture).

My dad and I share much more than just our good financial sense. From him, I inherited my charming foot deformity, my taste for anchovies and green olives, and, perhaps most notably, my insatiable desire to win at everything. As a pro football coach, he pretty much has to be competitive. And although he always emphasized sportsmanship and humility above all else, my dad definitely nurtured my innate competitive drive throughout my childhood—whether I was vying for the lead in the local children’s theatre production of Oklahoma! or a spot on the middle school math team. So, despite being raised in the age of participatory trophies and no-score youth basketball games, I developed a competitive spirit so strong that to this day, I can’t even get through a friendly game of Scattergories without a little smack-talk.

And even though cross-country was a bit outside of his wheelhouse, my dad fully immersed himself in the world of distance running to support my passion for it. If that’s not the definition of great parenting, then I don’t know what is. Here’s the “run”down (see what I did there?) of our most memorable father-daughter running moments:

A Daddy-Daughter Jog Down Memory Lane

1996 (summer) – I enter my first 5K road race. My parents also enter the race. After leaving my mom in the dust, my dad and I set out on a joint mission to conquer the eight-to-ten-year-old female age division. By the midway point, I am whining and complaining so much, you’d think it was an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras. Knowing full well that my drama queen antics are all for show, my dad risks a CPS investigation as he basically drags me through the final mile. Just as he predicts, my tears magically disappear when I see the huge throng of spectators gathered around the finish. I sprint across the line, win my age group, and receive my first-ever gold medal. From that moment on, I am in love with running.

1996 (fall) – My dad lets me race his offensive linemen in practice drills in hopes that they might be motivated by the threat of getting beat by a third-grade girl. I am oddly satisfied by my repeated victories over a group of 300-pound men.

2002 – It is the morning of my very first high school cross-country meet and I am a nervous wreck. It also happens to be school picture day, and in the midst of dealing with a Stage-5 Hair Crisis—trust me, curlers never work the way you want them to—I almost forget to pack my race bag. When I finally get to school, I make the horrifying discovery that in my rush to get out the door, I forgot to bring a sports bra. I immediately go to the office to call home. My dad answers the phone. My face burns red with embarrassment as I explain my predicament in panicked whispers. Ten minutes later, my dad shows up at school with the necessary equipment wrapped discreetly in a plastic bag.

2004 – My dad is coaching in Europe, and my family and I visit him over spring break. I am right in the thick of training for my sophomore track season. Because he does not want me to get kidnapped by a group of Euro-thugs in a Taken-type scenario—although, for the record, Liam Neeson ain’t got nothin’ on my dad—he insists on accompanying me on all of my training runs. He enacts the rule that I must stay within his sight at all times, so I end up doing a lot of back-and-forth running. This seemed overprotective and annoying at the time, but in hindsight was actually very loving and sweet.

2005 – For the second year in a row, my dad spends hundreds of dollars to take me to California so I can compete in the Footlocker West Regional Cross Country Championships. My race performance is mediocre at best, but he knows I gave it my all and offers lots of congratulatory praise nonetheless. Afterwards, he tries to ease my disappointment by devising a completely skewed, wholly inaccurate mathematical calculation proving that I am actually one of the top 50 high school runners in the United States. Also, he buys me a Tommy’s chiliburger.

2007 – It’s my freshman indoor track season at the University of Montana. I’m set to run the 800 meters in a meet at the University of Idaho, which happens to be in the middle of butt-effing nowhere. My dad doesn’t even think twice about making the five-hour trip to Hick Town, USA, to watch me run for two whole minutes. In his rush to get there in time for the race, he neglects to fuel up and runs out of gas midway through the drive. Without a moment’s hesitation, he gets out of the car, and—dressed in jeans and a leather jacket—begins jogging down the interstate toward the next exit. A nice young man takes pity on him and gives him a ride to the closest gas station. He makes it to the track just in time for the 800. A local sports writer is so impressed by this story that he later pens an entire column about it.

2010 (spring) – I’m set to run the 800 in one of the most competitive track meets of my college career: the Rafer Johnson/Jackie Joyner-Kersee Invitational. The meet takes place in Los Angeles—my dad’s old stompin’ grounds. I’m pretty sure my coach has fudged my entry time so I can run in the fast heat. To get myself in the psychological state necessary to compete against women with thighs the size of my torso, I repeatedly tell myself that (a) I am a badass and (b) as such, I can definitely keep up with these chicks and their massive quads. Once I hear my split at the 200-meter mark—27 seconds, the fastest I have ever run 200 meters, period—I realize that my plan is effed. I blow up hard core at 500 meters and finish dead last. My dad commends me for taking a risk and tells me it’s good experience to race against such a competitive field. Also, he buys me a Tommy’s chiliburger.   

