Sometimes a bad word serves a good purpose

Last night the training group headed over to Baxter Woods again. No resounding applause from the Coyle Street Drinker's Lounge this time, though I really could have used it.

Having not run all week, I expected to struggle. On top of that, I had stupidly forgone the afternoon coffee for a pop - er, soda - forgetting that Sierra Mist (Sprite's misbegotten cousin) is caffeine free. So I was drained of both natural and artificial energy.

Alas, we headed over to Coyle Street and began attacking that monster of a hill up to Beacon Street. Last week it was annoying...yesterday it was painful (emotionally, I mean). But our group made its way - with me bringing up the caboose and trying to withhold the complaints.

Baxter woods is a great local running spot - we ran here last year too (you may recall the 'Mosquito Guts Fiasco of 2007') and were lucky that the cooler temps kept the bugs mostly at bay.

The plan was to run the full loop (which is touted to be 800 meters...as opposed to the 1,000 it was touted to be last year. I blog these things people - if 200 meters suddenly disappear, I'm going to notice!). First half is nearly all downhill, which allowed us to practice our forward-leaning, downhill run. "Run like you're running on eggshells" John Rogers said.

I still have no idea what that means, but downhill running isn't where my problems lay.

Instead, I'm holding on to a deep-rooted hostility toward the incline. The uphill. The unending upward climb.

Make fun of flatlanders if you must, but those miles and miles of unwavering plains make for much easier running.

At any rate, it's a fair trade: half down, half up. Pause for water and mosquito attacks and then do it again.

My group ran the loop three times - and the hill triumphed over me each attempt. I just didn't have the stamina yesterday. Serves me right, I guess.

But the trip back to the Maine Running Company Store was flat and sweet (taking Forest Ave as opposed to the longer route through the neighborhood). Last week we returned via side streets. The group had spread out at this point, so Ann and I were on our own. Neither of us could recall which street to turn down to get back, so on we jogged.

Finally, Ann called out, "Oh, I remember seeing that pile of diapers on the way here." Sweet, I thought. We're heading in the right direction.

A few paces later and I, too, saw something familiar: "Oh yes, I remember that spray paint. We turn right just after the 'slut'."

Nothing like a little crass sidewalk graffiti to help you find your way home again. It really warms the heart.