Yesterday, as I made my way up the BCMC, I realized I truly am the big dumb dog. You know that big, goofy, sweet drooling mutt running through the forest with not a care in the world, tongue hanging out the side of the mouth in what looks like a silly smile?
It all began as I started my climb. About twenty minutes in, this silly dog comes barging by me with a great big stick in his mouth, stick whacking against my leg twice. I tried interacting with him, but nope. He was strictly on 'playing in the forest' mindset. He didn't want to play with me. He just wanted to be a big goof in the forest. *points to self
It was after the interaction, or lack thereof, with this dog that I came to the absolute realization that I am the big dumb dog. I want to frolic in the forest with not a care in the world. I want to bounce over roots and logs and rocks, nimble as those four legged beasts who tripped over their own paws when they were puppies. And most of all, I want to run it alone. Nobody yammering beside me, distracting me from one of my greatest joys, running solo in the forest. Granted, the snapping of twigs makes you stop and turn in a panic, scouring the woods for any sign of a bear or serial killer. All I can hope is this serial killer (or bear) has epilepsy and my headlamp set on strobe will send him into seizures so I can scramble away madly. Although by the time I've whipped my pack off and dug around with shaking fingers for my headlamp, odds are I'm now slung over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, unconscious and bound, on my way to some dark desolate unknown cave. Hm, perhaps this is the type of training I need to improve my constant uphill battles of well, uphills. What could possibly motivate me to run faster and stronger up a mountain than a psychopathic serial killer behind me? I suppose a hungry bear who just fasted through hibernation would, but really...serial killers are far scarier than hungry bears. You constantly hear of people surviving a bear attack. Serial killers not so much. *note to self. You read too many psychological thrillers.
But telling people you'd rather run solo in the forest 100% of the time leads to a flurry of panicked questions.
~What if you fall!
I have. More than once. In fact, I fell, broke my ass, ran another 12 km, then ate potato chips. I'll be fine.
~I'd get lost!
Yes, you probably would. I'm more likely to get lost running with people. You're so distracted chatting back and forth, you miss your turnoff, then find you have to slog your way back up the hill you just ran down because the turnoff was at the top of the hill. Admit it. We've all done that.
~I can't run alone. I need others around me so we can motivate each other.
So you're the big dumb dog that goes to the park, sees the other dogs and you all run around together being big goofs, smelling each others bums. I'm the big dumb dog that goes to the park, then morphs into Jack Skellington ♪ What's this?! What's this?!' ♪ SQUIRREL!
I look back on group runs I've done and compare them with solo runs. Do I push myself harder in a group? Yeah, probably. But do I get that big goofy grin on my face as I'm flying downhill, bounding between roots and rocks? Not as much. Sure it's a little more distracting in a good way having someone yakking at you when you're on a long boring trail like Fisherman's. But do I really want to hear about the weather, what we're all training for, what I think of this and that and blah blah blah blah BLAH. (With the exception of that fantastic discussion once had on the BP on how canned Guinness in Canada is vegan) In all honesty, I'd love to tune you out so you become the monotonous drone of Charlie Brown's teacher, and as rude as that sounds, it's the truth, and I just can't do it. Because, well...it's rude. And I really do try not to be (mostly). So I engage in conversation, which distracts me from the entire purpose of my ~70 minute bus ride just to get to the forest.
I want to be the big dumb dog.
It all began as I started my climb. About twenty minutes in, this silly dog comes barging by me with a great big stick in his mouth, stick whacking against my leg twice. I tried interacting with him, but nope. He was strictly on 'playing in the forest' mindset. He didn't want to play with me. He just wanted to be a big goof in the forest. *points to self
It was after the interaction, or lack thereof, with this dog that I came to the absolute realization that I am the big dumb dog. I want to frolic in the forest with not a care in the world. I want to bounce over roots and logs and rocks, nimble as those four legged beasts who tripped over their own paws when they were puppies. And most of all, I want to run it alone. Nobody yammering beside me, distracting me from one of my greatest joys, running solo in the forest. Granted, the snapping of twigs makes you stop and turn in a panic, scouring the woods for any sign of a bear or serial killer. All I can hope is this serial killer (or bear) has epilepsy and my headlamp set on strobe will send him into seizures so I can scramble away madly. Although by the time I've whipped my pack off and dug around with shaking fingers for my headlamp, odds are I'm now slung over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, unconscious and bound, on my way to some dark desolate unknown cave. Hm, perhaps this is the type of training I need to improve my constant uphill battles of well, uphills. What could possibly motivate me to run faster and stronger up a mountain than a psychopathic serial killer behind me? I suppose a hungry bear who just fasted through hibernation would, but really...serial killers are far scarier than hungry bears. You constantly hear of people surviving a bear attack. Serial killers not so much. *note to self. You read too many psychological thrillers.
But telling people you'd rather run solo in the forest 100% of the time leads to a flurry of panicked questions.
~What if you fall!
I have. More than once. In fact, I fell, broke my ass, ran another 12 km, then ate potato chips. I'll be fine.
~I'd get lost!
Yes, you probably would. I'm more likely to get lost running with people. You're so distracted chatting back and forth, you miss your turnoff, then find you have to slog your way back up the hill you just ran down because the turnoff was at the top of the hill. Admit it. We've all done that.
~I can't run alone. I need others around me so we can motivate each other.
So you're the big dumb dog that goes to the park, sees the other dogs and you all run around together being big goofs, smelling each others bums. I'm the big dumb dog that goes to the park, then morphs into Jack Skellington ♪ What's this?! What's this?!' ♪ SQUIRREL!
I look back on group runs I've done and compare them with solo runs. Do I push myself harder in a group? Yeah, probably. But do I get that big goofy grin on my face as I'm flying downhill, bounding between roots and rocks? Not as much. Sure it's a little more distracting in a good way having someone yakking at you when you're on a long boring trail like Fisherman's. But do I really want to hear about the weather, what we're all training for, what I think of this and that and blah blah blah blah BLAH. (With the exception of that fantastic discussion once had on the BP on how canned Guinness in Canada is vegan) In all honesty, I'd love to tune you out so you become the monotonous drone of Charlie Brown's teacher, and as rude as that sounds, it's the truth, and I just can't do it. Because, well...it's rude. And I really do try not to be (mostly). So I engage in conversation, which distracts me from the entire purpose of my ~70 minute bus ride just to get to the forest.
I want to be the big dumb dog.