On the Run Again

Back in the days when I could actually run semi-quickly. And LIKED it!

No, not “On the ROAD Again,” a title I use whenever I’m moving on to a new place. In this case, it’s literal: I went running yesterday morning for the first time in ages. Well, at least back to last fall, near as I can tell. But boy oh boy, can I tell today. Ouch.

Some background: I got back into the local Crossfit gym when I moved home last spring. That was a good move and while I wasn’t as strong as I’d been when I was a regular there in 2012-13, I was doing well through the winter. I also played quite a bit of hockey — some of it quite high-paced hockey — this past wintertime, which helped with the cardio. Surfing? Not so much. This is New England, after all, and swells are few and far between here (much to the detriment of my sanity, in addition to my physical health).

And then in February — on Valentine’s Day, no less…another reason to hate the fucking day — I fell while skiing in New Hampshire. That was the first time I’d skied in a few years but would I NOT charge hell’s bells into things? Of course not. My buddy, Tom McLaughlin, and I were at Waterville Valley where there had been several inches of new snow overnight. I was riding my telemark skis, as per usual, but the only boots I have nowadays are my Terminator 3’s: low, lightweight boots more for the backcountry (and it’s requisite hikes) than for hardpack at a resort. Turning in an area of flat light, I dropped a knee for balance and my trailing ski caught a patch of fluffy snow. I tumbled and while the new snow was soft, there wasn’t enough of it and I hit the underlying packed snow with my right shoulder. Hard. Tom later said that I came up a bit crooked afterward.

Over the remainder of the winter, my shoulder ached and, naturally, got worse. Did I go see a doctor? Of course not, and not only because of my usual hardheadedness. Having only the Obamacare/Romneycare-created MassHealth insurance (because I didn’t have any income), I was reluctant to see the doctors and the local practices on the plan — none of whom I’d ever heard of. And though I continued to play hockey (and surf whenever a swell graced us with its presence), the shoulder got more and more painful, which kept me out of the gym and away from non-hockey and non-surfing forms of fitness. This spring I finally went to a local physical therapist and I’m glad to say the shoulder is much better now. Still nowhere near 100 percent, and it can be really achy at times, but the sharp, stabbed-with-a-knife-like pains happen much less frequently.

But the damage has been done. A recent physical (required as I seek to resurrect my pilot’s license) was sobering. I knew I was overweight (duh) but it was made clear to me that I needed to get my act back together. And I finally started that quest with yesterday’s run.

On the plus side, I didn’t stop at all and I kept the pace below double digits. On the being-realistic side, it’s a flat run at sea level, and there’s still plenty of room for slow running while keeping a single-digit pace. I went 3.3 miles and I ran 8:43, 8:52 and 9:03 miles — hardly the eight-minute miles I used to run.

Still, I’m pleased. And I’m cautiously optimistic and hopeful about yesterday’s run being the start of a positive behavior trend. I don’t know what’s been going on of late, but my motivation and energy level has been severely lacking. In ALL facets of my life. I’ve always believed that there is never a moment when one can’t change their life, and I recently grabbed one of those photo-with-quotes memes off the internet that I quite like. It reads: “Life will only change when you become more committed to your dreams than you are to your comfort zone.”

God knows running is not, and never has been, my comfort zone. That I went there yesterday hopefully means I’m committing to my dreams — and will stay committed to them.

Now if I can only figure out what those dreams are…

Navel Gazing, Personal, Sports and Fitness

AHATT

My happy place

For a time back in Alaska, I lived with my then-girlfriend. She had joined me in Anchorage and we jumped into the whole domesticated-life thing…which, to her surprise, included a lot of time at the hockey rink.

At the time, I was playing on a beer-league team two nights a week and in an invite-only pickup game another weeknight. I was also coaching a women’s team in their Sunday-night beer league and a bantam (13- to 14-year-olds) team upwards of five times a week.

A bit nonplussed by the time commitments involved, my girlfriend coined the term “AHATT” which stands for “all hockey, all the time.” And as I look back on my life, it’s a pretty accurate description of where I’ve spent a good portion of my life.

