Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Nothing's ever been an issue of anything
On tonight's run -- my first since last Thursday -- I felt pretty decent so I thought I'd throw in little final mile time trial.
It sounds fun because of the illiteration. In reality, it sucks.
When I crossed the mile mark (the beginning point on ODC) I will admit that I honestly hurt. I was out of breath. The collarbone cramp thingie was creeping up. My legs were -- tested. Knowing that resting on my knees wouldn't offer me any relief, it didn't add any satisfaction to the pain of walking around and waiting for my shocked-as-possible system to bring my heart rate back down and my breathing back to some kind of non-gasp. For as much as I wanted to look at my watch and see the results, I could only think of how secondary the clock was right now. I was a living example of an individual's regression back to the basic needs of man. With survival at the front of my lobes, I knew these results would be there waiting for me. And they would not be anything mind-blowing. I had already planned to look down and see 6:30 so, at least I can say, there was no drastic shock when I did finally look at the split.
You see, Rudy, when I got out of the 821 this evening I had no plans other than to get out and do over 20 minutes. A raised bar, I know, but I knew if I set my aim too high I would, at best, meet whatever standard I had set and would likely be burnt out for tomorrow. With the Trot lingering under a month away, I have to accept that this will be only a stepping stone race.
I took an easy trip down ODC and thought about the race. I thought about my training and what I should do in the coming weeks. I did all this at about a 7:30 crawl. Feeling good about my pacing, I decided to draw my run out to an out-and-back with my turnaround at the light before the Palo Verde Overpass. It's great to see that I can do perfect 50km training when I am supposed to be focusing on a specific 5k -- but when I'm supposed to be kicking up my mileage, I can't help but attend every WOG session possible with a Saturday am tempo run.
I did this all to the sounds of the iBlax (which is on its final throws after last week's chucking). I wasn't the coolest guy on ODC tonight and I was definitely not the guy with the least amount of boxer-briefs riding up his legs -- but I felt like a million slow bucks.
So, for no reason, I hit the last mile hard. It was really more like the last 2K -- but I only took it seriously when I hit the mile mark. I tried to just stretch it out and run a reasonable pace that would allow myself to still be running when I reached the end but when I hit 800 meters remaining, it turned into running. Straight-up arm driving, form-focused, heavy-breathing running. It was like hooking up with an ex for the night: familiar and it made me sweaty and, later on, sore -- but I can easily remember why I kicked her to the curb in the first place.
I ended an otherwise slow and eventless 7 miler with a 6:17 mile -- and a sub-3 final 8. If that ain't hauling shit, I don't know what is.
Now it's a matter of getting out tomorrow....
It sounds fun because of the illiteration. In reality, it sucks.
When I crossed the mile mark (the beginning point on ODC) I will admit that I honestly hurt. I was out of breath. The collarbone cramp thingie was creeping up. My legs were -- tested. Knowing that resting on my knees wouldn't offer me any relief, it didn't add any satisfaction to the pain of walking around and waiting for my shocked-as-possible system to bring my heart rate back down and my breathing back to some kind of non-gasp. For as much as I wanted to look at my watch and see the results, I could only think of how secondary the clock was right now. I was a living example of an individual's regression back to the basic needs of man. With survival at the front of my lobes, I knew these results would be there waiting for me. And they would not be anything mind-blowing. I had already planned to look down and see 6:30 so, at least I can say, there was no drastic shock when I did finally look at the split.
You see, Rudy, when I got out of the 821 this evening I had no plans other than to get out and do over 20 minutes. A raised bar, I know, but I knew if I set my aim too high I would, at best, meet whatever standard I had set and would likely be burnt out for tomorrow. With the Trot lingering under a month away, I have to accept that this will be only a stepping stone race.
I took an easy trip down ODC and thought about the race. I thought about my training and what I should do in the coming weeks. I did all this at about a 7:30 crawl. Feeling good about my pacing, I decided to draw my run out to an out-and-back with my turnaround at the light before the Palo Verde Overpass. It's great to see that I can do perfect 50km training when I am supposed to be focusing on a specific 5k -- but when I'm supposed to be kicking up my mileage, I can't help but attend every WOG session possible with a Saturday am tempo run.
I did this all to the sounds of the iBlax (which is on its final throws after last week's chucking). I wasn't the coolest guy on ODC tonight and I was definitely not the guy with the least amount of boxer-briefs riding up his legs -- but I felt like a million slow bucks.
So, for no reason, I hit the last mile hard. It was really more like the last 2K -- but I only took it seriously when I hit the mile mark. I tried to just stretch it out and run a reasonable pace that would allow myself to still be running when I reached the end but when I hit 800 meters remaining, it turned into running. Straight-up arm driving, form-focused, heavy-breathing running. It was like hooking up with an ex for the night: familiar and it made me sweaty and, later on, sore -- but I can easily remember why I kicked her to the curb in the first place.
I ended an otherwise slow and eventless 7 miler with a 6:17 mile -- and a sub-3 final 8. If that ain't hauling shit, I don't know what is.
Now it's a matter of getting out tomorrow....
