Should Runners Ever Carry Pepperspray?

I've run about 35,000 miles, crossed 28 states, and have never required protection against people or animals while running. Well, almost never. I've been bitten by dogs twice. One of them might have been getting back at me for demonstrating that he was following, snarling, and barking a little too close to me as I ran past his yard. I merely extended my back stride, somewhat striking him in the face. The next time I passed he didn't hesitate. The second time it was a dog on a trail in Colorado. He was off leash and probably startled. The owner's reply was, "It's no big deal. He's had his shots and stuff." But that's it. Had I been a little more cautious in both cases I might have avoided injury.

So it was a difficult decision to make when I tried to deflect the numerous, consistent messages I heard from people warning me about a section of canal trail and the raw danger of wild dogs I would encounter. "Come on," I thought, "I've faced animals before." I knew how to shout "NO!" I know how to throw a rock and swing a long stick. But where these dogs were reported to be, there aren't a lot of long branches. I could have wielded the branch of a creosote sapling, the length and strength of which would have been similar to sword fighting with a bendy straw. Somehow I couldn't picture myself fighting off a pack of vicious canines with something whose design best threatens by drooping to the ground and swaying in the wind like a Willow branch.

I was planning to run across the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community, a reservation just east of Phoenix city limits. Last week I had entered it but needed to turn around relatively early to keep within my mileage. Today I was not only going to go further into it, but all the way across it to the next city of Mesa, more specifically Red Mountain Ranch in east Mesa.

Just what did people tell me to expect of these dogs? My students in class said they saw large sticks leaning against the gymnasium wall on the reservation. They were later told the sticks were available to fight off stray dogs who came too close. Then I had a brief conversation about it with a race director from the valley. He said that the Arizona Canal once was part of the Desert Classic Road Race but the course was changed, in part, due to issues with dogs attacking runners near the landfill. Other runners related similar stories.

After about five different people tell you the same thing, you start to think there may be something to it. I decided not to take a chance and buy some pepper spray. Heading out from home, I picked up a small keychain dispenser at a local Ace Hardware. It clipped easily to my waist belt, had a safety cap, and boasted 25 shots of up to 8 feet away. I felt like I was packing an arsenal of weaponry. Nothing could touch me now! Not as long as I can manage to turn off the safety cap, point it in the right direction, and remember to not spray into the wind. But as I ran, I began to question the cosmic impact of packing really hot heat. Could choosing to bring protection somehow invite problems? I imagine Indiana Jones and his girl choosing not to look at the Ark when it was opened, thus having their lives spared. I get the sense that these wild dogs haven't read Spielberg's liner notes and I doubt they'd give me similar leeway, even if I did keep my eyes closed during an attack.

It was beautiful day: cool crisp air, fluffy bright white clouds, bright sun and a light blanket of snow draping mountains in all directions. But I had to focus. People had told me about what I would face. And now, with my Batman Belt Starter Kit, I was ready for it. Up ahead, about five miles into the reservation I saw something. It was large and about a quarter mile away. Much too large for a dog. Is it a hiker? Way out here? No, it's too steady to be a hiker. Must be a bike rider. Nope. 150 yards. It's not wavering even a little. Wait, it's not moving at all. 50 yards. I think it may be a cactus. 30 yards. Not a cactus. Oh, I see. It's a Palo Verde tree, that funky pale green wood that surely got its start in some Dr. Suess story which came to life. The branches are dainty and almost like a hazy fog, so that from a distance the only thing visible is the trunk. My bad. I'll stop hovering over my sidearm now. Another quarter mile. There's my first dog. I don't think it will be coming after me. It's dead. Roadkill.

That was it. No more dogs. There was a stretch of about 2 miles where the canal was on my left and a fenced landfill on my right. I felt a little claustrophobic. If something came after me an escape would have meant jumping into the frigid cold canal, hopping the landfill fence, or sprinting ahead or back. Not many choices, and I noticed it. Across the canal, just opposite me a coyote wandered slowly in retreat, either to make way or call for backup.

I had covered 19 miles on my way across the eastern Phoenix area, hoping to make it to my nephew's first birthday party before the first and only candle was blown out by spittle. My route was about to cross the Beeline Highway, a stretch of straight 4-lane running mostly the length of Arizona. Once I crossed that, I was hoping to find a dirt road that would take me the final 5 miles across open desert, a gravel pit and at least two more canals to arrive at the edge of a suburban neighborhood where a wee little one was being bedazzled by large wrapped items.

As I was already late for the party, rather than miss it altogether, I called my wife for a pick up. I ran down the highway until she pulled over in front of me. 21 miles for the day. 72 for the week.

Kids have a cold and I'm fighting hard not to get it, even as they cough a rainshower of germs from point blank range in their sleep when I snuggle them to bed. Pepper spray? Who needs that?

