My New Best Friends... and enemies.

I'm no stranger to fitness. From the time I was a wee lad, I've always enjoyed running around and getting tired and dirty. A couple years ago, however, I started a slow decline into slothliness that I began to enjoy more and more. My training regimes switched from push-ups on the floor to those frozen ice cream pushups with the cardboard wrapper. I gave up. The menswear guy at JC Penney started drooling when he saw me heading his way, because he knew I was back for the next size up. It's just terrible how other people can bask in your demise.

After a scare with some chest pains (which amounted to nothing more than the constriction from the size-too-small shirt I was wearing pressing against my heart and hurting like hell,)I decided to take my body back from the Ding Dong Demons that had possessed it. One round of P90-X later, and I was down 35 pounds and feeling great. I didn't throw up in my mouth when I walked by the mirror naked; and where once nestled a two-liter of stomach contents now displays something that's about two cans short of a six pack. Not bad for a few months of pain and agony on the living room floor.

But I know myself. It'll never last. I have fitness ADD, and the only thing standing between my current almost-non-embarrassing physique and Homer Simpson's twin is a couple of ill-timed wedding receptions with open bars and a clearance on Nutty Bars and Lays Classic Family Size bags. So I must diversify. Expand the fitness regimen. Keep it interesting, so the army of neurons I have in my body fighting to get to the couch and pop open the Schlafly Heffeweisen are kept in check by the Allied Powers of righteous living. It's a constant battle raging inside my cells. The good guys are winning for now. But the force of the dark side is strong within me...

So I told myself (relax... I only talk in my head) that I need a new challenge. I began subscribing to Men's Health. (And by the way, what a wonderful magazine. It's like an ever-changing hodgepodge of fitness facts interspersed with apparently indispensable tidbits of man knowledge that no one but subscribers are privy to. And the facts seem to change from month to month. So I figure, since raspberries are in this month, I'm eating the hell out of them. Maybe they'll be carcinogous in October, and won't that keep things interesting!) There was an advertisement for trail running shoes. Hmmm. There's a novel idea for me. I'd flirted with the idea of training for a triathlon, but I really don't do that swimming thing. It's probably the water-related PTSD I suffered as an adolescent when I jumped off the cliff at Johnson Shut-ins in my Converse hightops and nearly drowned, as my little cousin Shari sat there eating her Fun Dip on the bank and laughing hysterically at me while my arms flailed like a spent 18 foot giraffe who waded into a 22 foot watering hole.

So there's this trail running ad. Ever mindful of researching a topic thoroughly, I spent a few minutes of downtime at work Googling things like 'trail running' and 'trail running in St. Louis'. I was almost turned to the dark side when the ads for 'trail mix' started popping up with all that peanutty, chocolatey raisiny goodness... but I resisted. I saw an article written by a veteran trail runner, but it was really long. And apparently there's a book on the topic about some African guys that run barefoot, but I'm not really that interested in reading a book on it. So anyway, after diligently skimming the article, the key points I picked up are that you're supposed to get really expensive trail running shoes (hence all the pop-up ads for Adidas Trailman SPQ60's and Nike Air Gazelles and such) and that you're supposed to keep your eyes on the trail because apparently it's a lot different than running on pavement.

Well, the new shoes are out because I totally blew my Father's Day gift on a kick-ass sportcoat that I can wear with absolutely anything (until my fat dark side takes over again, and it doesn't fit over my flab without giving me chest pains and sending me back to the ER for another stupid copay and day of blood draws and bogus tests.) But I've got six-year-old running shoes that are perfect for a trail because I really don't care if I step in horse shit in them or not.

Armed with my library of new information and a heart full of gusto for my new life-fitness-challenge thingie, I headed to the only trail I know about from here to Oregon: the Chubb trail at Lone Elk Park. (I forgot to Google 'running trails' and the only ones they referenced in my thorough skimming of the article were in Oregon. Or maybe it was Wyoming.) Not wanting to waste another day of NOT trail running, which will probably become my new obsession since I'm done with my last obsession of p90X, I slipped into my old trustees, put on some tight undies (cause I figured you weren't supposed to run trails in boxers cause you might give the soldiers concussions), and headed to the trail. Hell, I practically grew up on this trail, as I've been all over that park both on and off the paths. I was in the zone, AND I even remembered to bring a bottle of water for the return trip. I knew enough to not expect a drinking fountain in the middle of mother nature's palace! I'm NOT an idiot, you know.

