About Time

I recently heard a debate on French radio about how our perception of time changes as we age and how, in our modern societies, we've forgotten the pleasure of taking our time. As the French philosopher Voltaire said, we should make the most out of the present, because it's so short.
I thought about it while running with my dog in our local park last Saturday, upon arriving at my favorite portion of the trail. The place is surrounded by evergreen trees that crack in the wind in a whiny complaint. The ground is covered with a layer of dry pine needles that cushion every footstep and muffle the stamping. My mutt Gatsby and I were alone, unless you count birds.

(Gatsby leading at the start of the trail on a sunny weekend.)

It was a delightful moment that made me appreciate the value of time shared with a four-legged running companion -- until I started to get frustrated, because Gatsby was slowing down, sniffing around and making frequent pit stops.
The evergreen-tree part of the course comes about halfway in the 6-mile loop. After setting a perky pace and trouncing me through steep uphill and downhill sections of the trail, my 1 1/2 year old dog usually slows down after a mile or two. When the temperature is warm, like last Saturday, I give him water just before an easy and flattish portion. That's usually when he stops leading the pace, and drops to my level. By the time we reach the pine trees, he's behind, seemingly dragging his (four) feet.

I remember a rule from my parents about running with dogs: they should always be ahead of you. But I also have enough experience running with Gatsby now to know that he's capable of running faster and longer. He can sprint when he spots another dog, and back home after what I imagine being a long run for him, he bounces around full of energy and wants me to play tug of war with him. Gatsby just likes to take his time, sniff and -- more often than I'd like for a dog -- eat grass. He makes the most of the present.

(Gatsby prefers to walk on steep uphill sections: ``Dude, why the haste? I think I'm gonna eat some grass.")

Most runners have a clock in their head. Even though trail runs with Gatsby are supposed to be relaxed and fun, I can't help thinking about the missed opportunity of pushing a bit harder. I'm thinking about the entry I'll make in my daily running log: 6 miles of trail run, about 1h30, or an average of 15 minutes a mile -- almost twice my so-called easy pace on a road. The best way for me to appreciate a ``Gatsby run'' is to run first alone, at my own pace, before taking him to the woods. The flip side is that when I run alone on the trails, and my thighs burn in the steepest portions, I miss Gatsby -- my only excuse for slowing down.
On Sunday, I ran about 17 miles, came back home and took Gatsby back to the trails. Of course, he decided to lead longer and faster than usual. On the first uphill, as I was panting and trying to keep up with him, he looked back at me with what seemed like a smile, as if to say: ``Enjoying this yet? This is what you did to me yesterday.'' In the evening, as I told my husband that we went for a run, he asked:
``I thought you said you'd go for a walk with him.''
``I can't walk,'' I answered.

(``What do you mean,  `carry your own water'? Do I look like a donkey?'')

I have a great time with Gatsby on the trails, and I think my urge to run doesn't mean I can't enjoy the present. But my dog is teaching me something. All along, I thought I was training him to be a good running companion -- maybe without a leash some day. I've got a plan for him, slowly increasing his mileage (as long as he likes it) to make him stronger and better. In fact, he might be training me to take my time, for once.

It was also about time I updated my blog. My last entry was Feb. 8: Time flies. In the interim, I suffered from a calf injury, was forced to cut my mileage to a minimum for three months and wasn't able to participate in the Boston Marathon, where the Kenyan Geoffrey Mutai made history by running the fastest marathon ever in 2h03. While I was injured, the time to recovery seemed an eternity. Looking back now that I can run again, it doesn't seem that long. My perception of time has changed.
It's about to change more, as I spend time running with my dog. The woman who rescued Gatsby from a kill-shelter in North Carolina named him after a novel that touches upon the theme of time and nostalgia.
"In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year... Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."
``The Great Gatsby.'' F. Scott Fitzgerald.

 

(Self-portrait with the Great Gatsby in the woods)

(Post-running stretch: as usual, Gatsby steals my towel.)

Why We Run

At 7:33 a.m. last Sunday, my father sent me a text message -- ``Maman 3h56 moi 3h46'' -- announcing my mother's and his time at the Nice marathon in the south of France that morning. My program for the day was to run to the local park to compete in a 10-mile trail race and run back, for a total of about 21 miles. With hindsight, my plan to run long that day wasn't a coincidence.

