R_U_N MPR?

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So, what – or who – is a ‘mid-pack runner’ (an ‘MPR’)?

First off, if you step up to the starting line with any real expectation of leading the race and contending for the overall victory, you are not an MPR; you’re a Lead Dog, and my hat’s off to you.  You‘ve earned the open road, the clear view.  But:

If, instead, you start each event knowing there’s always going to be someone ahead of you to claim the big public prize and headline photo, then you are an MPR.

Maybe you’re someone who never thought of yourself as an athlete, and still feels a sense of surprise that you are out there doing what you are doing.  If so, chances are very good that you are an MPR.

Perhaps you’re a really young – or somewhat old – runner who has a shot to place in your division but not the overall; in that case, you’re still an MPR, because you accept that there’s someone in their prime out there, who’s going to finish ahead of you, no matter how good your day.

If you accept, for whatever reason, that you will never be the fastest runner on the course, and look to find your satisfaction somewhere else; then you are an MPR, and you get my applause – for determination, humility, and creativity.  For keepin’ on keepin’ on.

R_U_N_MPR? I_M.

West With the Night, Beryl Markham

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It is delightful to read of a woman having such adventures in the early 20 th century without apparent trace of gender resistance or romantic overlay.  Perhaps it is the wildness of Africa that allows this, or perhaps self-editing, but either way, Beryl Markham’s memoir  furnishes a shining example of the non-universality of our commonly held stereotypes.

As a writer, Markham tends to the florid, as is typical of her era.  Still, she can kindle excitement at a chase, and when it comes to her own actions, she leans to dryness and understatement.  One actually wonders if a biographer might expose even more drama in this material than does the subject herself.  The Africa of which she tells has plenty of inequality, though the racism which underlies it seems, in what is perhaps a Colonialist’s view, genteel and respectful.  Of course there is plenty of exploitation going on beyond the horizon, setting the stage for later, less sanguine, interactions.

An enjoyable and eye-opening artifact of time and place, as well as a glimpse of an admirably independent spirit.

A Yellow Raft in Blue Water, Michael Dorris

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A work which grows, as one progresses through it, from anecdote, to story, to fable.  Dorris effectively manipulates the reader by telling first the tale of the youngest of three women – Rayona – inviting us to form opinions (or judgments, given the poor nature of some of her choices) of her character and actions.  He then proceeds to tell first her mother’s – and then her mother’s – stories, overlapping, braiding and, in the process, shattering our neat conceptions about what is good or bad, and who is right or wrong, victim or abuser.

Dorris’ prose is generally straightforward, allowing objects, events and his characters’ thoughts to tell the story.  Only occasionally does it rise to more florid description, but it is the detail and personalities which make the story seem so real, the women totally convincing even when their actions are not ones with which many readers may sympathize.  That, and the author’s even-handed telling, which seems to reflect the moral conviction with which his bio suggests he lived his too-short life.

A work which has its own objectives, neither the quick entertainment of the popular novel, nor the showy intellectualism of the academic, but an honest desire to tell of people too easily forgotten, and thru them reveal a bit of basic human truth.

The Mid Pack View, Part 1

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So what is the view, if you’re not Lead Dog?  Well, to start with, it’s usually full of fellow runners, every one of them different – and potentially instructive.  Watch who stays ahead of you, who passes, and who drops behind – and you can learn a lot about running, and about yourself.

One example: in the early miles of a local event a few years ago, I played leapfrog with a runner who looked to be about my age and fitness level, trading places when one of us would slow down for a water station or a short uphill.   After I passed him on a stretch of straight and level pavement though, I pulled away strongly in my ground-covering strides, breathing relaxed and deep, while he was mincing along with quick, short steps that looked like the product of approaching exhaustion.  Confident I wouldn’t be seeing the guy again till the after-party, I put him out of mind.  It was a shock then, to see him come up on my shoulder with a couple of miles to go,

My competitive spirit said there was no way I was going to let this guy get the best of me, but when I boosted my pace to stay on his heels, it was quickly clear I wouldn’t be able to keep that up for the duration. In desperation, I tried copying his cadence – speeding my steps up as fast as he was doing, and lo-and-behold, I was able to keep the space between us constant – for a short time.  That gait didn’t feel natural though (I hadn’t trained for it, after all) and soon enough I fell back into my own style – and watched mister short-steps disappear into the distance ahead.

Struck by that experience, I began to read more closely, and train more consciously, teaching myself to run with shorter strides and more of them, and I’ve seen my times and endurance profit from it – a growth experience which only came about because I was in the middle of the pack, mixing it up with a whole range of other runners.

Lead dogs have no one to watch, and no one but themselves to learn from.  Just one reason the mid-pack view can be pretty grand, if you look at it with open eyes!