Which is not to say I’m a good hockey player. I’m not. But I’m a very avid hockey player and have been since I began playing when I was 5 years old. In the intervening time there’s been one winter — 1999-2000, when I lived in Austin, Texas — that I did not play at least a large amount of hockey. And as a result of that time spent in the rink hockey has become the most Zen thing I do in my life.

When I tell people that, they’re always a bit taken aback. How can a violent, collision sport like hockey be remotely Zen? The answer is that the moment my skates hit the ice my conscious brain shuts off and I’m completely in the moment. There’s no thought, only flowing action and reaction as the subconcious mind takes over. It’s the most free feeling I have in my life, surpassing even surfing and powder skiing; those pursuits have had their moments but they’re just that — moments — and are nowhere near as regular and reliable as the act of playing hockey.

In action in Tampa

So it was a joyful weekend recently when I found myself in Tampa, Florida, participating in the U.S. Hockey national championships for over-50 hockey players. (Sidenote: “national championships” is a bit of an overstatement. Any team that pays its fee is in; there are no qualifications other than a check that clears. But U.S. Hockey is the national governing body for the sport so they get to use the term “national championships” to gin up the event a bit. Whatever.) I played for a tier-two team from Houston. A guy I’d skated with in Alaska had moved to Houston and contacted me to see if I wanted to play with his team. I said yes and there I was, in Florida for a few days of puck.

And what a treat! I hadn’t played several games in a short span in many years and, while tiring, it was such a fun experience to again be playing with a purpose (as opposed to goofing off in the pickup hockey I play in San Diego). Our team went 2-1 in the 12-team tournament and missed the tiebreaker for the semifinals by a single goal. I managed to play okay though not well enough for my liking, but still managed to contribute quite a bit to the team’s effort.

One thing that was particularly challenging was finding that killer instinct that I’ve been suppressing in recent years. In our San Diego pickup games I look to pass 99 percent of the time, even with a point-blank shot on goal. In Tampa, it took semi-conscious thought to realize that scoring goals was, you know, important. On one play, I tipped the puck past an opposing defender. I picked up the puck off the boards and turned toward the goal from a very sharp angle. In San Diego I’d have stopped or swung behind the net or spun back to the corner, all looking for one of the less-experienced players to join the play and let me find them with a pass so they might score. But in Tampa I had to consciously bear down on the net and pick out an opening for a shot. I scored, which was nice, and from there the switch in my mind had been flipped. That sense of purpose on the ice, of having a goal (no pun intended) other than just the bliss that comes from chasing a little rubber disc around a frozen body of water, was back in full force.

I’ve always maintained that heaven, to me, is a big, frozen pond somewhere in the snow-covered mountains. It’s a blazing bluebird day — so bright you need sunglasses. There are a dozen or so youngsters and half a dozen adults all playing shinny hockey, and everyone is smiling and laughing and joking, trying one-in-a-million moves and highlight-reel plays. The sun makes its way across the sky as we play, nonstop, for the rest of eternity. All hockey, all the time…indeed.

Navel Gazing, Personal, Sports and Fitness

A Cruel Mistress

For a whole host of reasons — all of them horse shit so I won’t go into them here — I haven’t been in or on the water much lately. Every time I hear that Counting Crows (remember them?) line, “Been so long since I’ve seen the ocean…I guess I should” it hits home — until I realize I live about a quarter-mile from the waterline. At which point I feel even more pathetic. It’s a wonderfully vicious cycle.

But for that same whole host of reasons — all of them still horse shit so I still won’t go into them — I’ve been making an effort to improve several aspects of my life. And that includes prioritizing water time. That should be the priority for a Pisces, shouldn’t it?

What’s been sobering is that it hasn’t been easy. Well, the actual getting out and DOING those ocean-centric things has been; I’ve been motivating fairly well (see above re: “horse shit reasons”). No, what’s been difficult are the actual acts of sailing and surfing, usually two things that are Zen-like in their mental aspects (at least for me).

Take yesterday, for instance: I went down to San Diego to watch a regatta of schooners go by on the bay as part of a race. It was cool to see these majestic boats cruising past on the breeze that was rolling over Point Loma and down San Diego Bay. Wait, what? Wind? In San Diego?! That’s right: actual freakin’ wind! After the schooners had gone past I motored over to Mission Bay where I rented a 16-foot dinghy and went out to enjoy that same wind.