For his book ``De Rennende Hollander'' (``The Running Dutchman,'' published in Dutch last month and hopefully soon available in English), my friend D. asked fellow runners including me a simple question: Why do you run? My answer concluded this way: ``It’s like asking me why I breathe: I just do. It’s part of me. Maybe I run because my parents run, quite simply.''

It's difficult not to be inspired by parents who not only run competitively at age 62 and 63, but also do it in the most unassuming way. I got the chance to train with them for two weeks in September, while they were visiting me in the U.S. They stuck to their training plan -- for a 3h45 finish time -- even through downpours. They followed each run with 30 minutes to an hour session of stretching, abs and core exercise.

(``Let's go running in the rain!'' The Daurat stick to their training plan. Simone borrows a Phillies hat that matches her outfit.)

My parents, who started running in their mid-30s, are as driven as they ever have been: Perhaps more so now that they've both retired.
My mother got sick with a sore throat during her visit and took one day off running. The following day, while she was still feeling poorly, she accompanied my father and me to the park, where we would run his so-called tempo run of the day (6 miles including about 4 miles of progressive acceleration). She said she would walk. About 20 minutes later, I left my father and ran back to my mother to tell her where he planned to go. I saw her before she saw me. She was jogging: I knew she would.
My father kept track of all his runs thanks to his Garmin watch, which gives him distance and speed, among other data. Every day, I would pick roads that would fit their training plan and accompany them. On a day that called for an easy run of 10 kilometers (6.2 miles), I elected for a road I'd never tried myself. When we arrived at what I had chosen as the return point, my father looked at his watch and said: ``It's only 4.8 kilometers, let's continue a bit more: an easy run has to be 10 km. I'd rather make it longer than shorter.''

Sunday was my father's 19th marathon and my mother's 17th, and their time 1 minute faster than in the text message after checking their real time online. As rigorous and motivated as they are in their training, they're also realistic. My mother was disappointed by her time, 7 minutes slower than last year. She says she peaked two weeks too soon. Four days before the race, she also caught a bad cold that floored her. My father says he was happy, even though he secretly hoped to do better than last year (he was 2 minutes slower). Both tell me they don't push as hard as they used to. They're content to still be running. Hours after the race, my mother said she didn't know whether she'll do it again. Two days later, she said she might do three more to round up to 20.
``It's a nice number,'' she said. She says she'll stop when she doesn't want to run anymore, when the desire is gone. Clearly, it isn't.

(The Daurat, enjoying a post-club run slice of watermelon on a warm September night, pose with Delco RRC's Byron.)

On Sunday, after texting back to my father that I was proud of them both, I ran to my own race. I had no particular expectation, except having a good time on the trails, enjoy the beautiful weather and log in a 20-plus mile run.
I arrived just in time before the registration ended, signing up at the same time as two tall, blonde women who looked very strong: I was relieved when I heard they would run the 5-mile race, not 10 miles like me.
The 200-runner race started nicely, on an easy path patted with fallen leaves, but soon turned technical, to my disadvantage. Even though I felt like I was at my maximum speed on the steep downhill -- the skin of my cheeks flopping at each step -- I got passed by runners: only males, to my relief. After taking advantage of a small hill to pass a couple of women, I moved behind one of the two blonde women I'd spotted at the start. She was going at about my pace. I stayed behind: in the back of my mind there was a little voice that called me a slacker for not trying to pass -- just because I knew she wouldn't compete in the two-loop race. The second part of the 5-mile loop was very steep and around mile 3, I managed to pass her.

At mile 4 or so, one of the female volunteers said: ``That's what I wanted to see! First female!'' I finished the first loop in first place and set up for the second loop, not knowing who was behind me, or how close. I couldn't see anyone ahead of me either: Was I alone? On the steep downhill, I came across runners who were making their way up toward the end of their first loop. I got distracted, tumbled, fell (on my face, literally, as I had to remove dirt from my right eye), got back up on my feet with surprisingly limited damage and continued right ahead.
After a short moment, I heard: ``Wrong turn! Wrong turn!'' I had to go back up. Two men who were behind me were now ahead. I had no idea where the next woman was. The second portion of the loop felt much harder than the first time. My thighs were burning. I reminded myself that it was also hard for the others. Twice, I had to stop for a second to recover. The man just ahead of me was now walking uphill: I passed him. ``Hey, but you were ahead of me before!,'' he said. In fact, it turned out that at a few other runners had also missed the turn and, unlike me, only realized it once at the bottom of the slope. I'd lost just a few seconds.

