Last year I wrote a story for New Zealand Geographic magazine titled RUN FOR YOUR LIFE about the natural running revolution. As part of the research for it I attended a natural running workshop with James Kuegler aka Kugs in Queenstown.
The workshop happened as about a dozen more people joined the one-on-one session I was to have with Kugs and it was a memorable day. We all learnt a lot.
I have just heard from James that he will be doing a series of natural running workshops around the country beginning on November 23rd. He will be visiting 18 towns around New Zealand presenting his Natural Running Workshop, and Off-Road Running Workshops. The locations are: Auckland, Hamilton, Tauranga, Mount Maunganui, Rotorua, Gisborne, Napier, Taupo, New Plymouth, Palmerston North, Wellington, Blenheim, Nelson, Christchurch, Queenstown, Wanaka, Dunedin, and Timaru.
If you are into running, whether as a weekend jogger or a serious athlete, such workshop is a must for you. There has been so much misinformation about proper technique of running there is no wonder that almost everyone who runs suffers from running-related injuries at one time or another. It doesn’t need to be so. Running is the most natural way of movement for humans. As Christopher McDougall wrote, we are Born to Run.
For more background on why you want to learn – or rather relearn – this natural way of running see my NZ Geo story. I enclose the snippet below:
RUN FOR YOUR LIFE
Maybe it was the lengthy book project or the endless music rehearsals, both of which entailed untold sedentary hours, with the heart rate elevated only by coffee and mental athletics. Or perhaps it was just normal ageing, proceeding on schedule but unacknowledged, if not outright denied. The worst thing was, in my mind, I could still do it.
In my mind, I could still run up mountains where others had to walk. No matter how temporarily slothful I became, I always had enough residual fitness to be up for any adventure with anyone. Alas, my self-image was seriously out of date, and the strength of the delusion only made greater the shock that followed.
There is a hill called Mt Iron on the outskirts of our town, shaped like a Sphinx and clearly the work of Ice Age glaciers. In other places you might call it a mountain, but in Wanaka, on the edge of the Southern Alps, it’s merely a hill, its zigzagging trails a jogging loop for townsfolk of all ages. In the past, I could easily run up and down this hill, twice in a session.
But this time it was different. As soon as I reached the bottom hairpin bend of the climb, I knew something was wrong. My heartbeat had a subwoofer quality and the tick of a runaway metronome. I couldn’t get enough air and my legs felt as though they were not my own. By the time I climbed to the third bend, my body refused to go on. I stopped, bent double, hands on knees, feeling like I might faint, sucking air like a man drowning. Continue reading