Running in the Heat. And the Best Protein Shake Ever.

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How the hell did I ever survive triple sessions in the New Jersey August heat?  I specifically put off my run today until the evening hours to let the temperature cool down a bit.  At run time it was probably only flirting with 80 degrees here in South Kingstown, RI.  Nonetheless, this weather had me sweating like I was a righty at bat against Mariano Rivera.  And the run was only a little over 4 miles.  I think I left as many pounds of sweat in my t-shirt.  To make matters worse this was the second time I'd sweat through my shirt today as another day in the field trapping turtles in the mid-afternoon heat proved grueling.

Anyone who played football with me in High School knows I am a notorious cramper (ask Joey Schoch or Sean Hirrell about the post-Ponderosa Steakhouse episode).  Folks with Cystic Fibrosis lose salt in their sweat at a much greater rate than a normal person thereby making them more susceptible to the perils of dehydration and electrolyte imbalance.  Hence cramps.  For this reason I have ample concern over attempting to run 26 miles with the only assemblage of muscles that I have.  What if its 80 degrees in NYC on November 3rd?  There wouldn't be enough Gatorade in all the delis in all the Boroughs!  

My only real plan to prevent cramping is to be vigilant about hydration before, during, and after runs.  Is there anything else you can do?  As my mileage begins to tick upward...8,10,12,15 miles...I'll have a much better idea about how my body will respond to prolonged water and salt loss.  Hopefully it won't be too dramatic.  Or too hot in NYC in November.  All this global warming stuff is hocus-pocus anyway, right?

And now (as promised) shifting gears...

Here is the recipe for the most delicious protein shake ever invented:

2 bananas

2-3 tablespoons peanut butter

2 cups milk

1 fat free (or fat...whatever) chocolate yogurt

1 tablespoon semi-sweet chocolate chips

ice for coldness to preference

Blend it up!!!

Drinks like a Butterfinger milkshake but its damn healthy.  About 30 grams of protein.  And very easy to get all your ingredients organic.  Now go get out and run so you have an excuse to make one. 

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Old People Running.

Sometimes you're just not in the mood for running.  But you have to go out.  Because you told all your friends that you're gonna run real far in a few months.  So you kind of pout along, dragging your feet saying to yourself, "I'd rather be doing something that wasn't running."  And then you hit an uphill.  And then it starts raining.  Things are looking grim.

But then plodding methodically down the hill comes a grey haired wonder.  An old lady wearing sneakers and a fanny pack and running with a little hitch, but basically as fast as you are.  And she's smiling.  And then she smiles to you and waves and says, "good morning!"  And you can't help but smile and say good morning back to her.  She passes and with her passes your malcontent.  Now your smiling.

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Virginia is for Runners.

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I've spent the passed week in Front Royal, Virginia at the Smithsonian-Mason School of Conservation taking a class on wildlife genetics.  The course has allowed me to take a big step forward in understanding the possibilities of working with DNA to answer questions related to wildlife conservation and ecology.  And  like so many opportunities that come to pass when working in this field, it has afforded me the chance to come to a place renown for its natural beauty.  The school is located in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains at the northeastern edge of the Shenandoah National Park.  Although the pace and rigor of the course (often times going at it for 13 hours/day) has precluded me from venturing into the surrounding hills for any substantial period of time, I have been able to escape in the early morning hours for a handful of runs.

Not to mention the fact that the 3200 acre grounds house breeding programs for (and the opportunity to view) some of the most critically endangered mammals and birds on the planet (cheetahs, clouded leopards, red pandas, maned wolves, Przewalski's horses, white-naped cranes), this place and the surrounding Shenandoah region hold captive my naturalist heart.

This morning I got out with a short window of time to run before having to report to class.  In a pinch for time I figured I would take full advantage of the topography in order to maximize the benefit of my exercise.  To the north of campus (built upon an old military installation) there is a large hill called Racetrack Hill where rugged United States military men from centuries passed would engage in equine sport.  And as it happens, an oval shaped, mowed hilltop is a convenient place to run.  I had come up here briefly on a run a few days prior and watched the physical repercussions of what was unquestionably a large, fast-moving snake slide through some tall grass along an old stone wall.  Like a child, I ran after the moving grass.  But as in waking from a dream where some wonderful fleeting feeling escapes...the snake got away before I could glimpse it.

Needless to say I was eager to return to Racetrack Hill. I spent the rainy morning running laps around the primitive track.  I was soon lost in the place.  Hayed hillsides giving way to rolling hardwood forests, lingering fog obscuring the rounded peaks, lone purple thistle rising from the grass, swallows zipping overhead.  All of this appealed to a deep seated sense of place.  A distant sense of home.      

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Running 4 miles on Sheperd's Pie...

...that you gorged on the previous night is not fun.  But that's what Sarah and I did on Sunday morning.  Without puking.  Boom.