I crossed the finish line as first female, ninth overall and got a nice trophy. I ran back home with the trophy in my hand, smiling to myself at the thought of how ridiculous I must have looked. It's the second time in four months that I won a local trail race. Winning is fun. But that's not why I run.

 (Bringing home my trophy. Merci papa, merci maman.)

Alive: The Anniversary Race

On Saturday, June 5, 2010, I celebrated life by chasing a barefoot man and a 19-year-old girl on the trails of a Philadelphia park. Burning thighs, sweating eyebrows, unquenched thirst and twisting ankles reminded me that I was alive.

As I lined up at 9 a.m. at the start of the Wissahickon Trail Classic 10k race, along with about 450 participants, my mind wandered back to a year ago. On June 5, 2009, I collapsed overnight from a bacteria called C-Difficile that can cause deadly colon infections, with a blood pressure qualified as ``near-death'' level by the emergency-room doctors. They pumped me with fluids for about eight hours, and by the morning I was well enough to graduate to a hospital bed upstairs.
Two weeks ago, as the anniversary of that night approached, I decided to run a race. I picked the trail race because I wanted to be close to nature, in the woods. I hate to race unprepared -- I had run once on trails this year, in early April, and I hadn't trained for the distance -- but I made an exception: the point was to run a race on June 5 and make it the first of many June 5 races.
Even though it was just a 10k, I suffered from anxiety-induced ailments that usually affect me only before big races such as marathons. On Friday evening, I started feeling pain on the sole of my right foot. Overnight, I dreamed that I was lining up for an urban race, near the front. Everything was going according to plan until I discovered I had forgotten my running shoes: I was barefoot. By the time I'd found my shoes and come back to the starting line, the race was already under way.
Saturday morning, I woke up at about 6 a.m. and walked to the bathroom with a limp: the foot pain was worse. I ignored it, but I made sure to put shoes on before leaving the house.

Philadelphia has the largest city-owned park system in the world with 9,200 acres (3,723 hectares) and the Wissahickon Valley Park, with 1,400 acres stretching for 7 miles (11.2 km), made me forget about the city -- and the mysterious foot pain -- the minute I stepped in.

(Posing before the start of the 2010 Wissahickon Trail Classic 10K. With shoes.)

The temperature was already hot at the start -- about 80 degrees Fahrenheit, or 27 degrees Celsius -- and it was very humid. My friend Bill, of the Delco Road Runners Club, who was running the race as well, told me that the first half-mile would be flat, on the main path called Forbidden Drive, and that I should make my move there, because afterwards the course would veer off to a single-track, hilly trail.

Checking on the competition in my age group, I spotted a few women in their 30s who looked strong. We started fast, but I managed to pass at least one female runner on the flat portion, before moving to the trail. My thighs started to burn immediately and I cursed myself for having gone to bed late and drinking beers the night before while watching a hockey game on television.

Non-runners often ask me what I think of when I run. To help bring positive thoughts and cope with the burning thighs on that first hill, I reminded myself that beer is source of carbohydrates, which are good for endurance. I pushed away thoughts that my late night was slowing me down. I mentally pictured my body processing the beer and transforming it into energy to fuel my speed. I wish I could say that I was thinking about stoicism and Arthur Schopenhauer's philosophy of the will. I wasn't.

I passed several runners, including a young woman with olive skin, black hair in a pony tail and golden earrings. Then I got stuck behind a runner on the way down. He was going too fast for me to pass him and he was going too slow for me to stay behind. While I was pondering the risks and rewards of trying to make a move around him without tripping and breaking my legs, several runners passed both of us. The third one was the pony-tailed girl, who flew by me on the way down. There were no markings so I don't know how far I was in the race, but I estimated it couldn't be much farther than 1 or 2 kms (1.2 miles). I thought I'd catch up with her at the next climb, provided my thighs stopped burning. She was soon out of sight.
I finally passed the runner ahead of me and moved on to the next. I would normally not feel thirsty on a 10K, but that day I was looking forward to the first water station at mile 2: even my eyebrows were perspiring. After the water station, a group of two or three runners and I fell into a pattern: I would slowly pass them on the way up -- several of them walked in the steeper parts, something to which I could never bring myself even as part of an overall race strategy -- and they would smoke me on the way down.
I twisted my right ankle at least four times and the left one twice on a steep downhill portion -- then I stopped counting. For a while, I was behind a runner wearing Vibram FiveFingers. I was looking at the back of his shoeless feet and wondering how it was possible to run that way on such a rugged terrain. Recalling my anxiety dream, I resolved to beat him, and did.
The downside of a trail race is that you're surrounded with natural beauty but you're only looking at the feet of the runner ahead of you. If you're first, you need to look for the markers. I missed a sharp turn, and two runners took the opportunity to pass me.

