GECKO Turkey Trail Marathon Training Update

Training was been. . . inconsistent, mostly because I'm a weenie in winter. When the weather gets cold and damp, my motivation drops through the floor. I've started compensating for this by mixing things up a bit. First, I'm making more of an effort to get the run done in daylight. That seems to be a big component. The other thing I've done is to hit the gym more. Instead of running on a treadmill, which I truly hate and occasionally do at the house (my treadmill is primarily a walking desk), I mix it up with cycling and stairclimbing. Throw in upper body work and I am getting stronger. I finally have my weight below 180. Starting to add leg lifts now that some of the systems are coming back. Ran in Hells Gate yesterday and, for the first time in a few years, powered up a hill instead of grinding. I had forgotten what that can be like. Exhilarating. I was cooking right along until some knucklehead put up a sign in the middle of the trail - Dog Trial. Shooting in Progress. That torqued me off a bit. Not that they were having a Trial but for putting the sign in the middle of the trail instead of at the junction. Let me know early and I'll grab another route. It would have been a quarter mile of extra walking for the guy. In the meantime, I went off-trail and explored. I didn't realize that Hells Gate was using old Christmas trees for wind-breaks. Should be spectacular the next time there's a fire over there. I'll watch from the porch. .

Lungs still need a lot of work but that always trailed legs so I'm following a pattern I know. Perpetual forward progress

Also had one of those random occurrences that brighten a day. A puppy was running around Hells Gate. His owner, an older dude, was keeping a pretty good eye on him and tried to call him over when they both saw me. The puppy ignored him - he had a new friend that he could run with. Sammy - that was what the owner was calling - leapt and cavorted and stopped for a pet so I grabbed his collar for the guy. He was apologetic and I told him "No worries." What I should have said was, "I'm out here to have fun. So is this little guy and he brings a big smile to my face, so no worries. Maybe even, hey, thanks!" But I tend towards slow-witted some days and I just kept running. I got to keep the smile, though

To counter the Sunday long run blahs, I've moved them to Wednesday afternoon, into a better energy time for me. This week it means an inspection, long run of 10 miles, and then another inspection. Work is busy as heck and I don't know quite why.

In a week, I'll be in Seattle and planning to hit REI for trail shoes. We'll see how that turns out. Open to advice. .

Run  gently, friends.

Setting up a schedule

People like routine. They also like adventure, rainbows, and cute puppies. And cats. People really seem to like cats. So here's a cute cat picture, courtesy of FunnyCatPix. I'm not sure I get the attraction but that might because I've cleaned up one too many hairballs. Plus, the last cat we had was named Bearacuda. She lived up to both parts of the name.

Moving on, routines.

Most people like to have a routine as they go through the day. Have a few events disrupt the routine and crankiness ensures. I'm no different. I like routines. I just don't have any. My schedule for work is dictated by the demands of the marketplace. As a Realtor friend once put it, being in business for yourself means setting your own schedule, so when the client asks to get together at 5AM, you can't say "Sorry, the office doesn't open until 9AM."

You say, "Sure, no problem." Because the client is the BOSS. He or she is paying you and, if you want a paycheck, you'll be there at 5AM.

All good until you want to do something on a personal level, like saying hello to the kids while they're awake. Or, in my case, prepping to run a marathon.

I just got done filling up the next two weeks with work. It's gone slightly crazy in the real estate market for whatever reason and I'm not going to complain.

What I am going to do is pare down my list of activities to those that are essential to getting what I want. Yep, my focus is on me. Yours should be on you - unless you have a saint in the family or are a child, odds are nobody else cares as much about you as you do.

So I spent time paring, trimming, and snipping at things.

And guess what? Getting the garden ready for spring didn't make the cut. I'll cheat on the vegetable garden and not start from seeds this year.

TV time? Gone except for basketball. Reading fills into the gap. Which I need because I just started two new books. Plus the three I'm already reading.