Run Your Age on Your Birthday

While some people light up their annual cake by listening to a monotone quartet of servers at a Mexican restaurant sing Happy Birthday in deadpan expression, this year I decided to ring in the new year of life by running my age. Covering 39 miles in one day would have been about as appropriate in my training plan as wearing Groucho Marx glasses to a disciplinary hearing at Harvard, but I realized that I could just about get my miles if I stretched them out over both of my weekend long runs. Then it would only be like wearing funny socks and underwear to meet the board of regents. You still get the special feeling of what you're doing, but no one gets hurt by it.

Three extra miles on top of my planned 36 for the weekend really isn't that big of an increase, but I'm trying to get up to 50 per day without injury and that takes careful planning and regimented increases.

The whole practice of running your age in miles seems awfully arbitrary. Dean Karnazes claims it was the beginning of his adult running career when he trotted away from a bar on his 30th birthday in the middle of the night, clad only in undershorts and a pair of sneakers. My dad had participated in the tradition, running 30-some miles from our home to the next town when I was younger, though I don't think he started at a bar. Every now and then you read about some 70 year old who continues the tradition every year. So why do people do this? I chose to run the extra miles simply to mark the occasion and show myself that I was still capable of achieving something, to prove that my mind was still stronger than my body - even a year later.

But running the actual distance, as measured in miles, paired with the number of cycles the earth has orbited around the sun since a woman became your mother, seemed quite silly to me. This point became especially apparent as I intently looked down at my GPS watch Sunday, in the middle of a long, featureless stretch of canal, just outside of the Phoenix city limits, making sure to stop on the exact step when my odometer hit 9.5 miles so I could turn around for a 19 mile day. I felt fine. I easily could have gone another half-mile or even three. But on this day, tradition dictated that I didn't. I must hold off seeing what is down that canal until next year. That's what seems so arbitrary about this tradition. Of course I know I won't wait a whole year. It's far too exciting wondering what is down there.

My pair of weekend runs started Saturday with me heading west on the Arizona Canal. For those not from the Phoenix area, this is the big one. It is 50 miles long and spans from a dam northeast of Mesa, across the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community, to downtown Scottsdale, Phoenix, Glendale, and Peoria. In other words, it is a running path, the length of two marathons that slices across the city from east to west. On either side of its bank are 20-foot wide running paths which occasionally sport art displays, pedestrian underpasses, pavement and access to eateries offering items which could satisfy any craving in any price range.

Heading west, I enjoyed passing numerous other runners out for the ritual long Saturday jog. I ran through the Biltmore resort, where local Arizona hero John McCain delivered his presidential concession speech. I passed a mural of a woman, in a flying pose, clad only in a draped American flag, with the words, "Support Our Troops." Where do I sign up? Semper Fi, indeed. I also discovered that I've been running a portion of the Hashknife Pony Express, a 200-mile long route from Holbrook to Scottsdale where authentic riders deliver 20,000 pieces of mail on horseback in an annual ride each January.




It was a cloudy day, a rarity in Arizona. In fact, this week, when I took my students outside to the playground for an activity, one of my 7th graders asked if it was safe to be out when there are clouds. That's what you get when you have 334 days of sun per year.

A few cubes of Cliff Shot Blocks and two bottles of Gatorade and I returned home, air-drumming to my iPod as I had steadily increased my pace from 10:30 minute miles to 7:30. I knew I would pay for the strong finish on Sunday's equally long run but as Arlo Guthrie once said, "Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do."

Sunday's run was a bit more of a challenge. I was headed out for 19 miles to complete my 39 for the weekend. Sometimes my motivation to get out the door is dependent on my having a curiosity to fulfill about which direction or where a path will take me. It's why I love pedestrian travel (or journey running); you never know where some trail will take you or what you'll see and the only way to find out is to get on it and go. That's how you find flag-draped flying women and tunnels with wonderful echoing acoustics. Fortunately, I still had the other direction to go and headed east on the same canal, patiently excited for what the next 9.5 miles would bring.

The first five were about what I expected: a few other runners, some high end condo developments and a linear park golf course. But soon, I found the canal was leaving behind the iconic landscape of central Scottsdale and taking a decidedly different direction. I was leaving the city. I knew the Arizona Canal started near the confluence of the Salt and Verde rivers, but I wasn't sure if I kept going whether I would end up at Lake Roosevelt. With internet satellite images and online trail maps, I could have clicked that morning to find out. I could have even found the answer on my cell phone during the run, but that removes the mystery from the moment. I love running - scanning the horizon - trying to determine where I'm headed. I saw an overpass ahead. Is that the 101 that curves around the city counterclockwise like a clock face from about 7 o'clock to 10 o'clock? If so, where on the clock dial am I? Have I possibly run all the way to the north side of the city, near 12 o'clock or am I closer to home, more like 3 o'clock? Looking for landmarks, I spotted a tall casino to my north, indicating I was not as far from home as I'd hoped.

Crossing under the highway may as well have been entering (or exiting) the wardrobe in Narnia. Land east of the highway isn't Phoenix at all. It's tribal land: open desert, sporatic houses in various states of repair, renovation or construction. That, and the canal. I ran along it for several miles, taking in the refreshing open desert. Someone had once cautioned me about packs of wild dogs when crossing the reservation. When it was time to turn around, I stopped to take in my surroundings and noticed a large yellow dog jogging in my general direction. I scanned the horizon, expecting to see a dozen others converging on me from various neighbor quadrants. To my relief, none did and the yellow dog didn't approach any closer.