My first thought when I arrived at the park was, "They've moved the trail." It wasn't where it used to be. Had it been that long? I remembered the gate with the wide path beyond it, crushed white gravel for miles, wide enough for a jogger, a stay-at-home mom with a stroller, and a rich kid on a horse all to pass comfortably. Now I drove further and there was a new sign with "Chubb Trail Parking" this way. I followed it into parts unknown and pulled my ever-versatile Honda between the dirt covered Cherokee and the Toyota Rivertrailmonstereater 4x4. I locker her down and 'whoop whooped' the alarm in case a deer or maybe a bear tried to get at my water bottle.

Three guys were heading my way from the end of the lot, so I assumed that's where the trail was, as I had absolutely no idea otherwise. My first thought of them was 'street toughs', but then I realized I wasn't running a trail in north St. Louis and I relaxed. They all smiled and said 'hey' and I caught a glimpse of them. Wow. Trail runners. In the flesh. Lean. Cut. Dirty. Their shirts were off. They had muddy shoes that looked like they must have cost about $125 dollars a shoe. Their legs were caked with mud and debris. Their asses were sweaty (NOT THAT I WAS LOOKING AT THEM BUT IF A GUY HAS A REALLY SWEATY ASS YOU JUST NOTICE IT. GEEZ.) and covered with trail stuff. They had flecks of mud and blood, yes BLOOD, on their chests and arms. And they were talking up a storm, totally psyched from their run.... no, dare I say, obvious adventure on that trail.

Hell yes. I knew I made the right call. This was it. My heart was already pounding with anticipation. Screw the stretch out. My adrenaline will carry me. I know where the trail head is, or at least what side of the parking lot it's on. I'm going for it.

I headed down the lot and got to the gated white gravel road. Ah, sweet success. Next to the road was a small wooden pole with a sign reading "Chubb Trail" with an arrow pointing towards a narrow path that my fat self couldn't have even squeezed onto. It headed away from the comforting gravel and into the woods, disappearing after only a few yards.

Rethinking my strategy, I decided maybe I should have Googled the actual trail first. I saw headlines from tomorrow's paper: "Idiot Found Dead of Exhaustion in Middle of Woods Apparently Looking for Trail End." Those guys seemed nice enough anyway. Who knows, maybe they'll be my future trail-running buds. So I casually acted like I was from another state and here on vacation (never mind the Missouri plates on the car... geez.) and sauntered athletically back to the three guys.

They were hanging on the bed of their Toyota Rivermonstergatorrunner and laughing and talking. One of them was sucking some sort of nutritional goo out of a pack. The others were chugging NASA-approved recovery drinks and discussing how fast this one guy was at their last half marathon. I tried to act cool.

"Hey, do you guys know how long this trail is?" Now, I figured I had to at least act like I knew WHERE the trail was, but I knew I could work my way into the rest.

"Oh sure!" They all smiled. They were very nice trail guys. My apprehensions waned. "It's 6 miles to the first turnaround or you can go the whole way and it's 7 miles."

"Each way?"

"Yeah," they laughed. They were dripping with sweat and totally high on the smell of horse shit and loamy earth.

"Well, do you know where the halfway point might be?" I figured I didn't mind if they knew I was a newbie, which they probably discerned already from my shoes (which are now probably worth about 45 cents on eBay) and my Supplement Superstore tee shirt which people only wear to Club Fitness when they're trying to impress the chicks away from the meatheads there.

"Oh yeah, the railroad tracks are about halfway. The second set I mean. And it gets a bit marshy toward the middle, from the flood, if you go that far."

"The trail's in great shape!" They all chimed in about how great it was. I smiled and nodded. "Oh, but man the horseflies suck!"

They all grimaced together.

"Do you have any bug spray?" he asked.

"Ummmm, no."

"Oh, man, you're gonna need some." He reached into his duffel bag, which contained extra socks, protein bars, water doodads, and what I believe to have been a small nuclear fitness device of some kind. He handed me some variety of OFF repellent. "Joe here got divebombed by like a dozen of those bastards. We were running as fast as we could at one point. They were bad."

They all agreed they were bad as I sprayed myself down. A few bugs, but the trail's in great shape. This is it! I thanked my future best friends and headed away with a smile of almost jittery enthusiasm plastered across my face. P90x... conquered. The long loop of 2.5 miles on the JB paved trail... conquered. Next up... trail running! I figured I'd do a couple miles, turn around and head back. Nice and easy. Get used to it. I figured the horseflies were probably in the flooded section, and I knew that was a few miles past my target.

I jogged... no, I RAN (slowly) onto the narrow trail. Wow, this really was in great shape. Fine dirt covered the dirt. It was nice and soft. Way better than pavement. Pavement is for pussies, I thought. I ran a few steps in comfort. I looked at nature all around me. Freaking amazing. Huge trees. Fresh air. Birds! Butterflies! This is it!