2010 (fall) – It’s my senior cross-country season at UM, and we’re on our way to one of the biggest meets of the season: NCAA Pre-Nationals. For some odd reason known only to the NCAA and possibly Dr. Phil, the Division I cross-country championship course was built in the boondocks of western Indiana and is only accessible by a series of windy backwoods two-laners. My dad has traveled all the way to the Hoosier State to watch me compete. I have no idea how to direct him to the course, so I suggest that he follow the team van. He is staying at a hotel a few miles up the road from ours and plans to jump on the freeway as we approach his exit. Despite my moronically vague descriptions of our location—“Um, we’re, like, on this road that is next to, like, another road...oh, and the roads have lines on them!”—my dad somehow manages to perfectly time his freeway entrance, sliding right in behind the team vehicle in the legendary maneuver that forever will be known as “The Merge.”

2013 – I’m now a full-blown has-been, and I’m running in my latest community road race—a 10K in Polson, Montana. When I pick up my race packet, I find out that the 10K course is actually just two loops of the 5K route. I also find out that there are approximately six people registered for the longer distance, half of whom are men over the age of 50. After the starting gun—er, whistle—goes off, I am running alone within seconds. To help me deal with this double-whammy of monotony (repetitive course + no competition), my dad drives the car alongside me at various points throughout the race. He and my mom cheer just as enthusiastically as they would if I were pulling ahead of Kara Goucher in the Olympic Trials.

So Dad, thanks for always being there to cheer me on no matter what. I can always count on your congratulations, encouragement, and support—whether I win a major award or just a participatory trophy (although for the record, I hate participatory trophies and think they are slowly destroying America). Love you! 

Why I need to stop watching Nancy Grace

I do the majority of my runs close to home, in a neighborhood comprised mostly of retired couples and rich Canadians who think it’s super hip to have a summer home south of the border.

As such, I usually pass by several old people walking small dogs over the course of my usual route, but I hardly ever see other runners. Which is fine with me—whenever I catch a glimpse of another runner in the distance, my competitive juices start flowing, and I feel compelled to somehow “beat” them, either by being the first to reach a certain point along the road (if they are running towards me) or passing them before I reach a certain point along the road (if they are ahead of me).

So to be honest, I’d much rather smile and wave at Dr. Nelson and his bichon frise, Princess Beatrice, than enter into an involuntary speed showdown that, whatever the outcome, will almost certainly leave me feeling like a complete nerd/loser.

Today, however, was different.

As I exited the land of late-onset empty-nest syndrome and turned right onto the main road, a flash of motion jumped into my peripheral field of vision.

I turned my head and squinted into the morning sun, trying to get a better look at this mystery exerciser—the first one I had seen in days. But he was completely backlit, and all I could see was the distant silhouette of a…roller blader?

Hold the phone, I thought. Did I really just see a freaking roller blader?

As I strode along, I racked my brain for the last time I had ever laid eyes on a pair of roller blades. I finally decided that it must have been at least a decade, since everyone knows roller blades haven’t been cool since “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It” was on the Billboard Hot 100.

No, wait—I thought—I think I saw a pair at that white trash garage sale I stopped at a couple of years back, the one where I almost got talked into buying a set of Harry Potter Happy Meal toys from a 6-year-old with a Kool-Aid mustache.

My train of thought was suddenly interrupted as an elderly gentleman zoomed by me on some sort of wheeled contraption that can only be described as the awkward lovechild of a mountain bike and a Nordic Track ski machine.

So it wasn’t a roller blader, I thought, shrugging my shoulders with an inexplicable feeling of disappointment—like I’d just seen Bigfoot but then realized it was only Jack Black with his shirt off.

I ran on, wondering why I had never seen this guy out on the roads before. About a mile down the road, I heard the faint sound of an approaching set of motorless wheels.

Then, from behind me: “You’re beautiful.”

My heart jumped. Oh crap, I thought. It’s finally happening. I’m going to have to karate-chop some pervert and make a run for the nearest dog-walking senior citizen.

I had reviewed my response to this exact scenario many times in my mind. The only problem is that, despite my best intentions, I still haven’t taken the martial arts self-defense class I’ve been meaning to enroll in for the last six years.

With no bank of kick-ass ninja moves to draw from, I picked up my pace and stole a quick look to my right to size up my attacker. He was skinny and at least 60 years old.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew I could escape from him with nothing more than a swift kick to the crotch and a few hundred meters of sprinting in the opposite direction.

“Your form, I mean—it’s absolutely perfect,” he said as he glided past my right shoulder.

