The trail in sunnier times

The MKT Trail starts about a mile from my house and weaves through a magical, wooded forest for about nine miles before connecting to the Katy Trail, a cross-state Rail Trail that follows the Missouri River. When I say “magical, wooded forest,” I mean the kind of misty wonderland where one might have the opportunity to race playful fawns alongside a gently flowing creek beneath dizzying clouds of indigo buntings. Also, occasionally a mystical owl will appear to pose a riddle.

Today the trail was made even more beautiful by the snow-lined trees and frozen creeks, although the icy terrain was a constant difficulty. This proved convenient, however, in facilitating my Rocky IV training montage fantasy, in which I soundly out-train an army of Russian super-soldiers by chopping down a great oak, toting logs through waist-deep snow, and acting as a human husky in an Iditarod-style sled mush. Although my actual instinct was to stop running, slice open a Tauntaun and drink hot chocolate inside Luke Skywalker-style, I persevered to eventually defend my title against the Soviet Menace.

Recently, I purchased a Nike+ipod gadget that hooks onto your shoe and then communicates with a robot lady in your ipod to berate you into running faster. Unlike the breathy sexpots flirting at me from GPS units, this robot lady is strictly all business, almost clinical. She has expectations and demands. She coldly tells me to set goals. She wants me to program in my own “Power Jam,” so she can kick things up to “11” when my feet start to drag. She thinks I’m fat, I can just tell.

When I finished today’s snowy trudge of a run, I wanted the robot lady (who I’ve dubbed “Natalia Romanova”) to make some sort of concession to my tremendous effort in the face of Arctic adversity. “You have the heart of a lion, and the resilience of a twelve-dog team of huskies. In my country, we speak of the famous “If I can change” sermon delivered by your Rocky Balboa to end our communist system. You, C. Giddings, have embodied the power of that change on this day.”

Instead, silence. Then, jarringly, the robot lady blurts out, “Hi, this is Lance Armstrong. Congratulations – that was your best workout yet!” in a pitch-perfect Lance Armstrong voice, jolting me with surprise. Um, thanks, Natalia, but is Lance Armstrong the best you can do? If you’re gonna do impressions, next time I’d like something a little more along the lines of a Captain Jean Luc Picard.

The first training run is complete. 10 miles down, two episodes of “This American Life,” and one high-five bestowed upon an unwitting stranger.

All I need now is my Power Jam.

The trail in sunnier times

The MKT Trail starts about a mile from my house and weaves through a magical, wooded forest for about nine miles before connecting to the Katy Trail, a cross-state Rail Trail that follows the Missouri River. When I say “magical, wooded forest,” I mean the kind of misty wonderland where one might have the opportunity to race playful fawns alongside a gently flowing creek beneath dizzying clouds of indigo buntings. Also, occasionally a mystical owl will appear to pose a riddle.

Today the trail was made even more beautiful by the snow-lined trees and frozen creeks, although the icy terrain was a constant difficulty. This proved convenient, however, in facilitating my Rocky IV training montage fantasy, in which I soundly out-train an army of Russian super-soldiers by chopping down a great oak, toting logs through waist-deep snow, and acting as a human husky in an Iditarod-style sled mush. Although my actual instinct was to stop running, slice open a Tauntaun and drink hot chocolate inside Luke Skywalker-style, I persevered to eventually defend my title against the Soviet Menace.

Recently, I purchased a Nike+ipod gadget that hooks onto your shoe and then communicates with a robot lady in your ipod to berate you into running faster. Unlike the breathy sexpots flirting at me from GPS units, this robot lady is strictly all business, almost clinical. She has expectations and demands. She coldly tells me to set goals. She wants me to program in my own “Power Jam,” so she can kick things up to “11” when my feet start to drag. She thinks I’m fat, I can just tell.

When I finished today’s snowy trudge of a run, I wanted the robot lady (who I’ve dubbed “Natalia Romanova”) to make some sort of concession to my tremendous effort in the face of Arctic adversity. “You have the heart of a lion, and the resilience of a twelve-dog team of huskies. In my country, we speak of the famous “If I can change” sermon delivered by your Rocky Balboa to end our communist system. You, C. Giddings, have embodied the power of that change on this day.”

Instead, silence. Then, jarringly, the robot lady blurts out, “Hi, this is Lance Armstrong. Congratulations – that was your best workout yet!” in a pitch-perfect Lance Armstrong voice, jolting me with surprise. Um, thanks, Natalia, but is Lance Armstrong the best you can do? If you’re gonna do impressions, next time I’d like something a little more along the lines of a Captain Jean Luc Picard.

The first training run is complete. 10 miles down, two episodes of “This American Life,” and one high-five bestowed upon an unwitting stranger.

All I need now is my Power Jam.