A New Morning with Grass on Ankles

It’s been a short while since my last blog entry. Thus, I decided that it was time to change that.

The summer is slowly beginning to come to a close, as most summers tend to do, and this morning in particular came a little too early for my liking. Well, early enough. Hence my executive decision to hit that ever-so-lovable snooze button on my alarm. But today was the first official cross-country workout of the season, and ultimately, the first time that everyone (newbies and oldies) got the opportunity to really combine their efforts. My pre-workout jitters had the best of me, and I dug myself out of my sheets at 5:47 without much hesitation. It still felt early though. Somehow (and I know you know what I’m talking about), no matter how groggy or disheveled the morning makes of me, I generally always make it to the bathroom with my eyes at half-mast. I could also probably be mistaken for one of those monsters from Where The Wild Things Are, with a mere glance of my beastly head of hair.

Low and behold, I drove to school for the morning workout, parked in the ‘park n’ ride’ parking lot under the freeway, and meandered down the road, and up the dirt/leaf-infested hill, known to most UC Irvine distance running vets... simply because it’s the quickest way back up to the track if you’re finishing up a grueling long run or tempo run off campus.

I generally enjoy getting to practice early. And by ‘early,’ I mean one of the first few there. Morning bathroom time is sacred to runners. Especially pre-workout. Not to be gross, but business is vital to tend to. Thus, it’s entirely worth it for me to wake up probably twenty minutes earlier than I need to, in order to enjoy the serenity of an empty college campus restroom, where I get the freedom to nab the stall of my choice.

Not before long, it was seven a.m., and teammates began to filter into the track stadium. A mixture of knobby knees, untied torn-up running shoes, and tired expressions on faces, gathered together before warming up. To my surprise, I found myself slightly excited that we were going to run our tempo workout on our home cross-country course. For any non-runner, a “tempo run” can be described as a run at a mildly uncomfortable pace, that’s faster than a normal distance run, but slower than race pace. The only frustrating thing about ‘tempoing’ on our home course, is always the first mile and a half. It’s all grass. Hilly grass. Your miles aren’t what they are on pavement, and the hills can often throw off any chance at holding a good pace. But we took the first grassy section with (several) grains of salt, and headed fearlessly into anywhere from 25 to 40 minutes of that mildly uncomfortable pace.

The middle section of our course is a dirt hill that seems to last just about as long as you dread it to be. But I legitimately like hills, so it’s one of my favorite parts of the course itself. It also serves as a lovely transition from the sluggish feeling your legs get when you run on grass for too long. The other good thing about hills (now it seems like I’m making a desperate plea for a positiveness regarding hills) is that ‘whatever goes up, must come down.’ I’m no scientist, but I often will get great pleasure in knowing that this is true. That being said, following the top of the gravel-y dirt hill, there’s a downhill portion of the course. All dirt. But watch out, because it’s always got crevices and stumps, and things of all kinds to jump over. At the bottom of that dirt downhill, we wind through a black-top parking lot, follow a path that takes us through a student apartment complex, laden with cobblestones (very annoying to run on, by the way), and then up one last pavement hill, where there’s literally about a half-a-mile until the end of the course--that ends on the same grass field we started on. I had the fantastic pleasure of running the dirt hill, as well as the pavement hill another time through, in order to reach my 40-minute tempo time, but I'm happy with this morning's effort.

I won't lie though. Humidity bothers me like a bug on my windshield. The humid air clung to every inch of my skin this morning, but it was more than worth it to be there, working out with the whole team. It was also nice to get reacquainted with the home course again. The course on which we will run our first race of the season!

Until then, Melissa.

... And The Blue Ribbon Goes to: Man’s Best Friend

Dogs vs. cats? Canines vs. felines? The question of being a dog or a cat person always seems to notoriously come out of nowhere. Supposedly, it says something about a person’s character. What does it even mean to be a dog or a cat person? Is it even possible to be both? A dog person and a cat person? Who knows.

I hate to say “according to Wikipedia,” but, according to Wikipedia, cats are currently the world’s most popular pet, and have been associated with human beings for the last 9,500 years. However, according to Facebook, the “Dog” fan page has an impressive fan base of 727,338. In comparison, cats don’t even have a fan page. Let’s face it, dogs are better than cats.

