What It Means To Me to Be a Runner … Today

I am a runner.

It has taken me a long time to be completely comfortable with saying that, since most people think of runners as tall, skinny, fast people.

I have, at various times in the past, been fast -- well, faster than I am now. But now that I'm rolling through middle age, I find it's harder and harder to keep those miles under ten minutes per.

And, like many runners, I tend to suffer a lack of motivation for running in the cold dark icy snowy weather -- and even if I've got the motivation, sometimes in Alaskan winters the actual trail is hard to find! So I recently signed myself up for Runner's World Magazine's annual Holiday Streak Challenge: to run at least one mile every single day between Thanksgiving and New Year's. To make sure I didn't welsh, I also recruited a bunch of my Facebook buddies. I now report my daily updates to thirty eight other runners who help keep me honest.

Our group allowed a little fudging room in our own version of the challenge, just in case that one mile is especially hard to find, due to weather, schedule or logistics. So, acceptable substitutions are one mile cross-country ski or three miles on a bike. Since I've been working twelve hour shifts the past two days, both of those days were on a bike. But today I got to lace up the trainers and head out on my own two legs.

All of which got me to thinking what is it, exactly, that makes me "a runner"? And why am I so damn happy about it?

Last night, I awoke about four o'clock in the morning and was so excited about going running today that I almost couldn't fall back asleep. Some people would say that's just weird. But none of those people would be runners.

So what is it to run? Well, of course, these answers vary -- even with me -- depending on what day you ask. But today I can confidently say:

-- It clears my mind. -- I don't ever run outdoors with headphones. There's too much going on. In Alaska, there are also bears, but that's not the main reason. I like just being a part of the earth, the trees, the hills (ugh! the hills!), the creeks…. So my mind just runs free. Sometimes I'm working through a problem, from work or a personal relationship, but most of the time I'm just letting my mind run, too. When I'm done, most of my problems don't seem so insurmountable. Or even relevant.

-- I love watching the dogs. -- I confess, my dogs are off-leash when I run. They run at least three miles for every mile I run, back and forth, ripping through the greenery with astonishing speed and derring-do. I delight in imagining how their city-stifled brains let loose in the woods, with all the new sights and sounds and smells, so much more attuned than us humans. It's pure joy for them that starts the minute I start putting on my running clothes at the house. Then they come home, climb up on their double-decker dog beds and drift peacefully to sleep.

-- It's primal. -- Anyone can do it, and man has been doing since … well, since before we were Man. Sure, the right clothing and gear are helpful, but truthfully all you really need is a reasonable pair of shoes. That's it. And you can run anywhere. Sometimes I like to imagine some Neanderthal man or woman working off an argument about who forgot to store the wooly mammoth steaks out of the reach of the canids by taking a run across the veldt and blowing off some steam before coming back to the cave. It's possible, right?

-- It unites us. -- Whenever I travel, I try to run. First of all, I enjoy running. But perhaps more importantly, when I run in Paris or Barcelona or Frankfurt, I feel a camaraderie with the other runners I see in the parks and on the streets. I may or may not speak their language or truly understand their customs or their lives, but this one thing makes us brothers, at least for that moment.

-- It's an accomplishment. -- Sure, my three miles today might not mean much by itself, but most of my friends do not run; many of them do not exercise in any way. It makes me sad for them (and for the world, as I doubt it's not only my friends who are inactive), but it also makes me look back over the long history of how many times I've "only run three miles." I added it up one day, and having started running when I was sixteen years old, I can confidently say that I've run over 10,000 miles in my lifetime… and I'm still going.

Of course, there are all the other reasons, like keeping fit and being able to eat more, but none of those things nurture my soul the way these other things do. These are the things that keep getting me out there when maybe I'm a little sleepy, or if I'd rather fall into a book for the day.

And I have another confession to make: I think of giving it up sometimes. This past year or two have been packed pretty full of assorted injuries: when the hip stopped hurting, the ankle started; when the ankle cleared up, the back kicked in. So I quit for a while: I swam and rode a bike and tried assorted elliptical and stair-climbing machines. But I really missed running. I missed those first few steps when your body is fresh and eager as coiled springs, as it falls into its own familiar rhythm.

So I struggle through the hills and the weather and the self-doubt and the pitfalls of aging and the slowing per-mile times…. because I'm a runner.

Finding the Perfect Christmas Tree… in Alaska

Yesterday's Thanksgiving turkey is slowly digesting in my belly, which can only mean one thing: CHRISTMAS!!!