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Runnin' and Herpin'

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The American toad in the driveway was an auspicious sign.  We were leaving for our run and I joked to Sarah that we had fulfilled our herp quota for the day - but in truth this was just the beginning.  For those of you requiring an introduction, "herp" refers to herpetology; the study of amphibians and reptiles.  In the verb form it refers to the active pursuit of these animals.

Sarah had to catch the Sunday evening train back to New York in a few short hours, but we had this gorgeous afternoon together.  We were on our way to the South County Bike Trail - an old railway converted to bike path that runs from South Kingstown to Narragansett.  With no vehicular traffic, flat and straight, and with mile markers for reference, its about as convenient a place one can find for running.  We parked at the trail-head, stretched briefly, and were soon on our way.  No longer than a 3/4 of mile into the run, just as I was settling into my stride, a ribbon-snake made itself known on the path directly below me.  I narrowly avoided stepping on it and was able to grab the slender serpent before it fled into the grass.  At first resistant, the snake soon calmed to my handling, moving smoothly through my grasp.  Iridescent dark scales and bright yellow stripes along the length of the body betrayed a recent shed.  Sarah and I observed the animal for a few moments, then put it back on its way.

Along the trail there were dark, shallow vernal pools.  Though I didn't pause to inspect them for late-spring egg masses or nascent tadpoles, they were most likely laden with developing wood frogs and spotted salamanders.  Grey tree frogs could be heard calling from high atop the branches.  The hardwoods were in mid leaf-out; miniature yellow-green leaves of maple, oak, and ash.  The trail intersects the Great Swamp Management Area where wildlife roam the wood and water.  A wading egret tip-toed lightly along the edge of a freshwater marsh.  The natural beauty of this place was striking and made running anything but a chore.  Our admittedly leisurely pace was befitting of such an enjoyable run.  

Sarah and I reached the 2-mile mark and returned for the round-trip back to the parking lot.  From there it was home for a quick shower and then on to the Matunuck Oyster Bar for some raw oysters and cold beer. A wonderful follow-up to a wonderful run.

Don't give up.

Went for a run today.  Nothing crazy - 3.5 miles.  Was running through a small conservation area in South Kingstown called Potter Wood.  About a quarter mile into the wood along the trail there was a bench and on the bench sat two older gentlemen.  They looked to me like old friends.  I smiled politely as I passed.  The first man nodded.  The second man, wearing sun glasses and a well-worn Red Sox hat, raised his right hand high above his head, almost preacher-like, and said loudly, "don't give up."  Nothing more.

I smiled, but did not immediately respond. His words resonated. I was taken aback by the paradoxical simplicity and depth of the statement.  It was as if, in three words, the man had penetrated the very heart of my spirit.  The very heart of the human spirit.  Like he knew my story.

"Good advice," I said behind me.

Time to Get to Work.

Sometimes, late at night, I can't sleep.  All kinds of thoughts dance through my head.  School, science, politics, friends, love.  Only rarely does my own health emerge among this spinning collage of topics.  Given that I have cystic fibrosis (CF), I suppose I'm quite fortunate in this regard.  The small proportion of time spent with this on the brain is reflective of the fact that up to this point in my life, I've managed the disease well. A commitment to therapeutic consistency, a healthy lifestyle (albeit occurring in the adult-onset form), and a little optimism have played no small part in this. But it would be dishonest to suggest that I don't worry about having CF.  Quite simply, its worrying.  And increasingly so as one looks beyond the youth-eviscerating number of thirty.  I wish I could control the production of the CFTR protein in my own body, thereby regulating the flow of ions across cell membranes in places where it mattered most, namely my lungs and pancreas.  Then I wouldn't cough so much.  Or have to remember to take so many pills with every meal.  Or have to spend so much time talking to health insurance people over the phone.  But one of the first hard lessons learned somewhere around the metamorphosis from adolescence to adulthood is that you can only control what you can control.  Enter exercise.

There are ceilings to how rigid I can be about adherence to medicine, maintaining state of mind, and living a healthy lifestyle. And while I've certainly left room for improvement with respect to the first two, I think I'm furthest from reaching the ceiling of the last item - lifestyle. Particularly when it comes to exercise.  I've always been active - I grew up playing sports in youth and through high school. And much to my parents credit I was never held back from participating in general childhood raucousness. This has helped me, I think, evolve into a person who likes to maintain a certain level of physical activity. Over the years since organized sports ended I've spent lots of hours running, surfing, hiking, biking, kayaking, Jiu-Jitsuing, and lifting weights, among other sweat-inducing things. There's no doubt that these have contributed significantly to maintaining the trajectory of the curve of my health over time. But that curve inevitably gets heavier over time, increasing the likelihood of a one way ticket south to Cough City. Greater effort is needed to maintain what has become the norm. That's the bad news. The good news is that exercise is an enormous factor for an individual with CF in controlling their own destiny. Thus, it is with both excitement and a sense of purpose that I hereby declare to the world my intent to raise the bar of personal physical activity.  This in the name of health, happiness, and a good old fashion challenge.

But I can't lie... from where I sit today, 26.2 seems like a really big number.  Time to get to work.             

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