Wind delay

When it comes to running, there's little that ruffles me as much as wind. Perhaps it's because I'm a tall strider, not a squat stormer (to offer an awkward phrase). All extension, instead of middle-distance power. I'm lanky. I admit it.

In any case, wind sometimes renders me nervous, jumpy, when the day's run is still before me. And today was awfully windy, though "awfully" might not be extraordinary here in the Eastern Sierra. By ten it was a more-or-less steady 20 mph, with gusts into the 40s. So I spent quite a number of minutes over the course of day staring out various window, like a (small, toy) dog that wants to go out, but hates a stiff breeze whipping through its coat. I was supposed to do a 23 mile long run, and per my usual route, that meant 10-plus miles of running, trudging, directly into the wind. The weather forecast confirmed that it wouldn't let up.

Finally, I decided (in consultation with the Internet) to save my long effort, which I want to run a pretty good clip, for tomorrow. So, that's to come.

Tonight, however, I ventured out at the last minute and ran 9 miles. From the start, I felt solid about the decision to postpone, since I couldn't hear a thing, and my face felt like it was alternately being pummeled and massaged. Every so often, I'd take a step in which my lifted leg would fly off into the one planted, almost tripping me up. Two and half hours of that frankly would have blown.

As I sailed down old 395 toward County Park, the lake reminded me of a conveyor belt, at a baggage claim, say. Even from a distance, swells were moving fast to the east across its surface (but they hadn't really broken into all-out white caps, for some reason). The day had cleared out the haze from a distant, unknown-to-me fire that had lingered around the Basin this week. And when sun disappeared, the wind quieted a bit, making my ascent back into Mono City easier. The blooming rabbitbrush quivered bright yellow in the dusk breeze. I was glad to be out, finally.

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9 mi, 63 min; Old 395-Cemetery Rd-Mono City jeep trail

Week total: 87 miles -- less than the 100 I'd anticipated, due to a delayed long run

Saturday, 9/18: 9 mi, 63 min; Aqueduct Rd and Lower Horse Meadows at twilight (then to the Tioga Gas Mart for a burger and short films, courtesy of the Telluride Film Festival)

Solidarity in rain

Thunderclouds, lightning, downpours today, and forecasted for the next few. Some runners--at least me--become down right doggish when weather comes. Most of the afternoon, I felt nervous, pent-up. When the booms shook the house, a part of me wanted to scamper downstairs to the bathtub and cower. Or, to switch metaphorical tacks, when the day's mood is off, I find myself walking to the window and looking out, my hand on my chin, like someone in a harborside house who compulsively looks out for the return of the beloved under distant masts. A person introspective, in all appearances, but more actually numb. I dramatize (though, we do have a view of the lake). But when the winds are suspect, I become anxious searching for the right window to venture out, and it's then, more than any other time, that I sometimes miss company on my runs. Solidarity in rain.

Of course, once I'm outside, it's often not so bad. Quite nice, in fact. And in the Eastern Sierra, if you drive a canyon or two over, sometimes you can discover that window. Rather unfortunate that it doesn't work that way everywhere.

Tonight, after a short store shift, I drove just south of Lee Vining and parked at the base of the road to Horse Meadows. From there, I ran on a jeep trail to Oil Plant Road, which merges with Aqueduct Road (which rolls over Walker and Parker Creeks). I crossed the north side of the June Lake Loop, went over the wooden bridge that spans the Grant Lake Reservoir spillway, and then turned around at 49 minutes. My legs felt heavy for the first quarter of the run, then I warmed up (I even left my shirt behind, three miles in, and was a bit chilled by the end). The vistas from Aqueduct Road, especially of the Mono Craters and Reverse Peak above June Lake are altissimo; horns should accompany! (Or at least photos, soon!) The lake, meanwhile, was shrouded in mist and rain, but the sky ever so politely spit just a little in the South Basin.

Also: near the turn around, I spent a few minutes watching an osprey hover and swoop over Rush Creek. Tourists are often miffed as to why an osprey, an exclusively fish-eating raptor, would nest over Mono Lake. How does it survive? I pose the question ... No, not on shrimp... Well, there above was the answer silhouetted below cloud and light rain. The bird had flown down from Grant Lake Reservoir to test Rush Creek for trout, but quickly went back. We passed each other twice, silently.

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14 mi, 98 min; O+B on Oil Plant Road and Aqueduct Road from the base of the Horse Meadows Road

Week Total: 76 mi

Waking

I've been nursing a niggling injury for awhile that just won't let go. In fact, after a few minutes of running, it sometimes feels like a hand is pinching the side of my achilles--not the achilles itself, but the soft facia, I guess, that run along the outside, just above the shallow cup behind the ankle bone. It wakes as I start out, then falls back asleep and I don't feel it by the end of my run. Whatever it is (any ideas?), it really broke up my training in June, because I took some days off--six, at one point--to try to shake it. But it's still hanging around.

I find that I wake up in the morning thinking about it. The definition of preoccupation. Coming out of unconsciousness, my mind creeps to my ankle, and tries to assess the situation. How does it feel? Is that a tingling? An ache? How am I to interpret that? Is it worse than yesterday morning, or better?

I can't remember.

On my run today, I crafted an analogy: it's like waking alone in your sleeping bag in the desert, and imagining that something's visited you in the night. Breathed on you, perhaps. Paw prints in the sand. The sound of boots. Could be just you. Or not. Is it still lurking? Stalking?

Then, if you're me, you just ignore the sensation. You never really check it out beyond a quick glance aournd. So it haunts you.

It's running taking on different psychic embodiments. Some days I think of running as if it were a dog. I have to worry about when I'm going to feed it, when the right temperature for a jaunt outside is. It's probably best to let the dog out immediately and go on with your day. But I'm not really a morning person.

In any case, I actually had a great run today, around 11, up Lundy Canyon. First time I ever did that. Bit of a huffer going up, but shady aspen and an easy cruise down.

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11 mi, 77 minutes; Lundy Canyon (past the dam, on trail) out and back