Unwilling to join the ranks of crazy bargain-hunters on Black Friday, my husband and I have established our own tradition for the day after Thanksgiving: going out to hunt down our very own Alaska Christmas tree.

Before I moved to Alaska, I thought there were only two options for having a tree in your home: buying one from a Christmas tree lot, or having an artificial tree.  My mother, god bless her, insisted we never have an artificial tree, so each year my mother and I would drive to the tree lot on Murray Ridge Road and tried to find the prettiest tree our pennies could buy.

We did pretty well most years:

(Please ignore my brothers. "Sullen Hippie" was very "in" at the time."

And I was always grateful my mother never did follow through on her threats to have a color-coordinated tree. One year she said she wanted a white or silver tree:

Blech! Still, it could've been worse:

Oh my god, can you imagine? Santa would have a seizure.

Our family Christmas trees were always fat and dense, even if they weren't always perfectly shaped. There was never a question whether the branches were strong enough to support our ornaments and lights. -- But I've come to understand that's because all midwestern conifers look like that.

Even after moving to Alaska, sixteen years ago, I was temporarily granted a continuance in my belief that Christmas trees are sturdy. See, my first home in Anchorage had a vaulted ceiling, with a peak of about 12 feet. Like most men, my husband felt we certainly shouldn't waste any of that height, and so we sought a 12-foot tree. Of course!

In Anchorage, you can only legally cut down your own tree by driving about 60 miles either north or south to enter designated legal tree-cutting areas. Well, I should amend that to include the military land here in Anchorage city limits, but to get on base and cut down a tree, you have to have a permit. And in typical military fashion, the permit office is only open every other Thursday from 3:17pm to 4:03pm, being closed all months whose names contain the letter "r."

So, that first year, we set off, south to Johnson Pass, to seek our tree. And, boy, did we find a doozy:

As you can see, the tree was enormous. But it was also absolutely gorgeous. And I blame that tree for every disappointing tree we've had since.

The following year, we moved into a more reasonable house with only 8 foot ceilings. So we set out to find an 8 foot tree. In Alaska.  What we quickly discovered is that most 6-8 foot Alaskan conifers look like this:

Look familiar? Like maybe the older taller version of this guy?

If you think I'm trusting my grandmother's 80-year-old snowman globe to one of those branches, you're sadly mistaken.

Still, there's something to be said for tradition. And sometimes you just gotta deal with what you've got available. I don't have to hang Grannie's ornament this year, after all.

Of course, the selection process is almost always complicated by snow. So you've gotta tromp around (through snow) to look at snow-coated trees and try to decide which one might make a good Christmas tree. Be careful of the booby traps however:

1. Nested Trees: Surely there must be a good tree in that bunch, right? I mean, sure, the first tree is a little big, but look at all those others! 

As it turns out, the other trees are actually the problem. That many trees that close together make them grow up too close to each other, inhibiting branch growth, so you end up with a one-sided tree (if that).

2. The Double Tree: Well, that looks like a pretty good tree, right there in the middle. Kinda fat, nice shape. -- But, look closely: it's actually two trees, growing right next to each other. Cut 'em down and you'll never cram both into the tree stand in any reasonable fashion. In fact, our first tree (the 12-footer) was a double tree, but it was tall enough that it finally converged into a single trunk down low [For all you scientists out there, I do realize I'm saying this backwards. But you know what I mean. Cut a girl a break.] so we were able to use it.

So there's a lot of searching involved:

Searching, and shaking:

Finally, we found our tree:

Next comes clearing the lower branches to cut it down:

(The dogs were very helpful.)

Then the small matter of getting it back to the truck. Oh yeah, and INTO the truck:

My dad used to have a saying: "Ten pounds of sh*t in a five pound bag." Yeah, this was like that.

But we got her home safe. Cashew wasn't too sure about all the furniture rearrangements, but she knows any blanket on the floor is where she's allowed to curl up:

Now the tree is up and awaiting decoration. We really enjoy just having the plain tree up for a couple of days. She's like a lot of Alaskans -- On first glance, she may not look like much, but if you gaze upon her long enough, she's really quite beautiful.

Illuminating Alaska's Winter Light Mystery

We're having an odd autumn this year in Anchorage. Already into our second week of November, there's still no snow in the city. It's plenty cold enough, just no precipitation. No matter, it will come.

In spite of the lack of snow, I found myself pondering the phenomenon of Alaskan Winter while out walking the dogs this morning. Without a doubt, winter survival is the number one topic raised by Outsiders (non-Alaskans) when they find out where I'm from.