I think he knew he had startled me, because he kept a comfortable distance between us as he continued on with his somewhat flattering commentary of my gait.

“I just love watching you run,” he said. “I can see the winner inside you.”

“Oh, um, thank you,” I said, not knowing how else to respond to such an odd compliment.

The winner inside me? Was that some kind of cryptic sexual reference?

I picked up the pace another notch and made a sharp turn onto a small footpath that led to a narrow canal bridge, hoping it would prove too great an obstacle for his bike-ski hybrid.

“Oh, I see we have the same route,” he said, following me down the path.

I was on the verge of veering off into someone’s backyard and screaming, “Help! I need an adult!” But before I had the chance, he opened his mouth again.

“I’m Bob, by the way,” he said. “I ran competitively for 30 years, and I can always pick out the best runners just by looking at their form.”

After Bob introduced himself, the strength of his creeper vibe diminished considerably. I got the feeling that he was just like me—a lonely runner in a world of tiny sissy dogs with out-of-shape owners.

“My name’s…” I hesitated for a second, weighing the consequences of giving him my real name and ultimately deciding it probably wouldn’t hurt. “…Brooke. I actually ran in college, and my coaches always said I had good form too.”

Bob rode his ski apparatus next to me for another half-mile or so. We chatted about cross training and cartilage breakdown—you know, normal running small talk.

After we parted ways, I wondered if I had just seen a glimpse into my future. Would that be me someday, riding a funny-looking bike thing and striking up unsolicited conversations with young whippersnapper runners?

I can accept that as my fate, as long as I never reach the point where I have a miniature Schnauzer named Prince Charles.

On your mark, get sweat, go

If you’re one of the five people who have been reading this blog regularly for the past few months—or one of the countless exercisers who have had the misfortune of using the treadmill next to mine—you know that I have a severe sweating problem.

I’ve been unavoidably flecking my excess perspiration on fellow gym-goers for years—ever since I came to the conclusion, following extensive cost-benefit analysis, that running on a treadmill is a better winter exercise option than the outdoor alternative. Running on the icy roads of rural Montana simply isn’t worth the risk of broken bones and/or frostbite.

I was unaware, however, that there was an actual term for this phenomenon. That is, until I came across an interesting link on one of my new favorite blog sites, runningisfunny.com.

After reading this article, I realized that my current protocol for dealing with my overactive sweat glands is all wrong. My mantra of “absorb, absorb, absorb” should be replaced by “deflect, deflect, deflect.” I should forgo sweat towels, portable fans and SweatWow products; instead, I should use my natural talent for sweat production to my advantage. In short, I should adopt the highly effective gym tactic known as “defensive sweating.”

Over the years, I have inadvertently tested the effectiveness of this maneuver on several occasions. My conclusion? It works.

I have found it to be particularly effective when combined with an Accessory Sweat-Flecking Mechanism, or ASFM. Examples include loose jewelry, ponytails, headphone cords or mullets.

Using the force of kinetic energy transferred from the motion of the runner, such mechanisms propel sweat droplets much farther than they would travel on their own.

For example, in an incident that took place at my local athletic club approximately six weeks ago, I unknowingly utilized the tactic of defensive sweating to force another exerciser off of the treadmill adjacent to mine. I knew he had probably vacated the area to avoid being sprinkled with my perspiration, which was flying off my iPod cord faster than nonsensical words fly out of Charlie Sheen’s mouth. At the time, I was left feeling more embarrassed than triumphant.

After reading the article, though, I’ve begun to see defensive sweating as an outlet for competitive urges I can no longer satisfy with weekly competition. It really is the perfect contest for me—no one beats me at sweating. No one.

Plus, leaving the gym feeling like a sweaty winner rather than a sweaty freak has done wonders for my self-esteem.

A new "fun"tier

Still amped up on dopamine from my little Good Samaritan episode, I set out on a leisurely afternoon jog through my neighborhood. Although I had no intention of attempting another round of sprint intervals, I decided to take a route that passes by the high school track.

In the distance, I could see a crowd of people gathered in the stadium. As I got closer, I realized it was a group of high school track and field athletes. Track practice.

I stopped and peered through the chain link fence, overcome by the sort of wistful nostalgia Britney Spears might experience by looking at a wall calendar from the year 1999.

At that moment, I made the strangely painful realization that my days of reporting to afternoon practice were gone forever. I would never again be forced to complete crippling workouts that left me sore and fatigued for days. I would never again be expected to race so hard that I had to stagger to the bathroom and sit on the toilet with a puke bucket for half an hour. That made me sad.

