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.