Reading blogs? No time, so uh-buh-bye.

The gym? I can fit it in by shifting appointments slightly and going in between inspections. Might be able to sub in a run instead if I don't have clients attending. Not an option if the client is attending; nobody needs to have an inspector that sweaty. Or potential odiferous.

Running? Change the day of the long run to Wednesday. Work longer on the weekend to make up the time. Speed work on Sunday so I don't overburden family with help crewing.

Writing? Early mornings, when I'm most productive (and when I wrote this.)

How long will the new routine last? Probably a month or two. The change in seasons will help by giving me warm weather and more daylight to work with. Since I'm already at record levels on the business side, I don't see room to ramp that up. I might have to increase prices and drive some clients to competitors (and cherry-pick the best.)

The key to my routine is simple. Be flexible and ready for change. My routine is to plan for change. Or, as the military maxim goes, no plan survives contact with the enemy. Or, as the General said, "Strategy is a system of expedients."

Build change into your routine, folks. It'll make it easier when everything heads sideways.

Jump rope training

"Jump rope training," I told one of the girls that I help coach during the cross country season. She's in junior high, so there's plenty of time for big miles and all the other components that go into developing as a runner. The young lady is already a good runner and was competitive against competition a year or two older than she was. At this age level, a year of development is simply huge and she was frustrated that she was getting out-kicked at end of the race. She wanted to develop a better kick.

So I told her to do jump rope training.

And she went, "Hunh?" Not a fan, at least at first.

Like many young runners, she wants to be good now. No-can-do. You have to build to peak performance. One problem that I see on a frequent basis is a young athlete trying to improve too quickly by increasing the miles too fast, or adding extra speed work.

They'd be better off building the foundation first, especially the at the junior high level.

Jumping rope will develop the systems that will deliver that faster kick. The feet will become much more responsive and quicker off the ground, the calves will strengthen, posture improves, and so does balance.

Along the way, there's less impact and potential for joint damage when done correctly.

Buddy Lee has a great book on jump rope training that can lead you through a program. I had my runner focus on the workout for 200/400 meter runners even though she's destined to be a distance girl.

In a cross country race, the last 200 meters are the kick. I've also encouraged her to run some shorter distances during the track season to understand that level of effort better.

I think the young lady is going to surprise herself. Jumping rope is for kids - and runners.

Starting a new Pacific NW Cross Country News Network?

I was contemplating trying to build a website around Cross Country news in the Pacific Northwest – kind of a one stop, here’s what happened this week at the meets and maybe the occasional feature on a runner. The question is (well, one of the questions, anyhow) would runners and their parents be interested?

The easiest option is just to run it through my author blog but I could create a site dedicated to the idea.

Anybody that has some ideas is free to comment. Share the idea around with runners you know and see what they think.

If you prefer, you can send me an email at that guy at paulduffau.com. Just combine it all, swap the @ into it. You get the idea.

Eventually, I’d like to cover the whole region which means building a network of volunteers to help with the reportage but in the meantime, we could at least spotlight our little corner.

Run gently, friends,

Paul

PS. Somewhere in the midst of all these plans, I need to figure out how to keep making a living.

First Donation From Royalties

I just cut the first check for the Lewis-Clark Animal Shelter for their share of the royalties of A Walk with Rose. It wasn't much but it's a start and fun to do. For those that don't know, I pledged 25 percent of the profits of the book to the Shelter. Since the royalties weren't huge this time, I gave them all of it.

Hope to do more of this in the future. Pretty much any of the dog stories that I write will operate this way.

And to the folks that got free copies for helping with the cover design and then donated to the shelter when they picked up their copy? Yeah, you ladies rock! Many, many thanks!

How would I write that?

Finishing an online class (Character Voice and Setting) with Dean Wesley Smith and he offered a piece of advice in the final video. When you are out in public, pay attention, watch people, what they do, what they say, how they say it - and then, think to yourself, "How would I write that?"