But you know what? Britney (sort of) successfully revitalized her career, and I can too. You see, …Baby One More Time was the Britney equivalent of my high school and college racing career: the peak, the zenith, the I’ll-never-ever-be-that-good-again era of success.

Let’s be honest: Circus was no …Baby One More Time. But it was still a successful album, and you have to admit that Britney is still entertaining, whether she’s singing and dancing on stage or assaulting paparazzi with an umbrella. Circus is to Britney what 5K fun runs are to me. (I know, I know, it’s a terrible analogy, but I’ve been out of school awhile and my cognitive abilities have deteriorated substantially. Work with me.)

What fun runs lack in legitimate competition, they make up for in entertainment value and enjoyment. In fact, I might—scratch that, I will—even go so far as to say that fun runs are actually better than serious races. After reading the rest of this post, I think you’ll agree.

Why fun-runs are waaaaaaaaaayyyy cooler than school-sanctioned racing events: a post within a post (not to be confused with that dream within a dream Inception crap)

1.) Degree of pressure

When you and your teammates are getting reading to run a race that actually matters, everyone acts all serious as they silently change into their spikes, pin on their race numbers, and apply their Breathe Right nasal strips:

But at a fun run, the typical pre-race environment looks more like this:

(photo by Dawn-Pink Chick, http://www.flickr.com/photos/dawn-pinkchick/)

2.) Uniforms

As a member of a school-sponsored team, you must compete in a (yawn) team-issued uniform:

At a fun run, you are free to choose your own uniform:

(Photo by Stuart Chalmers, http://www.flickr.com/photos/gertcha/)

3.) Expected effort

When you are competing for team points, scholarship money, or a spot on the varsity team, you are expected to look like this after you cross the line:

It is generally not encouraged to pass out, pee yourself, and/or vomit after finishing a fun run. That sort of behavior is frightening to young children and tends to put a damper on the festive mood:

Let’s take a look at a side-by-side photo comparison:

4.) Awards

If you win a race at an important meet (like conference or state), you’ll likely receive another boring medal or ribbon. (Woo. Hoo.):

But if you’re a top finisher at a fun run, you’ll probably get a supercool prize:

Like a trophy with a golden buffalo topper (a great conversation piece):

Or a beach glass sculpture thingy:

Or even a souvenir pint glass (perfect for drinking a much-deserved post-race bee—er, Gatorade):

On a completely unrelated note, today is my dad's birthday. Happy birthday, Dad!

The race that puts the "kilts" in "kilometers"

As I stepped out of bed this morning, every joint in my entire body produced some sort of snap, crackle and/or pop. My whole being was consumed by a single, all encompassing ache, and I wondered if this is what Charlie Sheen feels like every morning.

My hangover, though, was not of the hookers-and-cocaine variety. No, I had done something far more outrageous. I raced a 5K.

As you might remember from my previous post, I entered the race in hopes of reawakening my competitive spirit in a fun, friendly atmosphere. Well, that is exactly what happened…sort of.

In my college racing days, my pre-race ritual involved focused race visualization, an extensive stretching routine, a stomach-approved meal of plain noodles and water, and of course, an early bedtime.

After several years and countless repetitions of this boring regimen, it grew unbearably tiresome. I just couldn’t bear putting myself through it again, so I decided to establish a new ritual.

It involved thinking about the race as little as possible, eating a dinner of lamb stroganoff and beer, and ending the night with a concert fundraiser, another beer, and a scoop of ice cream. I went to bed feeling full, happy, and completely ignorant of the possible consequences of my irresponsible pre-race behavior.

I awoke feeling rested and calm as a cucumber. I ate breakfast, read the newspaper, played the free online version of Bejeweled—you know, all the stuff I’d do on any regular morning. I got dressed, laced up my shoes, and pinned on my race number. And that’s when—da dum (think Law & Order)—panic set in.

I started freaking out. I wondered if I could call in sick. Do people call in sick to races? My mind was spinning. I wasn’t ready for this. It was going to be a huge embarrassing failure.

I pulled myself together enough to drive to the starting line. When I got out, I felt an immediate sense of relief. How could I get worked up about racing people in green tutus and leprechaun costumes?

Then I spotted an old friend. She was completely hammered and slurring her words as she (loudly) proclaimed that she and I were going to “totally kill this thing.” So I would be racing with drunks, too. More relief.

She pulled me to the back of the crowd, where she introduced me to some of her friends, who I assumed were also drunk. Before I had time to push my way to the front of the pack, the race announcer was counting down to the start.

During the first few hundred meters, I cautiously jogged around men in kilts and women in sparkly shamrock skirts. By the time the crowd thinned out enough for me to settle into my normal pace, the leaders were well ahead of me.

