The Inner Weasel Strikes Back. (Or How to Kill a Phone.)

Except for the iPhone that took a dive into the ladies room toilet at The Mansion, all my phones have been killed in the line of duty.  On the trail.  In the river.  No phone of mine has died a natural death.

Early on I found that Ziplocs work fine for a quick rain, but they are insufficient for total immersion.  Along for the ride when the kayak turns over, for instance. 

My phones have not been allowed to go kayaking since.  Although someone told me the new case I just bought works so well for him that he swims with it. 

Hmmm, still a little unwilling to test that on a brand new bazillion dollar phone.  But it's young yet.      

For a long time, after I tripped on a root trail running and put my thumb through the screen of the last of the Star Trek Communicator type Nokia's, my phones were banned from running too. 

Then they came up with smart phones and those darned run applications.  Keeping track of mileage is just too irresistible.  Pace, elevation, a map of my route.  For some reason it is particularly satisfying to see a winding trail route mapped out with the miles neatly labeled.

So the phone was invited back to trail running. 

On the bike it's pretty easy to stash a phone.  Jerseys come with pockets.  There is always the camelbak or trusty Bento.  But running.  That's trouble.  For me, anyway.  And it's not just the only-one-pocket-the-size-of-a-key outfit, either.

First of all.  I suck at running.  Running is hard work.  The first few miles are always awful, and always have been.  It takes determination to hang in there until the heart and lungs can agree on a harmony.

Second.  There's a Weasel in my head.  I wish she would go away.  When things get tough, the Weasel, that inner spoiled brat, starts looking for a way out. 

Or at least a pit stop. 

The Weasel is one superb bargainer.  Very hard to ignore.  She really should be in sales.  Maybe at a flea market.

Weasel:

"These shoes are too tight!  Oww.  Better stop and retie them." 

"This waistband is rubbing!  Stop and adjust the drawstring.  It'll only take a second." 

"And these sunglasses!  (Too dark/too big/too tight/too dopey-looking...)  You know, it would only take a few minutes to go back to the car for a hat instead." 

Now there's the phone to help the Weasel out with a whole new list of distractions. 

Weasel:

"Hey, it sure would be nice to have music."  (Adjust ear bud.) 

"This ear bud is bugging me!"  (Put ear bud in pocket.) 

"Is that the three mile mark?  Or is it around the next bend?  Hey.  I know.  You could get the phone out and check!"   

Assuming experience has taught you to resist the siren song of constantly checking the run app, or say, taking pictures of every gopher tortoise on trail.  There is always the physical irritation of actually carrying the thing.

I was just so tired of listening to the brat, though. 

Stinkin' Weasel!  Wah, wah, wah'ing about how the brand new armband was bothering her and maybe I should stop and adjust something.  Anything.  Just one little stop, right? 

So I reached to adjust, and flip!  The armband sprung off and landed in the dirt.  On impact the clear faceplate came unglued and popped out.  Much sand was scooped into the previously sealed off portion with the phone in it.  

I am not so naïve as to trust an armband to keep a phone dry.  This one was inside a Ziploc, inside the armband.  So it was just a matter of dusting off the outside of the Ziploc.  No harm done.  Except to the armband.  And my run pace - not that it was good to start with.

Seconds tick by.  The brat is momentarily happy.  But I am not.  I've had it with the stupid arm band.  I already switch a bottle from one hand to the other.   I don't want to juggle the arm band and the phone too. 

I hang the bright pink armband in a tree where I will be sure to see it on the way back.  I stick my phone into my waistband, cinch it up tight, and resume running.     

Stinking Weasel!  What now?  

Weasel:  "Wah.  It rubs.  The edges of the Ziploc tickle." 

Me:  "It tickles?  Really?  So what!  Let it.  I am absolutely NOT going to stop again." 

And I didn't. 

I.  Practiced.  Resistance. 

Said NO to the inner brat for the next four miles.  Which, in my world of sand and roots and fellow tortoises, translates to oh, about 45 more minutes.  Without stopping. 

Hallelujah!  Success!  Defied the Weasel. 

I head back to the tree to pick up the torn armband.  Only then do I give in to the urge to check my pace, and pull the Ziploc'd phone out of my waistband.

Uh oh. 

The heavy duty, 1 quart, Smart Zip Plus freezer bag is full of sweat.  Not just some damp mist, either.  The bag is squishing. 

Two days in a bowl of rice.  The poor phone never does come to.  

The new one has finally been persuaded into consciousness and encased in it's pricey new waterproof cocoon.  I ask the clerk at Best Buy for a phone cover to take deep sea diving.  I settle for one that claims to be good to six feet.

Just the same.  The battle is on.  The inner brat may have been defied once, but it would be silly to think she is gone for all time.  

Should the new phone be along for the next run?

Truthfully, I am not sure.  

One thing is certain though. 

It's always a whole lot harder to leave the Weasel behind.