Dean runs the class over a six week period and imparts a ton of really useful craft advice while simultaneously shifting your perspectives on both writing and people. It a tough class, and yes, there's homework. I only recommend taking it if you want to become a better writer and want someone to give you specific advice on what your screwing up and why. On a good day though, you might get a note that says you just nailed the assignment.

I also recommend note taking. Lots of information there and I've watched some of the videos three and four times.

If you are interested in Dean's classes, head over to his website. The man is incredibly prolific so there's always new content there.

In the meantime, I'm going to get some work done, go for a splashy run in the rain, and then, to the store. Shopping for dinner will take a little longer. I expect to get distracted as I wonder to myself, How would I write that?

And then figure out why.

And how I could tweak or twist it.

Strawberries, a short story

A rough draft of a short story I started this week. . .

Strawberries, a short story

Leroy timed it so he bumped into Gladys as the wedding guests squeezed out the doors and into the June sunshine.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he said. His voice reflected too many years on a tractor sucking in the dust and fertilizer past vocal cords and into lungs. A smoker’s rasp for a man who never lit a cigarette.

Small beads of sweat lined his pate as he tried to subtlety watch her to see if the nudge at the hip had angered her. She hadn’t even looked at him as she rebalanced. The little stumble put them both away from the flow of traffic. He wiped his head with a handkerchief.  

Gladys was ten years younger than Leroy. The women in their small town came from good German stock but unlike the majority of them, she had maintained a trim figure as she had aged. She had finally let her hair go a silver-gray, Leroy noted with approval. It was a darn shame her last dye job had turned pink. He liked it better all natural like this, he thought. It played good with her pale blue eyes.

“Wedding was kinda in’eresting, pastor getting’ all sideways and what.”

Gladys arched an eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t call it interesting,” said Gladys. “For a moment there, I worried that Pastor Austin was going to ruin the wedding for that young girl,” she said. “That would have been a real shame. A bride only gets one wedding day.”

Gladys put on her wraparound sunglasses, the kind with the little side shields that fit over her regular lenses and hitched her oversized purse onto her shoulder. She was making to join the flow of people, he thought, and head on over to the reception at the grange.

“Maybe Pastor was celebratin’ early,” said Leroy. He winced, the joke falling flat even to his ears but it stopped Gladys from walking away.

“That’s a poor thing to say about the pastor,” she said, turning to face him.

Leroy put his hands up reflexively.

“Just a bad joke,” he said. “No harm meant. Just real su’prised ‘cuz he’s usually so smooth and easy, preachin’ I mean.”

He hoped the apology would mollify her but she held a stern gaze on him. Too late, he remembered that Gladys had been the chairwoman of the search committee that brought the new pastor to town from back east.

You damn ol’ fool, he thought to himself with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Fine churchgoin’ lady and you poke fun at her preacher.

“The grange is set up real nice,” he said into the chill space between them.

He rambled, trying to change the subject. “I went on down and help’d get it set up. Mary Lou did up all the flowers, real pretty, for the tables and I hear that Bob Cousins got the meat on the cooker since ten this mornin’.” He paused. “I got together a bunch of strawberries outa the garden, ‘bout twenty pounds worth for the kids.”

He offered the last bit studying her face. The last two weeks, on Tuesday and Thursday, when he came into town, he’d brought baskets of strawberries from his patch in the back and left them on Gladys porch. He didn’t leave any notes, just the juicy berries, red and fresh and sweet as sunshine.

Her head gave a little jerk when he mentioned the strawberries.

“I think the little Olsen girls have been putting strawberries on my swing,” said Gladys.

He felt warm inside and pleased but he didn’t tell her that he was the one dropping them by her place. She was adjusting her purse again, getting ready to leave. He’d walk with her. Everythin’ in its time, he thought and smiled.

Gladys continued.

“I’ll have to have a talk with them, I suppose, and get them to stop.”