The final portion of the race included a steep hill: I felt exhausted. Other runners were walking: they were more exhausted than I. Only then did I start to get into the race mentally. I was finally warmed up. My mind was taking over my body and wandered back to June 5, 2009, to find the fortitude for a final push.
The trail took a few hairpin turns and I caught a glimpse of the young runner with the ponytail at the top of a hill. I was catching up. I also saw another female runner behind me. Was she catching up with me? I accelerated and decided not to look back.

I finished sixth female overall, in 50:02, a whopping 5:29 minutes behind the winner, a 27-year-old runner who left us in the dust, and 49 seconds behind the pony-tailed girl, aged 19. I couldn't decide whether to be vexed to have been beaten by a teenager or proud to keep up with such a youngster. ``No excuse,'' said Chris, a fellow Delco RRC runner.
My reward for coming second in my age group was to pick a flower or a tree from a dozen plants brought by the organizers for the winners. Based on the leaves, my pick looks a mountain laurel, according to my husband. The flower is, fittingly, the official state flower of Pennsylvania, my state of adoption.
I can't wait to see it bloom.

(Showing off my award after the race. Sans shoes.)

Magic Sleeves and Training Tips for a Marathon

At the Boston Marathon on April 19, I broke the basic rule that you should never try something new on marathon day and wore arm sleeves for the first time. They were black, just like those sported by Kara Goucher, my new sports crush, when she came third at the 2008 New York Marathon. Runners asked me what I did to shave 16 minutes from my record on the distance that day. It could be a coincidence. Or maybe those sleeves were magic.

  (Fashion tip for the amateur: dress like a champion if you can't run like them. Author of Goucher's photo: Stewart Dawson.)

As for the training, I created my own plan out of two sources: the ``smart coach'' tool on Runner's World magazine's Web site and New York coach Bob Glover's ``The Competitive Runner's Handbook.''

The advantage of the Runner's World online tool, besides the fact that it's free, is that it lets you tailor your plan based on the amount of miles you are running (I was at ``36-40 miles'' weekly in January), what your current race time is (I entered 3h15, which was close enough to the 3h18m45 at my latest marathon: Boston 2008), how you want to train (I chose ``very hard'') and for how long (14 weeks.) The tool computes your choices and gives you a schedule that includes the speed at which you're supposed to run. The last entry listed a marathon at a pace of 6 min 59 a mile, or a total of 3h03m17, which I thought out of reach at the time but proved to be pretty close to my 3h01m43 finish. I would recommend the tool for runners of all levels, especially marathon first-timers who don't know yet what they're worth on the distance. It works for half-marathons and 10Ks too.

I mixed that program with a sample scheduling from Glover's book, which is my running bible. Glover adds suggestions of races -- 10km, 5km and half-marathons -- strategically placed to contribute to the training.

I ran five times a week, no more, except for two weeks when I ran six times. During my two weekly rest days, I rode for at least an hour on my stationary bike. I followed all runs and rides by 10 push-ups (I'm still pathetic at it after 3 months but getting better), core exercise and stretching. Many runners train their legs and forget that the rest of the body needs to be strong to support them. Overall, my mileage increased from about 40 miles in mid-January to a peak of about 55 miles during in March. I ran one 22-miler and four long runs of about 19-20 miles. It's a low mileage compared with some runners of similar levels, but I found over the years that cross-training reduces my chances of getting injured. The key is finding what works for your body.

One or two of my five runs were ``easy'' runs of 8 miles to 9 miles on Tuesdays and/or Thursdays, on the treadmill at the gym for most of the winter. The pace of those runs started around 8 minutes 15 seconds a mile in mid-January and peaked around 7 min 45 early April.

