About those PRs

I decided early yesterday that a day off after a long run wasn't a bad idea.

Well. That's not entirely accurate. I decided that, on my only day off between a nine-day mini-marathon of work and a five-day work week, my time would be best spent on the couch with a bag of popcorn and the last season of "Castle". (And it was.)

But the later it got, the more I felt like my day was incomplete. So at 8:30pm, I sighed at myself, put on my shoes, and went to the gym.

After such a wonderful week, I was curious. Very curious.

I turned up the speed on the treadmill and launched into another tempo run. I knew it would suck. I knew it might hurt. I decided to embrace it.

I laid out one mile in 10:25, breaking my PR from last Sunday by five full seconds.

A walking interval to catch my breath, then started up some speed intervals at 12:30, just for fun. And really, contrasted with a tempo run, speed intervals are fun. Run hard for a couple minutes, or a short distance, then rest. There's always a light at the end of the tunnel.

My time for two was 22:13.

My record-keeping on my two-miler has been a little dodgy, but I'm pretty sure that's a PR by more than forty seconds.

I'm sure I'll plateau again soon, maybe even right now. It might be another month or two before I get another solid PR. And that's okay.

For now, I'm happy with these shiny gold stars on my calendar.

Taking stock of progress

I'd been worried about my running lately.

I sometimes get hard on myself, questioning if I'm doing all I can to improve. My diet slips (sometimes, a lot), and I know that such lapses can have an impact on my running. So while those cookies taste amazing, when I run that evening and fail to improve on my times, I have this internal battle over whether or not it was my fault.

You can see how this sort of mentality would be problematic. I try to be forgiving, but boy, nothing validates training like improvement.

Fortunately for my ego, this week has brought plenty of improvement. Finally.

Each weekend, I go for my long run. Last Saturday's was good, five miles that I accomplished on the treadmill in 1:05:04. My best time for a five yet, though I'm really angling to break an hour. It'll get there!

Sunday, I did my tempo run. A tempo run is meant to be comfortably hard, a stronger push than a long run. I chose to do this by starting at a faster speed, then dropping it ever so slightly after I tired. I didn't want to do intervals - I save those for my speed days, the hard running alternated with recovery walking - so I hoped that easing the speed ever so slightly as needed would help to keep my effort high.

And it worked! I pulled my fasted mile yet, finishing in 10:30 on the nose. After a walk break, I finished out my second mile, barely. A good, strenuous run.

Monday was legs, as detailed earlier, which took me out of commission for most of the week. I managed some moderate intervals on Thursday night and put in a solid workout, but it was just that - a workout. Nothing to write home about.

And so yesterday, it was time for another long run. It was the ideal day for it, overcast and breezy with a very light, very intermittent sprinkling of rain. With the weather delivering exactly what I needed, I chose the trails instead of the treadmill.

It was time to try my first six-miler.

I set out on a familiar route, the one I took on my first long run, taking the turns I hoped would lead me to six miles. The track around the inside of the park was nice enough, but as I crunched over the gravel pathways, I was already fantasizing about the grassy trails outside the fences.

It's hard to explain exactly how perfect the run was. Everything just made sense, from the color of the sky to the temperature of the breeze. By the time I turned out the gate to the nature preserve, my iPod had left Tchaikovsky's Variations on a Rococo Theme and launched into Haydn's Cello Concerto No. 1. I jogged through the loop to Grieg's Peer Gynt, pounding across a field as our hero entered the hall of the Mountain King.

And it had just begun to rain when Vaughan Williams' Five Variants of Dives and Lazarus started, a piece that I find somehow emotionally overwhelming. One of the first times I remember listening to it, in high school, it was pouring rain outside. Ever since then, the piece reminds me of rain.

Pretty fantastic coincidence, if I do say so myself.

Anyway. I had been running for an hour (well, run/walking, as you all probably know by now) and I was still feeling fresh. Happy, even.

Free.

And there, in that instant, I was reminded of why I do this. The numbers are great, the struggle builds an abundance of character. But this feeling of pure, unmitigated freedom makes every last drop of sweat, every difficult tempo run, every muscle cramp worth it. Those lead to this. They make it possible.

The feeling didn't last forever, of course. Around mile five, my body said "Excuse me, isn't this when you usually stop?" The final mile was lethargic, done out of necessity because I was off in the woods all alone. I pushed myself, wanting to meet my goal of 1:30 for the six, unwilling to ruin the magic by checking my progress to see if it was even possible.

Clocks are good at ruining magic.

As I reached the end of the trail, I pulled out my phone to check RunKeeper. And I laughed out loud.

5.99 miles in 1:29:40. Of course.

I decided right then to exercise a point of privilege. I work hard, damn it, and for my purposes, I did six miles.

Besides, I rationalized, I did start the app a little late. Surely I missed a hundredth of a mile.

So there we have it. Records set, goals met, and a practically transcendental run in the woods completed. These things, they don't happen on their own. They don't happen by chance. They happen with methodical, patient work. And that's why I do it.

The next time I hit a progress wall, I would do well to remember this.

The reclusive runner

I'm a loner. I admit it.