So what if cats bury their urine and feces? That hardly deems them more superior. Dogs are just... to put it simply... more practical. There’s a reason why they’re referred to as “man’s best friend.” Granted, we live in a society where slavery has been abolished. But sometimes, I can’t help but feel as though Sammy, my family’s ever-so-loving yellow lab mix, would do anything for me if he could. Whether I’m getting home from school, or running errands, or anything that involves me leaving the house, he’s no more than a foot away from the garage door, patiently awaiting my homecoming.

Human interaction is vital for dogs. They constantly want us to take them for walks, or runs, or throw the ol’ tennis ball around in the backyard, or at the park. Not to mention, they’re clearly grateful when we spend time with them. I’ve never seen a cat get all amped up when a leash or a tennis ball is pulled out. Then again, cats are the ones who come and go as they please—leaving home for days at a time.

What’s their deal? Here goes. Cats are egotistical. Very egotistical. It’s all about them. All the time. Cats are far more independent than dogs, and secretive, and snobbish. It’s not difficult to picture, or imagine, a cat thinking, “Just because you come home from school, I’m supposed to be there waiting for you?” or, “I’m supposed to wait for a human to decide when I get to play?”... Woah there, kitty.

When I was around ten years old, I shared a room with my sister. My bed was right next to the window, and I distinctly remember hearing some strange moaning sounds coming from the backyard one night. Not even a week after hearing those late night moans, I discovered that the moans were hailing from a cat ‘in heat’ on our back fence. Gross. Let’s be real; hearing cats in heat is like those unwanted pornographic internet pop-ups. No one wants to see that (or hear it, for that matter).

Another thing. I’ll never understand “crazy cat ladies.” Everybody knows one. Everybody has an aunt or family friend, or a neighbor who lives alone with 15 plus feline residents, and never changes out of her moo-moo nightgown.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve never heard of any “crazy dog ladies.”

There. It’s settled. Go cool off in your litter box.

A Subculture

Tattered running shoes are stacked upon each other in my bedroom like crayons. They line the wall of my closet, and there’s also a few pairs sticking out from under the skirt of my bed. The majority of them have been worn to a pulp, but I keep them around. Probably because we’ve been so many places together. They’ve seen moist, foggy 7 a.m. morning runs, and the grunge of muddy trails after a night’s rain. They’ve made friends with asphalt roads, stiff concrete, and grass paths. They’ve traveled miles and miles under my feet, and have been personal witnesses of my own weaknesses, strengths, hopes, and aspirations.

But I’m not alone. For a nice chunk of my life, I’ve been a part of a sub-culture called, “runners.” If someone were to ask me to unveil a handful of facts about myself, “being a runner” would most likely come out in that handful of facts. Being a runner may seem just like a sport, but it’s far more than that. It’s a lifestyle. Whether we own one or fifty pairs of running shoes, we’ve all used them to travel some distance, to run somewhere. Some travel further than others, but no matter the distance, every runner runs for their own reason. That’s the beauty of it.

Weather is no excuse. Drops of rain don’t absolve us from making our way out onto the roads, and the appeal of staying wrapped up in our warm beds on cold, bitter mornings can’t justify skipping a run. Every run is an adventure, whether we recognize it or not. Even if one runs the same route every day in the same shorts and the same stride, they’re bound to come across something new once in awhile. Stray dogs, creeps in cars, road work, road kill, fellow runners, pedestrians, and... cyclists. Whether cyclists never learned how to share, as children, or they just think they own the road, apparently, two wheels are far more superior to two legs.

But unlike many other sports, the equipment that running requires is minimal. Just a pair of running shoes, and the arms and legs we were born with, are all we need. Well, that, and our brains. People tend to think that we runners are mentally insane. “How can you actually enjoy running?” I get this a lot. Honestly, I just love the sport and the feeling it gives me. But the real answer to that question reveals itself when I’m out on a run, and I cross paths with another runner. Our exchange of salutations always reminds me that there are others out there on the roads or sand or trails, who are just simply out in the world, doing what they love.