Run Date: 4/26/06
Wash Park Laps: 2-ish
Gnats: 80 billion

I didn’t run the whole way, if that’s what you’re wondering. That's what the "2-ish" is supposed to convey. I felt like I could fall asleep after the first lap. The second onetook forever, in part because I walked. Twice. I never walk when I run. It’s too against-the-whole-purpose. Anyway, I was out there for hours, I think. Want to know how long? I will tell you.

During the growing daylight hours between the time work gets out and the park lights come on, Wash Park hosts plenty of beer-league volleyball. It’s just like what you see all summer long along Chicago’s North Beach, only without water or sand, and with twice as many hippies: rows upon rows of fluorescent pink- and orange-rimmed nets, young people milling about, games in regular rotation, kids tearing around the adjacent playground, etc. The first time I passed it, the makeshift courts were all in use and the party was in full swing. As I began my second lap, I could still see the revelry from the other side of the park. A few people trickled out, maybe, but the party was more or less intact. But something creepy happened in the (very long) time it took me to pass Volleyballland on lap two: everyone disappeared. All the nets had been disassembled and loaded into trucks. The yuppie athletes had evacuated their overpriced, oversized foreign road hogs. The hippies had wandered off somewhere in search of Frisbee-based fun. There were still kids on the playground, but I’m pretty sure they live there, so that didn’t concern me. Oh, and all of a sudden it was dark. I was reminded of this dream I had when I was a kid, where I fell out of the car while it was driving (I had this dream a lot. Whatever the dream said about my Freudian side, it was screaming it), rolled down a hill, and came to a stop outside of a tavern crowded with people, both inside and out. I was probably seven when I had this dream, so who knows what I was doing outside a tavern. Anyway, I went in to the noisy, crowded tavern to get help, but I got nowhere with those yahoos. I gave up and went back outside—where it was suddenly dark out—but no one was there. Everyone had evaporated. Back inside—same deal. Sounds like abandonment issues, doesn’t it? I wonder if my parents accidentally left me places when I was little. I doubt it. You would not believe how cute I was as a kid.

Brandon

I just spoke (IM-ed) with my friend Katie, and we discussed this blog a little. There was some initial confusion re: the main topic, whether it was 'what I think about running' or 'what I think about while running.' As Katie pointed out, there is a huge difference between the two. The first doesn't need a blog because it can be summed up in a single word: sucky. That's her word, not mine (although she may not have actually said it). Katie is gearing up for her first half-marathon and is a bit cranky with the whole idea of running. I kind of agree with her, though. Running can be sucky. But, to clarify, this blog is about the latter of the two ideas--the 'what I think about while running' one.

Brandon

Run Date: 4/20/06
Wash Park Laps: 1
Gnats Ingested: 43

One thing I notice about my running style is that my knees tend to graze each other. Not all the time, although I can't figure out what the determining factor is. I used to tell myself it was because my quads were so musclely that there just wasn't room in between them. But my once-bulbous knee muscles have substantially atrophied since then, and the knee-grazing continues. I wouldn't mind it so much except that: 1) it creates bald expanses on my otherwise National Wildlife legs, and 2) I feel like I am running knock-kneed. Have you ever done that with your friends, just to be goofy (or for any other reason)? You can imagine how self-conscious you might find yourself if you were doing it in front of several, or several hundred, strangers. I certainly do, and I'm not much for self-consciousness.

The other unusual pattern I've noticed in my stride is . . . well, my stride. I am a glider. I pick up my feet only as much as is absolutely necessary to keep from stumbling. Most other people I see have a good bob going, up and down, pumping their arms, so that, if you were to watch them come up over a hill, you could see a little of their hair, then nothing, then a little more of their hair, then almost nothing, then a little of their face, then almost nothing again, and so on. I have very little bob. I keep my upper arms very still and just barely swing my forearms. I saw this on the news one time, when I was living on my friend's floor in Chicago. Chicago is famous for its marathon (and other stuff. Like hot dogs). Every so often, on the news, they bring on this "running doctor" who gives all the marthon-running t.v.-watchers tips on how to improve their running. The segment I caught was on efficiently expending your energy. If you move your upper arms, you're wasting energy. I can't verify the biology (physics) behind that, but it's what Dr. Run (not to be confused with Rev. Run) said, and it seems to work. But it looks rediculous. At least, it feels rediculous. Kind of like the knee thing. Have you ever run around without moving your arms? No? Am I the only one who ran around like a little freak when I was young? Well anyway, that's what this technique feels like, and it feels weird. So I often suspect I am a bit of a spectacle when I run. Perhaps I'm move self-conscious then I thought.

-Brandon

There's not a lot to do while you run, aside from listening to music. And people-watching. I mostly just think about stuff. I can get a lot of thinking done in 30 minutes of running. This blog will reflect--in a rambling, word-vomity way--my thoughts as I run.