Getting a slow start

I continue to be surprised at how much difference it makes to start slowly. My bad runs, almost invariably, are those in which I am preoccupied or impatient and go out too fast.

Even a little bit too much pace at the start can be ruinous. It throws you off, locks you into a false rhythm of continued borrowing. Before you know it you’re too indebted to recover—and you can’t reset your equanimity. You can’t get it back, no matter how much you slow down. You’re spoiled, doomed to feel awful for the rest of the run

If I do hold the proper pace for at least the first mile, on the other hand, I am almost guaranteed a good run. It gives me some needed slack, allows me to sink past the early discomfort and uncoordination into a baseline that I can work from for the rest of the run. Once this groove is established, I am opened up to a reservoir of strength. I can push the pace when I want to, back it down when that feels right, and still feel that I’m running within myself, not straining.

The proper starting pace, it turns out, is slower than I want to go. So slow that I am conscious of holding back. It’s not an easy pace to hold; it requires attention and patience. I pay attention to the length of my stride, to my leg turnover, and to my posture. I try to be patient with my lack of coordination.

It’s remarkable to me how often I still make the mistake of going out too fast, even though I’ve been taught this lesson so many times. Used to be I would succumb to the temptations to keep up with people in races. The memory of pain makes me less susceptible now to these temptations. Now it’s a matter of getting burned by inattention.

The lesson is certainly translatable—to writing, to prayer. This is the value of any discipline, that by simplification and repetition it forces us to focus, moves us out of our numb habits and back to that relaxed state of attention that is the opening for grace.

Indoor track

I always feel a little ashamed to run on the indoor track. Not always. There are some days when running indoors is clearly the only sane option. It’s pouring down rain, or there are several inches of uncleared snow, or it’s ten below and the sidewalks are covered with ice. On all other days, my macho-meter tells me, running inside is a sign of weakness.

The track encircles the last row of seats at the top of the old gymnasium. I don’t enjoy running up there. It’s easier in some sense—it’s flat, controllable, there’s no wind. But the air is dry, and oxygen-starved. The hard-rubber track is short and banked. The walls are close, the scenery pale and dreary. I run awkwardly, my gait never quite falling in comfortably. I prefer even the treadmill.

The “real” runners—that loose group of a dozen master’s athletes who train together seriously, bound by a jokey humor—almost never run there. They don’t surrender to the elements. They look down at the rest of us weaklings, driven inside by a bit of a breeze. They laugh at us. Or do I only imagine this?

For 15 years I had a boss who actually gave voice to this scorn. Let’s call her Yolanda. She was far more macho than I was, and clearly enjoyed pointing this out to me. She defined herself by her fierce refusal to take the easy route, and by her superiority. The colder it was outside, the more she liked it.

I frequently hated Yolanda. I refused to compete with her, in part because I was afraid I’d lose. But I also admired her. Secretly, I sometimes wished I was more like her, that I had her toughness and ruthlessness and courage. She made me all-too-aware of my imperfections, and my tendency toward weakness. She made me ashamed of myself.

Yolanda returns whenever I’m faced with the choice of whether or not to run outside. She sits on my shoulder spouting ridicule. Those in-between days are the worst.

If I listen to her, I feel cowed, and react against that. If I try to ignore her I end up feeling guilty. How crazy is trying to spite—or appease—a ghost?

Pretty damn crazy. In my saner moments I am able to kick out of this paralysis, make a choice and live with it. Real” runners be damned. If I run long enough, I know, the choice won’t matter at all.

How I run now

Some years ago I became intrigued by the science of running. Tempted, you might say. I was in the best shape of my life, and I began dreaming of what more I could accomplish.

I began poring over training charts, which told me exactly what I needed to do in order to run a 40-minute 10K. On paper, the requirements looked reasonable. How pleasant it was to fantasize about completing that fail-safe recipe!

And how different the reality! As I threw myself into the training, every assigned workout became an obstacle. What had looked like like a hill I could easily climb soon seemed insurmountable. Most foreign to me, and most difficult, were the track workouts: repeated fast intervals around a quarter-mile oval. I began each session—each interval—with fresh determination. And ended each in failure and heaving anaerobic distress. After a handful of these experiences I grew discouraged and gave up.

What happened? First, I was ignorant. I had no experience in running track, and knew no one who could reassure me, or translate those cold numbers into human terms that I could digest. Second, I was too impatient to go back and puzzle out what I was doing wrong. I lacked respect, started too fast, expected too much too soon.

But I think I was also turned off by the reduction of running to numbers. The rigidity of the goal drained the joy from running, made it a grind.

For me running had turned from torture to joy on the grace-filled day when I discovered what it felt like to run at my own pace. Since then, it had been a perfect escape, the pursuit of lightness, a rhythmic grace.

I remain intrigued by the science of performance. But for me to bind myself to a performance chart was and is to violate that spirit of freedom.