But instead of panicking and attempting to make up all of the distance in one fell surge—as I might have done in the past—I just stayed calm, cruised along at a quick but manageable pace, and enjoyed the beauty and splendor of Missoula’s north side.

I was having a ball picking people off, when out of nowhere I heard a familiar voice calling my name. I looked to my left and was startled to see my parents driving next to me in their barely audible Toyota Prius. Electric hybrids might be good for the environment, but to unsuspecting road runners, they are really just a low-emissions accident waiting to happen.

Anyway, my cheer crew showed up periodically throughout the second and third miles, which provided me with a much-needed mid-race boost. “Go get those guys in front of you!” my mom squealed.

I was momentarily embarrassed, as I was sure “those guys” had also heard my mother’s comments. As I came upon them, I apologized for my vocal but well-meaning family. I moved past them, but as we approached the pedestrian bridge, one of them initiated a response-pass.

This guy—let’s call him Arm Sleeves, since he was wearing a pair of removable compression sleeves—blew by me as we started climbing the ramp to the bridge that spans the rail yard. As he made his move, he said something that was probably meant to be friendly and encouraging.

But I hate being passed, so it didn’t matter what Arm Sleeves had actually said, because to me it sounded like, “Ha ha, see you at the finish line, sucker!”

And just like that, my competitive fire was lit—and burning hotter than ever. In that moment, beating Arm Sleeves became the single most important thing in my life. As we spiraled down the ramp on the other side of the bridge, I took a moment to regain my composure. Then I moved in for the kill.

The final quarter mile was all grit and muscle memory. I ran faster than I’ve run in weeks. As the finish line came into view, I sprinted away everything I had left, convinced that Arm Sleeves was right on my tail.

When I finished, I spun around and realized that he, in fact, was not—but in my dash to cross the line before him, I had edged out a high school girl by a couple of seconds, which made me feel like a real bully.

Still, I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t excited about earning the women’s title in the 2011 Run For the Luck of It. And in the process, I learned that racing success has nothing to do with eating plain noodles. It’s more about mental control, patience, and fabricated rivalries with otherwise friendly competitors.

Coming soon: RFTLOI race video

Mmm...dark beer and marshmallows

Attention everyone: I have an important announcement to make. I’m about to pull a Brett Favre.

No, not the kind that involves inappropriate text messages and an embarrassing national scandal. The kind that involves coming out of retirement mere months after hanging up your uniform.

The truth is, as much as I have enjoyed eating real food for lunch and being free from the obligation of daily practice, I have missed the thrill of competing. With outdoor track season rapidly approaching, the itch to race is stronger than ever. Online Scrabble tournaments just aren’t enough to satisfy my competitive urges.

Luckily, I have found the perfect event to kick off my post-collegiate racing career: an Irish-themed 5K in celebration of St. Patrick’s Day. The only problem is that the race is this weekend, and I suspect that my fitness level has dropped significantly since the last time I crossed a finish line (at the Division I Mountain Regional Cross Country Championships last November).

To finish this race, I will probably have to rely heavily on muscle memory and the underlying threat of public humiliation. But since this is a St. Patty’s Day race, I will have one important advantage: my Irish family heritage.

You might find it hard to believe that I descended from the land of potatoes and leprechauns, considering my golden-brown complexion, long-legged physique and apostrophe-deficient last name. I anticipated your skepticism, which is why I took the liberty of conducting a meticulous scientific study to prove that my ancestors indeed hailed from the Emerald Isle. As you can see from the results, I was successful in my endeavor. I also inadvertently uncovered the reason behind my uncanny Chewbacca impersonation.

First, a pie graph representing my ethnic makeup:

Second, a photo of my shower. Yes lads and lasses, I even smell Irish:

So with the luck o’ the Irish on my side, I think my semi-pro debut has great potential. For an extra boost, I plan to eat a hearty pre-race breakfast of Lucky Charms and Guinness. I will also wear as much green as possible—perhaps an old Favre jersey?

Who knew spandex could be so inspirational?

Well folks, it's that time of year again—the time when skinny kids run in circles and sharp metal objects fly through the air. Track season! With most spring season openers just around the corner, I thought now would be a good time for me to unveil the poster campaign I’ve put together to generate interest about a sport most people ignore—either unintentionally or totally on purpose. I realize this design has become quite cliché in recent years, but I simply could not resist putting my own tracktastic twist on the ubiquitous motivational poster spoof. Prepare to be inspired. (Note: all images are from my personal archives and albums unless otherwise noted. I don't want to get sued if this thing gets huge.)

(image from montanagrizzlies.com archives)