And enjoy it I did…but it took a while to get there. Tacking out of the basin where the rental boats are tied up, I unfurled the headsail only to have the jib fairlead snap. Whoops. About face…back to the dock. The guys set me up on the other 16-footer and off I went again. Several quick tacks and voila! Past the rock jetties and out into Mission Bay.

I tacked my way up toward the broader, windier part of the bay. And plenty of other people had the same idea: there were tons of sailboats of all sizes, several kiteboarders (including one guy on a foiling board who kept getting yanked clear of his foot straps), a few sailboarders (didn’t know anyone still sailboarded) and the rest of San Diego’s water aficionados: SUPers (both good and beginner), jet skiers, water skiers, booze cruisers, cops…you name it. Hell, out of sight around the one island there was a rowing regatta. It was like both directions of a busy Southern California freeway with none of the lanes drawn on the pavement. Thankfully, nothing drastic happened while I was out there. More damage to the ill-maintained dinghy (topping lift broke and several of the plastic mainsail cars slipped out of the track on the mast) but nothing major.

What was really frustrating, though, was my seeming inability to read the wind. Performance? Hell, I was just trying to keep the sails trimmed not TOO horribly. I mean: there were times it felt like I couldn’t even tell what the hell point of sail I was on.

But before my rental was up and it was time to return to the marina, there were one or two instances where I actually DID get into a groove: the sails trimmed properly, the boat heeling just SO and the hull slicing through the water with a sense of purpose. In those moments it felt like the boat was smiling just as I was.

My return to surfing this weekend was painfully similar. Friday night after work I jumped into the water for a sundown session. The waves were fine: fun, big enough for a heavy guy like me to have fun, not too many people out. Could I catch a wave? Nope. My paddling was anemic and my judgment worse. It finally got so dark that I was the only person left in the water and that still didn’t help. I managed to get worked by a couple of clean-up sets and finally said “to hell with it” and just rode in, prone on my board.

Saturday morning wasn’t much better but at least I wasn’t worried about being stuck out there after it got dark. Of course, it was the weekend so not long after I got into the water, several fat guys on SUPs and even more old guys on longboards paddled out, just to make the maneuvering that much more of a challenge. I managed a couple of rides — none remotely special — and called it a day. I figured I’d go check out the schooners in San Diego…that would be awesome right? You’ve read about that already…

And this afternoon I went to the beach figuring I’d just read a bit and soak up some more sun. As I pulled into the parking lot a bomb set broke on the reef and a rider in each direction enjoyed a great ride. The chair and towel stayed in the car and I paddled out to join the half-dozen guys (a shockingly low number for this particular break) in the lineup.

The swell was solid with occasional sweeper sets that caught everyone off-guard, but other than those the tide made for funky paddling. The waves would stand up and then ledge out in front of you so there was no way to get onto the face and ride. It was a frustrating spell but after paddling for, and missing, a few waves I found myself farther inside. I paddled off to the shoulder of the reef sets and sat for a bit.

And then, what to my wondering eyes should appear (to coin a phrase)? Another of the very infrequent wide sets, perfectly lined up for yours truly with no one else around. A quick spin, a couple of quick paddles and UP! to my feet, driving for the drop-in…just in time for the wave to suck out. The sloping wave that was there a moment ago disappeared and I wound up ass-over-teakettle at the bottom of the sea.

But I’d found my spot for today. A quick paddle back and there was another wave bearing down. I got into this one quicker than the last wave and moved down the line before the section disappeared and enjoyed a high-speed, weaving sleigh ride before the wave shut down. A few more just like that and my frustration from the previous two outings was gone.

I don’t know if the ocean was making my pay dues for having been elsewhere (mentally, emotionally, physically and any other way possible) for the past few weeks, but I do know that this happens every time I’m away from the ocean for very long without a legitimate excuse (injury, illness, living in the high country, etc.). You can draw your own conclusions.

Ocean Fun, Personal, Sports and Fitness