Every week included at least a speedwork session or a tempo run, and often both. Speedwork is my bête noire, especially on treadmill. I used to create my own: I would run very fast for one or two minutes and then slow for a minute and go back to fast again. But I realized that by tailoring them on-the-go, I wasn't pushing myself hard enough. This year, I decided to stick strictly by the Runner's World speedwork guideline. The sessions consisted of at least three repeats of one mile, at paces that started around 6 min 30 a mile in January and increased to 6 min 10 at the end of March. I jogged for half a mile in between. I also included half-miles, with shorter rest periods. I was running so hard on the treadmill machines that on several occasion people came to me at the end and asked me what exactly I was up to.

The novelty this year was that three of my five runs were with a local club, the Delco Road Runners Club. In groups, I behave like a dog: when I see someone ahead of me, I chase. That made me push harder even on days when I was tired. It also made me do silly things -- as dogs do -- such as running tempo runs (the Wednesday run with the club is a fast 5.5 miles), the day after hard speedwork sessions, when I should have been recovering with an easy run.
I wrote here about how running with this club helped me improve my personal best on a half-marathon by 7 min 15 in Manhattan on Jan. 28. Any race during the training must be a means to reach a marathon goal, not an end in itself. I used that race and another half-marathon in Wilmington in March as gauges of my fitness. Wilmington was ideally timed, three weeks ahead of Boston. It has an ideal course: with a first part downhill and a big hill in the second part, it's like a mini Boston. Wilmington was my dress rehearsal.

My long runs were on a very hilly course. Those hills almost got me in trouble in February, when I started to develop bursitis -- an inflammation of the bursa -- on my right hip. My sports doctor told me that I should ease on hill training.
``But, doctor, I'm training for Boston!" I said.
Training on hills is a basic requirement for that marathon: there's no way around it. I continued to run my long runs on them anyway and eventually the inflammation went away: my body got used to the ups and downs.

Rest is an important part of training, but most runners don't want to hear it. Last year, I was forced to stop running for 1 1/2 months after falling very ill in early June from a bacteria. Throughout the illness, which lasted about five months in total, I continued to exercise a minimum amount, starting with walking, abs and core exercise. When I got better, I focused on cycling, because it was a better way to regain strength and rebuild lost muscle than running. My running log shows 0 mile in June, 22 miles in July and 89 miles in August. When I moved to decent distances in October and November, I felt stronger than ever. There's a lesson here: in the seven months preceding the beginning of training for what turned out my best marathon, I ran 649 miles in total. That's an average of 23 miles a week, shorter than a marathon.

This year, I felt lucky I could even run at all and I enjoyed the hard training, rain or shine (or snow). Forced rest, running partners, warm arms and a bit of happiness. That was my recipe for a good marathon.

(Is this a face of ``happiness?'' Giving everything I had, and more, at the finish.)

The Trail Bug

On Saturday, Jan. 2, at about 9:30 a.m., the temperature in Fair Hill, Maryland, was in the 20s Fahrenheit with a ``real-feel'' temperature in the single digits (about -15 degrees Celsius). The wind was blasting so hard in my face that I could barely breathe. My hands were frozen and numb inside my gloves. My eyes were teary and my nose was running. I'd just caught the trail bug.

(Scenic views of the trail. On the far right, Bill, in blue, Janet, in red, Whitney, on the bike. )

It had been incubating for a long time. Last summer, I discovered the Brandywine Creek State Park's trails with my friends Rita and Ray, who had just started running. As far back as I can remember in my childhood in the French Alps, we would go hiking on trails in the summer. It would never have occurred to us to run up the mountains, though. Once, as we were slowly making our way up the slope of Le Granier -- a nearby 800-meter (2,600 feet), 2-hour hike that includes an easy but steep rock-climbing passage-- we were passed by runners with race numbers. We couldn't believe it. It's crazy to run up the mountain, we thought: this coming from a family in which both parents in their 60s run marathons and cycle up Alpine passes.

(Le Granier, my hometown mountain in France: the trail is on the back, not off the cliff...)

I love trails. I love running. I don't hate suffering. It's surprising it took me so long to pick up trail running.
The Phunt trail run in Fair Hill was a 50-km (31-mile) race with cut-offs for about 20 km and a marathon. In the world of the organizers, a marathon falls into the shortcut category. I had decided to run the 20k, given my lack of training, and make peace with the fact that I'd be a whimp among the braver 50kers.
``This run is meant for experienced trail runners, but anyone with marathon experience who wants to try an ultra and promises not to whine if they get tired and dirty is welcome,'' the organizers said on the race's Web site.
Shortly before 9 a.m., the wind was blasting hard in the white tent near the start line. The runners huddled together for the final instructions, shuffling their feet to keep warm like a group of penguins. A few of them were in shorts, their legs red with cold.