If I were to be surrounded by a pack, I don't know what I would do out there in the open country. Most dogs seem to know what you mean when you shout "No!" or when you pick up a big rock, not that I would aim with any real intent. But the canal doesn't offer any protection and the outlying houses don't seem like they'd get me any further away from the animals. I've never traveled with pepper spray and would have a hard time convincing myself if it would ever really be necessary, but I have hopes of taking that canal another 10 miles east to my in-law's house so I'll have to think about my options there. I wonder if Google Earth has captured any wild dogs on the reservation?

63 miles for the week and the body is holding up well.

Twice the Fun! 12 Times the Weight!

Click here for this week's picture.

50 miles for the week. Two weekend runs of 15 miles each.

If you've been hearing as much as I have lately about being carbon neutral, but didn't think it was possible in your current schedule, read on!

With my better half out of town for the day, I needed to figure out how to juggle watching the kids, getting them to ballet practice, and fitting in a 15 mile run (preferably during sunlight hours). Pumping up the knobby studded tires of our double BOB jogging stroller, we loaded 'er down with everything a family of three might need for trip to at least the first three dynasties of the Great Wall. I'm not kidding here: 4 water bottles, 200 goldfish crackers, 2 tubs of applesauce, a fleece blanket, 2 nylon windbreakers, 2 fleece jackets, a dry erase board, a coloring book and 12 colored pencils (all carefully selected in hues of pink, purple, blue, and red), 3 plastic horses, an ipod and stereo, a ballet outfit, cell phone, gps, leftover french toast, and a wallet. I mean, really, Jedd Clampit didn't have as much when he moved to Beverly.

The kids are 40 pounds each, the stroller 20, the gear at least 300 more, it's a wonder the thing even rolled. You know you've had a different kind of workout when the skin of your palms stings from trying to steer Santa's sleigh, if every deer had been a roadkill and the rails were on gravel.

We made it to ballet just in time for me to stand at the parent observation window in my nylon short shorts, amidst doting parents with their Starbucks thermoses and sleepy eyes that hadn't already taken in 4.86 miles of fresh morning desert air. As I took my window position at the parent lineup, it seemed as though the others were making just a little more room for me than anyone else. Maybe that was just my imagination. Me and my sweaty hat hair's imagination that is.

After all of future Black Swans received their sticker for hopping over a paper flower six times in a row, it was time to head back out onto the canal path. Don't think this six hour outing was a jail sentence for these passengers. Anytime they spoke up, I stopped the stroller to find out what they needed. One time, it was because they both wanted to get out and run. Great! Less weight for me! Amazingly, they both ran about 1/2 mile. Another time, Maia wanted to get out and find a stick. This, she creatively used to drag a 12-mile long line in the dirt as we rolled along. Hansen and Gretel could've eaten their bread AND found their way home if Maia had given them her giant stick. Then Clara wanted one. Her finding skills weren't quite so successful and she ended up returning from her hunt with 25 tiny clamshells, which I promised we would later wash and paint (anything to get in the stroller again).

Though she now had shells, she was still stickless and to halt the crying and fighting over the extremely high demand for stick given the limited supply in the stroller (next time, pack more sticks), I stopped the parade again and retrieved an UberStick for Clara. It had branches coming off of it in all directions, was about 5 feet long and possibly could've made some neat acrobatics out of the oncoming bicyclists if well placed in a passing tire. Maia saw this as too much and instantly said, "Hey Clara, let's trade." "Don't fall for it Clara!" I shouted between deep breaths as I had just gotten up to cruising speed of 6 miles per hour. "Yeah, that's a great idea," naive younger sis Clara responded.

At this point, we were making something like the tracks of an overloaded airplane, trying for liftoff, with dragging wingtips. But we never seemed to get airborne, what with the required stops for seashells and all-important sticks.

An hour and a half later we arrived at the Phoenix Zoo and loaded up on some kettle corn. Thank goodness the cashier found a stash of small brown paper bags; you don't want to see two preschoolers try and share a single jumbo bag of kettle corn. Not unless there's a ring, a ref and some money riding on it.

The zoo was crowded and we jogged around the masses as we peeked at most of the animals on display. The hit of the day was the koalas, which we learned are so docile because by eating only Eucalyptus leaves, they don't get much energy, similar to a daddy who only gets to eat two slices of french toast before having to push the truck from Sanford and Son to the top of Mt. Sinai.

As is typical, we didn't get out of the zoo before both girls had taken off their shoes and socks and played in the muddy stream. Just where does that muddy water in the middle of the zoo come from? Oh, and they insisted on riding the carousel. I didn't understand it. Would you get out of the car after a 5-hour road trip just to get into a golf cart? I guess if it was a really cool golf cart, I would.

Sunday I went solo, covering 16 miles. I didn't even stop for clamshells.