“Stop?” Leroy tried to hide his confusion. “Whata ya mean, stop? Why?”

“Poor girls are trying to be so nice and neighborly, but I’m afraid I’m deathly allergic to strawberries. I just hate to disappoint them.”

Gladys turned away and Leroy let her walk away, alone, as he stood there, feeling crushed.

I need to go for a run . . .

No real comment. Just, the weather stinks and I'm tired of the gym and the ideas don't come until I get out on the trails. Also ready to be done with the latest class. Learned a lot but I need to get back to my stories, my characters. The class I've been taking is a craft class on writing better characters. The biggest lesson for me hasn't come directly from the class. It came because of it.

I write the characters I do - Callie in Finishing Kick and now Becca in Trail of Second Chances, Gracie when I get to her, Pete Archer who's waiting patiently at the start of The Lonesome Mile - because I care about them and their stories. When Callie is learning to be the leader that her team needs her to be, I'm cheering when for her. When Becca is struggling with her dad as her coach, I sympathize - and think of my poor girls, who handled it so well.

Some writers, James Patterson for example, outline the story and hand it off to someone else to write. He has (reportedly) a whole stable of people who will work with him on this. Other writers are very, very good at developing the stories within a framework, like the old writers of the Nick Carter series or Star Trek.

But I'm not that type of writer, at least for now, and I'm pretty sure I don't want to change that. The folks in my books are nearly real to me and, if I ever get enough skill, I hope that they become nearly real for my readers.

Which I think numbers about six people right now, but it's a very loyal six. That makes it worthwhile.

Another Homework Assignment

Not my usual type-or tone- of writing but part of the process of learning to be a better storyteller involves stretching a bit. This piece is an example of me having to do that. Let me know what you think. . . ___________

Wyatt felt his features twist as his feet planted themselves in the crushed gravel. It was visceral, the subconscious dredging up buried memories. He stared at the towering stone walls of the church for the first time in four decades, noting how little it had changed. The dark gray stone seemed immutably mortared into position, unyielding even under the impact of a small body.

His, as he remembered the feeling of the jagged points of the basalt cutting his back as the older boys taunted him. The quarried stone looked smoother from a safe distance. The base of the walls was massive, three feet thick, the blocks of stone the size of a small steamer trunk, shelves of them that would never budge once placed.

The gravel path to the church split dark shadows cast by the building from the vegetable garden, a profusion of irregularity compared to the strict organization of the building.

Another memory, brought back now by the smell of the manure from the garden: the mortifying smell of the urine running down his leg.

As he relived the embarrassment, the windows stared at him, knowing him. They were tall and rounded at the top, with smaller circular windows set above them, each with wooden muntins separating the panes of glass. They watched without blinking, all the people in their crosshairs. Above them rose the cross, set on the top of the bell tower. The tower, rising from a bald, barreled roof, was capped in wood, freshly painted and blood red. The cross was hard to look at, outlined in black against the intense blue of the June sky and unapologetic after all these years.

The large brass bell in the tower had been carried in from the old church after the congregation had fractured. It sat there at the end of a rope. Was it the same rope?  

Would they have left it until rot claimed it?

It would toll at the end of the wedding today. That was the way it was always done, he remembered. It was an old world custom brought to the prairies of Idaho by founders as hard and resolute as the basalt bedrock. The bride would enter through the front doors on a promenade to the altar. Together, she and the groom would exit to the peals meant to signal the joyousness of union.

The vibrations of sound could be felt, changing a heartbeat with the impact. People would hold their chests at the sound and cheer the couple.

Only he would hear the ominous warnings from the past, bouncing on the end of a rope.

With bile rising in his throat, he stepped forward to the door, oblivious to the other guests.

When he got there, he knew he would pull on the iron handles and expose himself to the past—and the future.

He would open it and step into the belly of the beast, while the round eyes under a Christian cross marked him for what he was.