Then I hit a tree root and turned my ankle.

Jesus H. Christ that hurt. I hobbled on it, remembering something or other I skimmed in that stupid article about paying attention on the trail and visualizing barefoot African guys laughing hysterically with bones coming out of their noses and pointing at the stupid white guy who turned his ankle 20 feet into his first trail run. I hobbled some more and thought, screw it. I kept running and it really felt ok. Thanks plyometrics and p90x!!! Besides, if I was gonna do this thing, I was going to have to learn to run on a few bumps and bruises. But I couldn't help but think that whatever I had on my feet felt like I was running in house slippers about this time.

I headed forth, cautiously and with all four eyes on the trail in front of me. It reminded me of learning to drive a car, and how when you first start driving you stare at the end of the hood until you almost rear end the guy in front of you, so you expand your vision down the road. Well I started staring at the tips of my toes, but fearing to run into the business end of an elk or buffalo, I expanded my vision a few feet in front of me.

The ankle felt okay. The trail was nice. I avoided rocks and roots and even low lying branches. This was again truly awesome!

Then something hit my head. Then my ear. I heard the buzz. Then my arm. More buzzing. Wow. The horsefly arrived sooner than I thought. Then my neck. My ear. My arm. My cheek. Dammit! I swatted. I hit it. It came back. More divebombs. Then it left. Ha. Not so bad. I made the first left turn on the trail.

Jesus H. Christ! Where'd the freakin trail go?!? My next step was straight down on a rock, then more straight down on rocks, gravel, stumps and horse shit. My house slippers strained from all the nature and cried out for the smooth pavement of suburbia. Oh. THIS is trail running. I slowed waaaaaaay down and made it down the hill.

Wow. That was absolutely a rush. Back on the dirt, surrounded by trees.

Bam! Another head shot. Two of them, first one cheek then another. Trying to land on me so they could tear chunks of flesh out of my virginal suburban skin. My arms flailed wildly until they too left me alone.

Peace. And a fork in the trail and no sign. What the hell way do I go? Well, the left fork goes straight up a hill. The right fork takes a nice easy loll through a clearing to the first set of railroad tracks. We'll go right. A few strides and the levee with the tracks is above me. Now what? Do I take my 6 foot body through the 5 foot drainage tunnel under the tracks, which is flooded with 2 inches of water, or do I follow the dirt trail STRAIGHT UP the side of the levee and over the tracks?

After exactly five seconds of logical deduction, I turned around and decided that my ankle probably should get some ice on it. And I could do some more Googling so I didn't end up as another of the countless lost-moron-on-trail-gets-eaten-by-buffalo-even-though-buffalo-are-vegetarians statistics.

My slipper shoes took me back up the hill... the solid rock one... the one that I went straight down... only now it was straight up. I walked, then scoffed at myself and said, "What the hell kind of man are you, punk?" I ran (very slowly) up the hill and as soon as I hit the dirt, the horseflies returned.

My lungs burned with the funky freshness of actual non-polluted air. In shock, my system almost collapsed from all the nature. But I kept running (very slowly) up the hill, swatting horse flies the whole way. They attacked relentlessly, and as I conquered the hill, I found alternate ways of gasping for air. There was no way I was gonna suck down one of those ginormous buzzing bastards. I remembered the recollections of my new best friends on the lot: "We were running as fast as we could."

Jesus H. Christ. I already ran as fast as I could. My 'fast as I could' was at the bottom of that freakin hill of rocks, covered in horse shit. I saw the new headline in tomorrow's paper: "Local Trail-Running Wannabe Dies of Exhaustion Several Hundred Yards from Parking Lot. Water Bottle Scant Yards from Famished Fake Athlete. Flies Devoured Flesh. Victim Identified by Supplement Superstore Shirt."

No. That would not be me. I ran (slowly) onward, windmill arms flailing feverishly at the neverending hordes of lascivious nastiness. Just as I was going to attempt to try breathing through my ears, they were gone. My (slow) run continued until I hit the parking lot. I was hoping that my new best friends left, because I think I was only gone about 10 minutes. They were. If I see them again, I'll be sure to thank them for the (totally useless) bug spray and the (futile) warnings about the horseflies.

One day I'll make it to the six mile mark and celebrate by hurling all over the turnaround. But first I'll Google an actual map of the freaking trail so I know which one to follow. And I'll Google the hell out of 'horseflies' and figure out when they start dying off. I'll hit the trail again then because I SWEAR this trail running thing is going to be my new obsession.