What I've realized over the years, however, is that it is the darkness rather than the cold which holds the mystery, perhaps mingled with a soupçon of fear.  But I guess most people have experienced winter cold and snow at some point in their lives, even if only on a weekend ski trip. The perception of round-the-clock darkness, however, is another matter.

Before moving to Alaska, I spent six years living in Wisconsin -- not even northern Wisconsin, but the southern part of the state, down in Milwaukee and Madison. Nevertheless, I probably experienced some of my most brutal winter days living there. Wisconsin winters are like a dirty barroom brawler: they're out to inflict pain from the outset, and with bitter winds and occasional rain, they're poised to do just that.

In contrast, Alaskan winters are more like an elephant that comes into your home at the end of October, slowly sits down on you, and then simply refuses to budge before about mid-April. 

It's nothing personal, and no amount of cursing, poking or smacking will move things along any differently. However, without the winds and rain, it's overall less dramatic and less punishing somehow. It's just something we all suffer through together, so no sense whining about it. 

And, yes, it is dark for most of each day. But even as a little girl growing up in Ohio, I remember going to school in the morning ... and it was dark. Then coming home late afternoon... and it was getting dark. And, in Anchorage, on Winter Solstice, December 21 (the shortest day of the year no matter where you live in the northern hemisphere), it's never completely dark -- it's at least sort of dusky [sorry, I can no longer say the word "twilight" without thinking of sparkly teen vampires -- thanks a lot, Stephenie Whatserface]. 

[Quick note of Disclaimer: As you probably know, Alaska is a big state. In case you haven't seen this graphic, here's the upshot: 

In the state of Alaska, I have lived only as far north as Fairbanks, which has shorter winter days than Anchorage but still has at least four hours a day of winter light. Cities such as Barrow, in northern Alaska, do have still shorter winter days. However, since I have no personal experience living that far north, this post pertains primarily to Anchorage and, a little less so, to Fairbanks.]

Nevertheless, popular perception remains that, somewhere around September, someone throws a big light switch in the sky, and Alaska is plunged into total darkness for six months. 

For some reason, it really bothers me that so many people still believe this to be true. I realize it's probably due more a lack of thinking about the question than actual miseducation, but I can't help but think of school science budgets whenever the topic arises.

So, to correct the misconception, here are some (hopefully) helpful diagrams:

OK, these first two diagrams show the sun's position in the sky at three different times of the year (summer solstice/June 21; vernal or autumnal equinox/March or September 21, respectively; and winter solstice/December 21) at two different latitudes: Arctic circle (first diagram) and Equator (second diagram). 

If you live on the equator, the sun rises due east, to a point directly above your head at noon, then sets due west. The farther north you move away from the equator, the more the sun sort of skirts along at an angle in the sky; it's never directly overhead, not even at high noon on Summer Solstice. The upper diagram of the Arctic Circle (66 degrees Latitude) does a nice job of showing how, in winter, the sun still comes up and moves across the sky, just not as high:

(Taken in Juneau, Alaska [Latitude 58 degrees North], on Winter Solstice)

Similarly, in summer, the sun's path doesn't allow its lowest point to drop off the horizon. Which is why summer's midnight hours look something like this, in time-lapse:

OK, so what does this mean in real life?

Well, here we are in November, about six weeks away from Solstice, and this is what my sunny neighborhood looked like today around noon:

So, as you can see, there's plenty of light and sun -- though the sun can't really be described as "warming" at this time of year -- but it's low in the sky, even at noon, and casting long shadows.

In my house, the light looks like this:

OK, so my dogs are a little spoiled. What can I say? They make me happy, so I'm willing to move their dog beds several times a day so their sunbathing remains uninterrupted. This time of year, the beds are halfway into the kitchen because the sun's rays are so low -- In summer, the beds are right up against the sofa at the front of the house. 

Making more sense now? Like I said, I'm not really sure why it bothers me that Outsiders sometimes have difficulty grasping this concept. I think, for me, part of it is because the quality of winter light in Alaska is so beautiful, it's unlike anything I've ever seen before. Maybe it's because the sun is closer to the Earth that the light so brilliantly illuminates everything in its path, turning even mundane objects into works of art:

So next time I'm talking to an Outsider, and a dreamy look crosses my face when they say, "Alaska?!? But it's so cold! And dark!!! Aren't the winters just awful??," it's because this is the image in my mind:

... and I reply, "No, they're actually quite lovely."