The other afternoon I found myself down in Harwich, and decided to stop by Cranberry Collision and sop up a little soul food shop talk about trail running with my buddy Bob. I was told he was out taking his dog for a little walk-break. The pause that really refreshes, you might say, a brief respite from the workaday world. My thoughts went back to my own dearly departed black lab, Cephas, the best running partner I ever had.
I often get calls from folks networking to find somebody to run with, social or security reasons usually providing the impetus. “Well, did you ever consider a dog?”, I ask them, after the usual questions about scheduling and the myriad of other logistics of finding a suitable running comrade to pair up with prove difficult. If you have any kinship with canines at all, your ideal match may be eagerly awaiting you (with proverbial bated, no, make that panting, breath!) And you can save a life, perhaps, in the bargain.
My dog Cephas was a (mostly) black lab I got at the SPCA as a pup. I was told he was the runt of the litter, which naturally drew me to him — so I had the great thrill of being in charge of his training from the outset. There were many frustrating moments when he was a puppy (just ask Mike Wallace), at times even scary (there was the time, for instance, that he spotted his first horse and was too curious, and near got his ribs kicked in), but often hilarious. He had that great disposition of all labs, eager to please, intelligent, affectionate, and of course, wicked loyal.
At full growth he was 60 lbs., slightly smaller than most labs. He was pretty much inexhaustible. I was heavy into marathons (surprise?!) when I had him, and on Sundays I’d run three hours or so in the woods at an eight or nine minute pace, and I often wondered just how far he actually traveled, what with all the squirrels he chased and investigating he had to do. I live near three ponds, so water wasn’t a problem even in the hot summer, and often we’d take quick triathlon-like swim breaks, or just run the perimeter of a pond along the side in a few inches of water. It was a blast.
He ran one regular marathon with me, the Green Mountain in South Hero, Vermont, which is a 26 miler on a lovely isle in the middle of Lake Champlain, just the kind of idyllic and rural setting that befits the canine competitor. This was 1988, I believe, and I ran 3:14, and he kept looking anxiously back at me as if saying, “Hey! We got to get going! You’re letting all these other guys get ahead of us!” (I think Jim Garcia or Ralph Swenson or one of those other fast dudes might have won it, but they would’ve been no match for Cephas but for his slow poke of an anchor/owner.)
I have often wondered if all the running and swimming brought on the arthritis sooner than it would have occurred naturally. I feel a bit guilty about that. He showed some by the time he was eight or nine, and from then on I would just try to take him on the shorter runs. Of course, once a dog gets used to going with you, they’ll never understand the inhumanity of leaving them out of anything!
I guess this is all anecdotal, rather than advice, but I urge you to get yourself a dog. Friendliest and most appreciative running partner you’ll ever have, and the best motivator to get out there on rainy days. If I even glanced in the direction of my running shoes, Cephas would spring up and wagging his tail furiously, as if to exclaim, “I was just beginning to wonder when you were going to shake those lazy bones and get back with the program!” and off we’d go.
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Lovely to see a veteran runner improve so dramatically as Pat Nally has recently. Not only did her 1:48 at the New Bedford Half Marathon astonish me whilst perusing the results, it captured division laurels for our earnestly-preparing for Boston vice president. Meanwhile, it created that kind of quantum leap that is so rare for those of us who have been chipping away at our own p.r.’s in itty-bitty increments. And you know what? As usual, there was no magic elixir to Pat’s progress, but simply another case of the “secret,” that old fashioned surprise hisself, Hard Work. Reminds me of another (and talking about dog lovers, too, weren’t we!) vet runner David Humphries, who improved himself “suddenly” ten entire minutes a few years ago, when he decided to make the once a week interval commitment at the track.
Obsession is the term the lazy use to describe the dedicated.
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Jane and I were out to the Midwest a couple of weeks ago, she to visit her daughter at the University of Kansas, I to run the 42.5 mile Brew to Brew, Kansas City Missouri to Lawrence, Kansas, home of the college. Forty five ultra runners and over 200 relay teams, so nobody got lonely, whether in city streets or later on in the dirt levee along the River Kaw or the cornfields of the countryside. Yet a new wrinkle offered by race director Lou Joline was the stipulation that if the runner was held up at any of the railroad crossings by the interminable freight trains, one was to count the minutes and delete from final elapsed time! Hmm … don’t know if anyone actually did this, but it offers up some wild scenarios to the post race tabulating, doesn’t it?!
I finished fourth to eventual winner (and 1999 Grand Slammer) Raul Flores, the very same man who won the Dallas Five-O that Kevin and Donny participated in in Texas several years ago. Raul was especially friendly and helpful to me after the race in offering wise counsel to my attempt at the Slam this summer. For those who have asked, the Grand Slam of Ultrarunning is the four high-profile 100 mile races held in the consecutive months of June, July, August, and September: Western States (Sierra Nevada), Vermont (Green Mountains), Leadville (Colorado’s Rocky Mountains), and Wasatch Front (Utah’s Wasatch Mountain Range). This latter is different than the others in that it has a 30 hour time limit rather than 24, and the course is not revealed to the entrants until racetime, changing each year as an additional wilderness challenge to go with the endurance aspect. Each race also requires an environmental assignment that must be completed beforehand.
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I leave you with these words that sort of form the creed of The Grand Slam:
There is little use for the being whose tepid soul knows nothing of the high pride, the stern belief, the lofty enthusiasm of the men who quell the storm and ride the thunder.
– Teddy Roosevelt
See you on the trails,
Pete
Promoting running and multisport activities on Cape Cod and the Islands since 1976.
