I just don't get runners
NORTH OF EMPIRE - A solid 250 miles into
a 500-mile Tuesday, booming through M-22's sun-dappled
woods, my boot skimming the curving pavement, the
motorcycle humming at 5,000 rpm in fifth gear, this stray
thought is pinging inside my helmet:
Those people who run
in the Crim 10-mile are crazy.
I mean, come on. Ten miles?
In the rain? In the heat?
Just think of all that specialized equipment they have
to buy, I think, as I tug the sleeve of my all-weather,
armored jacket under my custom deerskin gauntlets.
They
have to buy special, expensive lightweight shoes, and
special socks, and special itty-bitty shorts, I think,
as I wiggle my toes in a $100 zippered and Velcroed boot,
flexing my leg muscles in no-chafe, no-seam, thigh-length
bicycling shorts under my Gore-Tex overpants.
And all
the aches and pains that come with training for that
famous 10-mile run. Blisters, heat rash and sunburn, oh
my! Can that really be worth it?
Oooh, gotta shift a little
bit, getting a hot spot after 160 miles without a gasoline
stop. Maybe I'll have to pull out the sheepskin seat
cover if this sun gets any hotter. And I better dial in
the throttle lock a little bit, my wrist is getting stiff.
And
the runners' fancy-nancy watches, for goodness sake.
The big dials, the impervious watchbands, the trick readouts.
Not
like this clean little factory-issue, back-lit, analog
clock ticking away the hours in the dash of my motorcycle.
Oh no.
I just can't understand running 10 miles,
in a row, in one day, no matter what the weather. Whoa,
clouding up a bit over there, glad I brought my rain pants.
And
all the little mind games they play to get through the
miles, to break through "the
wall," whatever the heck that is.
Hmmm, I wonder how many
times these 18-year-old 400cc pistons have gone back and forth
over the past 84,000 miles. Let's see, at an average of 40
miles an hour, that would be a minimum of 2,100 hours,
call it an average of 4,000 revolutions a minute, so that's
two strokes a minute ....
And they're so competitive, always
comparing their times and gear and "been
there, done that, got the T-shirt" machismo, and know-it-all
attitudes.
Yo! Twitchy Ninja boy in my lane! Where
ya think you're going? Keep up or keep out of my way -
and put some socks on!
Yes, I finally decide, those long-distance
runners are plumb loco. They even have special diets
that govern their lives, and sometimes wear little lights
to run at night.
Well, gotta go.
After some blackened salmon
in Traverse City.
Because I sure don't want to be in a
carbohydrate fog behind my trick 100-watt high beam when
it gets dark on the way home.
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