Where am I?

I started to do a post on Presque Isle and became frustrated.  Frustrated with the fact that there is not a lot here.  I have not done a post on where I was for a while and I thought it time.  I am heading south, still, on the Aroostook Scenic Highway on Route 11.  West of Oakfield, north of Patten but nearing I95. 

Here approximately.  At some point I have crossed out of Aroostook County and into Penobscot.  Being on a scenic highway I decided that I will post a few pictures.  Not of me, but of where I am. While searching for those, I found this about Aroostook County:

When Maine coined the slogan "The Way Life Should Be," someone from Aroostook County was clearly on the committee. We are like a foreign nation up here in The County (what the rest of Maine calls our huge chunk of moose-blessed real estate)-- closer to Canada than any significant population of fellow-Americans. And we (proudly) are not of the times. We grow potatoes and look for the longest checkout line at the store so we'll have more time to chat. We grow potatoes and watch the Parade of Lights come down Main Street in Presque Isle on a -10° night. We grow potatoes and probably have more churches per capita than any other place else on earth because the spirit of Maine individuality dictates that theological schisms be resolved by one party splintering off and starting a new religion. We're friendly, tolerant, helpful, grateful to be alive and appreciative of our beautiful surroundings. We're also honest and trusting, the way people should be.

I like the sentence with "theological schisms."  Here are the relevant photos of what I found.

Notice how I have the sunset at the end?  That's the way it should be.

The Tragedy of Time

Chatting with a colleague this week made me realize there is a downside to competing for time.  She was asking about some time off and was I going to do anything fun.  Yes, I usually take the day after a race off.  A recovery day.  Just in case something major happened or I have that weird little metabolic issue kick up; it makes me dizzy.  Or, the most likely culprit, I am hung-over.

She is a runner, goes out for thirty minutes every other day and enjoys the run.  Just for the run’s sake.  I am a runner, too.  Each of my runs has a purpose.  To make me faster.  She shook her head and said she could not do that, she just likes to run.  There might be something to that.  She is never dissatisfied with a run.  I frequently am.  She is never preoccupied with a pre-race meal or a taper or the pace with which an interval is run.  I am.  She is never disappointed by her effort.

I have gotten so preoccupied with setting a new PR, placing where I want to place, and maintaining an even pace, I have lost my perspective.  I am training for a race where I feel I could have done better last year.  During my final tempo trainer, I bonked.  It was hot, I had not eaten or drank properly before going out, and I went out too fast.  Shortly after half way I stopped and backed way off willing myself to just finish the run.  I ended the run ten seconds slower than last year’s race time, and I had screwed it up.  I have got to remember that I am now achieving times on a messed up trainer that, three years ago, I would have never believed they would be associated with my name.

I have also lost sight of the beauty of running.  Being the only man in an office of women for three years taught me one thing.  Beauty can have a purpose.  I can have a purpose to my running.  I can’t lose sight that, while my performance might be less than my expectation, I am still doing something beautiful.

Doldrums

I am ticking towns from Maine off the list. I have taken the first miles west and, currently, I am heading south down Route 11, The Aroostook Scenic Highway, from Ashland to Sherman.  From there I will continue south on 11 to Medway and turn west again toward Millinocket . In Travels with Charley, Steinbeck started his cross country route in a similar area. If memory serves me, he got very bored. My intention was to profile all of these neat little running communities across the country; however, this is not working out so well. I am finding that there are not a lot of runners where there are not a lot of people. This utopia of welcoming running communities does not exist.

This is not to say that Maine has no welcoming running communities. The people that run that I have made contact with are welcoming. Even the people who are not runners were very welcoming. It does give way to a math lesson. Let’s say 5% of the population runs. That means there are less than 1000 runners in all the cities I have profiled. Total. The only way I am going to find these people is through the internet, and, then they have to want to be contacted, and respond. They also have to love running so much they are on the internet talking about running, or in a race result. My chances of finding one of these people every 20 or so miles is slim. Steinbeck became frustrated with Maine, and I will admit I did too. Then I got to thinking about it on tonight's four miler. How could I get frustrated with a place for not having what I wanted. It's not Maine, it's me.

I am coming out of a poor running month. The week before the race I look forward to most, I got sick. Nothing major, just a cold with some body aches. The timing was terrible. I was very well prepared, but no running for eight days before the race and I had to bail on a run that was to be a 5k does things to the mind. Still not feeling well the week after caused me to just plain not go on two more. My elder daughter is giving us a difficult time with going to bed and there were some nights that five miles at 10:30 seemed impractical. Family reunion, hangover(s), allergies, the list goes on. It adds up to a lack of motivation.

Tonight marked one of the changes in seasons for me. Starting with the first of the year, inside, then as it warms inside nights and outside weekends, then as it gets lighter outside all the time, then as it gets darker inside nights and outside weekends again before returning inside. Tonight was back inside at night. While this does yield some flexibility in when I run; I don't like it. 'Tis the season of late summer doldrums.

The fitness center smells the same. This time of year there is the additional smell of chlorine from the pool. I did not want to be in there and as I started the mill it made a noise like I had been the last one on it so many miles ago. Mile one was creaky, for both of us. In mile two there was no joy in Mudville. I wanted to stop, the inferiors were restless. Virtually silent when I am outside, they reared their ugly voices. I consciously made the decision to go on. It is not like I was killing myself, either. I could sustain this pace for a long way if I needed to. After I hit half way the tide started turning. I had the thought about Maine vs Me, and I thought about the drudgery of the winter season, but the more I thought about the more I seemed like a tour de force. I can tick off towns in Maine and be out of there by Thanksgiving. I can register for a couple of races and my training will take care of the mileage. If I use the mill and schedule properly I might gain some pretty good speed over the winter. By the time I get to the Hudson River Valley I will be outside again.

Doldrums broken, motivation rejuvenated in four easy miles. Maybe the mill is not so bad after all. All those good thoughts happened on the mill. As I left it dawned on me that I still loath the mill. All of that happened in my head. My head happened to be on the mill. My head loves to run, no matter where.