For my maiden trail race, I was accompanied by four runners who together have run about 60 trail races; Bill (about 35), Janet (about 10), Bob (8) and Mike (half a dozen). The first few minutes were painfully cold and as we ran through meadows, there was no protection from the wind. My feet, trained to run on fairly even pavements and paths, were struggling to find a balance on the bumps of frozen mud. I counted at least 20 times when my left ankle rolled, threatening to twist, over the course of just several minutes. Then I stopped counting.
``You are spoiled for your first trail run!,'' Bill said. He meant this trail was nice and easy compared with the real thing, in places like Reading, Pennsylvania, where it gets really muddy and dirty.
The views from the meadows were scenic. The forest was at times fairylike, especially when we entered a canopy of trees crossed by the sun's beams of light.

(The canopy of trees. As Janet said, the pictures don't do it justice.)

Bill and I left Janet -- and her husband Whitney, a brave support crew member on his mountain bike -- at the 20 km cut-off. Looking at her back, I remember thinking she was going strong. She was, and finished as the first female of the 50 km in 5h14: her first win, without even trying. Her only casualty was a bruised toe and she started running again three days after the race. It's extremely impressive, and, for those who get sore muscles and other injuries on distances a fraction of what she did, a bit unfair, quite frankly.

(Janet on her way to her first win, going strong uphill.)

After confessing to each other that we were prone to getting lost, Bill and I stayed true to our words and got lost. We fumbled with maps for a while and made our way to the finish after 15.25 miles (about 25 km). Bob, who started trail running 2 1/2 years ago, followed shortly after. Mike was also among the brave ones who completed the 50 km course.
``When I'm trail running I like to take it easier and really enjoy it,'' Mike said in an e-mail a few days later. ``I think it's a product of getting older.''
That's it. I'm getting older and more exposed to bugs. I can't wait to enjoy my next trail run.

(Bob, me, Bill, Janet, Mike and, in the background, Mike's famous van, at the start.)

(A canine athlete, about to get a yummy, post-run snack after finishing the 20 km course. Forgetting all my journalistic instincts, I forgot to ask his name. I blame the cold..)

Happy Trails

Looking back at my five last posts -- spanning four months -- I noticed they all deal with injury, pain, sickness or death. So here is a happy running post, thanks to my friends Ray and Rita.

``Ray and I, in our efforts to try and get back into shape -- which is increasingly difficult when we're at my parent's house, aka house of sweets -- have started to run,'' Rita said in an e-mail on July 14, the French national day. ``If you ever feel like taking a leisure run/walk around the park with us, let us know!''


On Wednesday July 22, I met Rita and Ray at the Brandywine Creek Park, a 933-acre island of trails, nature and peace about five minutes away from suburbia ugliness. I was looking forward a leisure run/walk, as Rita described it, after almost two months of sickness and reduced exercise. Rita and Ray, who had started training about 6 weeks earlier, seemed similarly eager to try their new Brooks Cascadia 3 trail-running shoes: blue, gray and black for her; yellow, gray and black for him.

Ray plugged in his Sansa music player and started running on the main trail at a pace that can be qualified in many terms except leisure: too fast for me is the best way to put it. I'm still a convalescent and didn't want to push too hard, but the old reflexes and muscles kicked in: I followed him at a distance.

We stopped after about a mile and went off the main trail through a smaller, muddy one, up and down hills, jumping over tree trunks and fighting through the jungle of branches in the many spots where nature had taken over. During breaks and walks, Rita and Ray updated me on their progress. They try to run three times a week. On Fridays, they run as fast as they can for the stretch of the road, for about 1.5 miles, and time themselves. Once they reach their stated goals, they'll move on to another challenge. I'm impressed with their plan: they mix discipline and fun, the best way to keep motivation fresh.

After a loop of about 5 miles (8 km), which took us about 1h10, the verdict was out: Rita and Ray loved their trail running shoes and I loved trail running.
On our next run the following Monday, I told Ray he'd started too fast for me on the first one. Ray said that's because he thought I was right behind him. ``In fact, it was my shadow,'' he said.
It's OK. I'm happy to trail.