It's not that I dislike people. I adore my coworkers, I love my friends, I've even had functional relationships. (Gentlemen...)

It's just that, when forced to choose between a fun-filled day with people or a solitary Twilight Zone marathon with some Chinese take-out, I'll usually choose the won-tons. In the past two months, I've gone out to dinner with coworkers twice and went out with a friend once.

I lead a fast-paced life, folks. It's true.

So it doesn't exactly come as a surprise that my favorite kind of running is exactly how I live my life: quietly, and mostly alone.

Part of it is genuine enjoyment. I like being in solitude, surrounded by little more than the crunch of my feet on the path or the gentle rustle of the wind in the trees above. Getting lost in the woods with a friend would be fun, sure, but how much would I miss? Would I have heard that hawk cry in the distance, or seen the way the sunbeam stretched through the branches right there?

The other part is less poetic. It's my insecurity, the idea that I'm not meeting the goals I've set and now someone else knows. It's not being able to keep up with another runner, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to say.

Many of these insecurities are old friends. Not being good enough, fast enough, smart enough. Some of them have largely been conquered. I've buried most of the hate speech and I'm pleased to say it doesn't come around here anymore.

But I know that my skills are limited. I have come far, but I have even farther to go before I can begin to be satisfied with what I've accomplished. Running with friends triggers the thought that my mediocrity is holding them back.

In fact, having a seasoned runner keeping pace with me feels even worse than watching them run on ahead. Do they wish they were running faster and are just too nice to leave me? Would they even tell me? Oh god, can they smell that?

So many neuroses, so little time.

And so, while I've considered joining the local running club for the camaraderie and post-run chats over breakfast, I am wary of actually running with other humans. It is, of course, a no-win situation for me. How fast do I need to be running in order to deem myself worthy of running with others? Ten minute miles? Nine? How many years will it be before I can sustain that kind of pace?

Bit by bit, these inhibitions are falling away, and I suppose the only way to discover if I can handle group running is to go out and do it. And I will.

Eventually.

Meanwhile, I'll continue my solitary runs, just me and the sky.

The end of an era. Sort of.

This month will mark the end of my training sessions with J.

Finances being what they are, I can no longer afford the sessions. Technically speaking, I could never really afford them; only by the grace of the good people at Visa have I been able to come this far in my journey. It's time, however, to strike out alone.

And so, at my second-to-last training session, I became acutely aware of the ticking clock. It's now or never.

J sauntered over and asked me what I wanted to work on tonight. (He probably doesn't know that he saunters. Eventually, when he stumbles unwittingly across this chronicle of the agonies of my Year In Training, he may be surprised at this revelation. But yes, J - you saunter. It's a good look for you.)

I averted my eyes and shrugged. I knew what I wanted to work on. I just didn't have the guts to come right out with it.

"I'm going to regret this," I began after as long a pause as I could have gotten away with, "but... can we do glutes and hamstrings?"

And when I raised my eyes back to his, I swear to you, he looked like a kid on Christmas.

In retrospect, I should have requested that we work on legs, maybe being sure to hit glutes and hamstrings. Because, my dear friends, we did nothing but glutes and hamstrings.

Forty minutes of glutes and hamstrings.

I'm going to let that sink in. Allow your brain to really marinate in that idea.

Got it? Good.

We started on one of these machines:


Forearms go on the front two pads, grab the handles, belly rests on the middle pad, one knee on the rear pad. My other leg bends at the knee, foot on the plate at the back, and with that free leg, I push the plate back and up toward the ceiling.

Twelve of those on each leg and immediately over to the mat with a Swiss ball. Laying flat on my back with heels up on the ball, lift my hips toward the ceiling and bend my knees, rolling the ball to my glutes, then rolling it back out. Keeping my hips up, repeating this twelve times.

And then to the stationary lunges. Ten pounds in each hand, stepping forward into a lunge, then driving through the heel and pushing myself back up to where I started. Twelve on each leg.

Repeat all three, three times total. Congratulations, I have spent a whopping ten minutes.

Yikes.

Then to the leg press, where I did one-legged presses. Using one leg changes the emphasis on the muscles, so instead of working mostly quads, this was recruiting my hips and glutes.

Twelve on each leg and to the hamstring curl machine. Twelve curls, then back to the leg press. Three sets.

We headed to the middle of the gym, and J stopped short. He considered something for a moment, then said to me, "I want you to choose what we're doing next. There's the treadmill, and I want you to sprint under your own power. Or you can choose squat jumps."

The answer to this one was a no-brainer. I remember one of my early sessions, being parked on a treadmill and told to hunker down and start running, pushing that belt myself. I remember it made my whole body tremble. I remember almost falling down.

I don't usually say things like this, but it was, without a doubt, one of my absolute least favorite things I've ever done. Squat jumps? Literally, squatting down and then jumping into the air? Yes, please.

But before I could answer, he said, "So we're going to alternate between the two, but you can choose what we start with."

Oh. Oh.

I looked at the floor, muttered something vulgar, and said I'd do the treadmill first. J nodded his assent. "It's good to start there while you're still relatively fresh."

"It's funny that you think I'm 'relatively fresh' right now," I said, wiping the sweat from my eyes. And I climbed onto the treadmill.

