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.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Friday, February 10, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
The gamut part
I have seen a number of running blogs. They are very focused, very similar. Here’s what I did today: Got up at 4:30, ran 17 miles in the dark at 9:00 pace, through the woods with a headlamp. Startled a bear. The 40 m.p.h. winds were a bit rough, but I carried on, and got home in time to make breakfast for the kids ....
Bragging? No. In fact, there’s a pervading humility in the tone, an unspoken agreement not to take oneself too seriously. There’s a code of camaraderie—in the sharing of accomplishments and support, the seeking of validation and inspiration. I have been following a dozen or so of these sites for the last month, and have been inspired, entertained, and occasionally astounded by them. The ultra runners, in particular—these guys (and gals) who run regularly in 50 and 100 mile races—have challenged my cautious estimates of what the body can withstand. And the ones my age and older. How do they do it without breaking down? I’ve also enjoyed the vicarious experience of running in far-off places: Rome, Germany, Ireland, the Washington coast, the Arizona desert.
I keep a training log myself. It becomes a part of your life, a tool, a source of inspiration. These blogs are an extension of that idea. An extension into community.
But here I want to do something different. Here I want not to report, but to observe, explore, reflect—on running, an old love renewed, and on other loves as well; indeed on any topic that catches my interest. To examine these things, and in examining to come to understand their meaning for me.
Running is definitely a rich starting point, worthy of unpacking. But in this blog I want to run the gamut.
Bragging? No. In fact, there’s a pervading humility in the tone, an unspoken agreement not to take oneself too seriously. There’s a code of camaraderie—in the sharing of accomplishments and support, the seeking of validation and inspiration. I have been following a dozen or so of these sites for the last month, and have been inspired, entertained, and occasionally astounded by them. The ultra runners, in particular—these guys (and gals) who run regularly in 50 and 100 mile races—have challenged my cautious estimates of what the body can withstand. And the ones my age and older. How do they do it without breaking down? I’ve also enjoyed the vicarious experience of running in far-off places: Rome, Germany, Ireland, the Washington coast, the Arizona desert.
I keep a training log myself. It becomes a part of your life, a tool, a source of inspiration. These blogs are an extension of that idea. An extension into community.
But here I want to do something different. Here I want not to report, but to observe, explore, reflect—on running, an old love renewed, and on other loves as well; indeed on any topic that catches my interest. To examine these things, and in examining to come to understand their meaning for me.
Running is definitely a rich starting point, worthy of unpacking. But in this blog I want to run the gamut.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Volume 1, Number 1
Here's where it starts.
What is it? I don't know yet. This I know: One of my inspirations for starting this blog, reflected in the name, was running, a sport (activity?) I've enjoyed off and on since college days, that is, for 25 years.
About four years ago, mostly because of some pain in my knees that I took as a warning, but also maybe because I was feeling bored, I stopped running. Took up yoga. Just left my gym bag behind my office door and never lifted it again.
A year ago, however, I began to think about running, to remember it fondly, to miss it. Beautiful memories of my greatest runs--along the ocean, on lonely country roads, in far-off sun-kissed places, California, Umbria--welled up in daydreams. I found myself reading about running again, pulling out my old faded copies of George Sheehan's books, leafing through Runners World at the library, bookmarking running sites on the Web.
At first I was afraid to start back. A big-boned 6-foot-3, I'd never really had the body for it, and three years of relative inactivity had brought my weight to 215. My knees just won't hold up, I thought.
I started anyway, urged at last by the encouragement on Jeff Galloway's website, the example of Thaddeus Kostrubala, the middle-aged doctor who wrote The Joy of Running, the tiny woman on my hall at work who ran Boston. I started slowly, on Memorial Day, alternating a minute of running with a minute of walking for a period of thirty minutes.
I kept at it, every other day, then four times a week, building the run/walk ratio to 2:1, 3:1, 6:1, 9:1, then adding minutes, until I was running over 20 miles per week (though not tracking miles at all). I began to feel strong. I lost weight. By the end of the summer I had even started racing again.
The important thing is this: At 47 I realized how much I loved running, how much it had meant to me over the years, how much it could still mean. I began to appreciate the sport in a way I never really had. Where before I had often fought myself, forced myself to run, now I looked forward to it, built my days and weeks around it, cherished every opportunity to get out on the road.
In a life that had become more complicated, more weighted with responsibility and age and sadness, running became a singular, unadulterated joy. Part of what I want to do here is simply to explore that.
What is it? I don't know yet. This I know: One of my inspirations for starting this blog, reflected in the name, was running, a sport (activity?) I've enjoyed off and on since college days, that is, for 25 years.
About four years ago, mostly because of some pain in my knees that I took as a warning, but also maybe because I was feeling bored, I stopped running. Took up yoga. Just left my gym bag behind my office door and never lifted it again.
A year ago, however, I began to think about running, to remember it fondly, to miss it. Beautiful memories of my greatest runs--along the ocean, on lonely country roads, in far-off sun-kissed places, California, Umbria--welled up in daydreams. I found myself reading about running again, pulling out my old faded copies of George Sheehan's books, leafing through Runners World at the library, bookmarking running sites on the Web.
At first I was afraid to start back. A big-boned 6-foot-3, I'd never really had the body for it, and three years of relative inactivity had brought my weight to 215. My knees just won't hold up, I thought.
I started anyway, urged at last by the encouragement on Jeff Galloway's website, the example of Thaddeus Kostrubala, the middle-aged doctor who wrote The Joy of Running, the tiny woman on my hall at work who ran Boston. I started slowly, on Memorial Day, alternating a minute of running with a minute of walking for a period of thirty minutes.
I kept at it, every other day, then four times a week, building the run/walk ratio to 2:1, 3:1, 6:1, 9:1, then adding minutes, until I was running over 20 miles per week (though not tracking miles at all). I began to feel strong. I lost weight. By the end of the summer I had even started racing again.
The important thing is this: At 47 I realized how much I loved running, how much it had meant to me over the years, how much it could still mean. I began to appreciate the sport in a way I never really had. Where before I had often fought myself, forced myself to run, now I looked forward to it, built my days and weeks around it, cherished every opportunity to get out on the road.
In a life that had become more complicated, more weighted with responsibility and age and sadness, running became a singular, unadulterated joy. Part of what I want to do here is simply to explore that.
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