operant conditioning

mid-week total mileage: 13

weekend's mileage: 11

on the iPod: "bed intruder song" -- antoine dodson

Humans are insatiable learners. We have a propensity for absorbing new information incredibly fast. At any given moment, our brains are processing bits of sight and sound in the millions, and we are oblivious to the process. Most of that sensory information is lost in our short-term memory, but some of it comes together to learn new behaviors. Possibly the most famous theorist to research human learning was Ivan Pavlov. Don't remember him from undergrad? Think slobbering dogs. His theory, classical conditioning, is still the basis for how we learn. It says that people (or hungry dogs) learn to associate two stimuli together. It's really very simple.

But there are other opinions on how we learn behaviors as well. One of my favorite theories argues this: behavior that is rewarded will increase, behavior that is punished will diminish. Pioneered by B.F. Skinner and known as Operant Conditioning, this concept was originally studied by observing mice continually pressing a lever because it gave them a food pellet. Extending his knowledge, Skinner also taught pigeons to play ping-pong. How freakin' cool is that? I want a pigeon that plays ping-pong. But operant conditioning goes far beyond mice and pigeons. Any sort of rewards card that gives a consumer a free product after buying a certain number of that product is a great example of operant conditioning. See below. I'm completely addicted. Best. Tea. Ever.

While running is the single most enjoyable aspect of my life, I also spend my time with myriad other activities: reading, teaching, church, coffee, college football, hanging out with friends and family, watching TV with Abe Lincoln. I also enjoy driving in the country. It's something i've done for years. It gives me time to think and helps me slow down the pace of the day. Over the last few months I've driven a particular route that runs north of my neighborhood. Consisting of open pastures, mature trees, and the color green for miles, the roads are calm and quiet. I almost always drive below the speed limit and have the windows down in an effort to breath the cool, fresh air. And there are certain bands and artists that, through their particular musical acumen, lend themselves to drives in the country. Blues Traveler, Death Cab For Cutie, Simon And Garfunkle, Nickel Creek, and Rascall Flatts all come to mind. And Johnny Cash. It's a good thing.

These same back roads have some really steep hills and valleys. As i've driven down them on gorgeous Spring evenings, i've thought what it would be like to run them. (Big surprise there.) I began to realize about a month ago that it was only a matter of time before that very event would happen. So a quick email to Mrs. Murie and it was a done deal: we were going to run in the country. I couldn't wait.

In preparation for the run, I set my truck odometer on zero and pulled out of the driveway, mapping out six miles that would include the biggest of the hills. It was on this particular drive that I really began to pay attention to the depth of these hills and valleys. They were big. They were definitely bigger than any hills i'd ever run. For about eleven seconds I reconsidered this mission and then promptly put those thoughts out of my head. I was hell-bent on running these country roads, and the hills were the motivator. It was gonna happen.

So Mrs. Murie showed up after school around 4:45 with a huge smile on her face and her running shoes on. I love her energy and personality. I debated on whether to come clean with her about my concerns, but ultimately decided to keep my mouth shut and let the run play itself out. It was only six miles. How bad could six miles be? We were about to find out.

As always with Mrs. Murie, the pace was swift from the beginning and we didn't let up. It became obvious very quickly that the 90 degree temperature and pounding sun was going to be a force with which to be reckoned. Both of us were winded after the first few miles, primarily because of the heat, but also because the roads were a slow and steady incline for about 75% of the way. But it didn't seem to matter to either of us as we continued to run, knowing what lie ahead.

I tried in advance to give Mrs. Murie a bit of a warning about the terrain, but I don't think either of us were prepared for the truth until we actually found ourselves in the bottom of the valley with nothing to do but run out of it. I know I certainly wasn't. This hill was a monster. It was epic. It was menacing. And it was mad as hell.

Instinctively, we both slowed our pace the slightest bit and began the ascent. There would be no discussion, no casual conversation, no strategy. It was every runner alone, doing whatever it took to keep moving forward and get to the top without dying. Mrs. Murie, not surprisingly, took a lead on me and never looked back. I hadn't gone 20 yards when my lungs began to burn. My thighs and calves were next, seizing with pain as I continued the climb. 40 yards into it and I realized i'd be walking at some point. The incline got steeper half way up and I was begging for mercy. With the sun beating down on my back and at least another 50 yards to go up this massive hill, I broke my stride and damn near crawled the rest of the way. Mrs. Murie was a mere blip on my visual radar ahead.

On this day I would finish, but the hill would win. While the picture below can't accurately portray just exactly how amazingly steep the hill is, please know that when it was taken, a day later, I was still in pain and emotionally scarred from having to run it.

We both took an extended break at the top, considering our sanity for attempting such a nasty incline and waiting for the dizzy spells to subside. The pain and humiliation was so bad that i'm pretty sure for a moment I lost consciousness and was speaking in tongues. Mrs. Murie had to slap my face and wake me up. (Okay, that's a bit of a stretch, but it's funny.) Our run back was a bit labored from both of our legs being shredded, but we knew we'd finished the damn thing and would never have to run it again. That part is true.

With the sun setting low in the western sky and our shoes unlaced, drinking Blue Moon Belgian Wheat in frozen pint glasses on my back deck, both of us decided that it was one of the toughest hills we'd ever run and, because of that, it needed a name. A moniker that would make it stand out in our memories for some time to come. A proper noun that would acutely describe it's menacing characteristics. It's true nature. We decided on calling it The Punisher. Because that's exactly what it doled out: pure, unforgiving punishment.

B.F. Skinner, if he were alive today, might sit on that back deck with us, cold beer in hand, and surmise that the likelihood of us running The Punisher again would be miniscule. He would argue that we had learned our lesson running hills and would forevermore stick to flat trails and city streets. But psychological theories, including critically acclaimed ones, don't always hold true. And this is going to be one of those times. I'm already pining to give it another shot, and next time there won't be any walking up half way. Next time, The Punisher will be mine.