Thirty seconds equals forever. It's important that you all know this. Diving into such an exercise is like slipping into a black hole, time stretching inexorably as you cross the event horizon, single seconds lengthening into eternity.

I labored, gasping for air and making all manner of appalling sounds. My feet slid over the roller at the end of the treadmill, and the moment J said "Stop," I staggered off the belt, doubled over.

I'm pretty sure I swore again. I wanted to say how much I hated it. There wasn't enough breath.

But squat jumps wait for no man, and I had twelve to do. I finished them, feeling triumphant, almost managing a smile. I'd nearly vomited, but damn it, I made it!

"Good," said J. "Back to the treadmill."

And he sauntered away, a meek "What?" escaping my lips. Oh yes, he meant it.

To his credit, he stepped up on a treadmill beside me, sharing in my pain. But it was all I could do to stay upright, to say nothing for running. My body was shaking, my stomach was roiling, I was breathing so heavily that my throat was raw.

Here, for the first time in ten months, I had met my match. I had no witty comment, no self-deprecating encouragement, nothing. I stopped.

I had never bailed out on an exercise before. I've grunted and whined and gasped my way through dozens upon dozens of lifts, sprints, and bodyweight exercises. I may have needed to slow down, but I have never been forced to stop, until tonight.

J allowed me approximately three seconds of self-pity before shuffling me back to the squat jumps, patiently waiting while I tried to catch my breath, then finish them.

And, yes, it was back to the treadmill, where I wisely started slowly. Very slowly. My sprint had become a lurch, but I moved that belt, and I didn't stop until J told me to.

I'm pretty sure he said "Stop" after only fifteen seconds. Fifteen long seconds. I thanked him for not letting me fail. I hope he knows how much I meant it.

A final set of squat jumps and we were done with legs. Finally.

Our routine abs set was hell, as usual, but otherwise unremarkable. I didn't vomit, I didn't cry. I finished, barely. As usual.

Thus ended my last legs night with J. Nearly thirty minutes later, I was still a little light-headed, unable to focus, nauseous, trembling. I was yawning compulsively - either from tremendous exhaustion or compensating for the oxygen debt.

This is nothing compared to what I'll experience the rest of this week. Legs weeks are always bad, but none worse than when we hit the hamstrings hard. Quads are what make me unable to climb stairs or bound out of bed in the morning, but the list of things I can't do with sore hamstrings is humbling: I can't tie my shoes. I can't lean over. I can't even sit without extreme, acute pain.

That last one is my favorite. I'm bracing myself for work, the way my coworkers will watch me, expectantly, as I gingerly lower myself into my chair with a whimper. This will go on for days.

Next Monday will be it. I have no idea what agonies will be inflicted upon me, but I have a hard time believing it could be worse than tonight. Or better.

And this, I think, is what I will miss most about J. Being forced out of my comfort zone. Redefining what's possible. I always tell him that if I'm not a little afraid when coming to my session, he's not doing his job. That I can be nice to myself on my own time. From now on, it's all my own time.

It may be time to get a little mean. This body won't change itself.

An unexpected benefit, and maybe the best one of all

I hit the trails this weekend for my long run, hoping to pull off six miles for the first time.

Well, the first time intentionally. Getting lost on the trails weeks ago netted me over seven, but most of them were walking while staring at the sky, trying to figure out why the sun was in a direction it shouldn't have been.

I'm pleased to say that I didn't get lost this time. Not once.

Halfway through my run, I reached the intersection that had so perplexed me last time, and I had to decide if I wanted to head down the extra-mile loop or simply head back to the park. Weighing my options, jogging back and forth, I decided that I was out here for a reason. I would gain nothing by cutting myself unnecessary slack.

So I turned sharply left and headed for the loop. My first step landed on the edge of a large rock and I rolled my ankle, hard. I hopped a few steps, limping and swearing. Of course.

I walked, shaking it out, determined to complete the extra mile, but after a few dozen steps, common sense won out. No run is worth risking injury. I headed back down the route that I knew would take me back to the park.

A few minutes of walking, and I tested running again. The ankle was a little sore, but the more it moved, the better it felt, and within ten minutes I was back on track.

And then I asked myself: How long had it been since I hurt myself like that?

See, I'm a first-rate klutz. I've sprained my ankles more times than I can count, falling down (or up) stairs and tripping over myself.

I tore my ACL during an ill-conceived dance break at the office. It snapped - audibly - in the middle of a series of spectacular high-kicks.

One morning, I caught my toes on the waistband of my pants while trying to get dressed and I faceplanted on my bedroom floor.

Yes, really.

I've always been exceedingly accident-prone. It's in my nature.

But none of these have happened in months. Even now, wracking my brain for my last idiotic, embarrassing injury, I can think of only one since beginning at the gym last October. One night, early on, I had a treadmill incident where I bobbled and stepped off the belt, sideways. I strained my knee and needed a few days off running.

One single injury in ten months.

I've stopped hurting myself. My muscles and joints are stronger now than they've ever been, protecting me when I step wrong or stumble, but more importantly, my improved proprioception keeps me from stumbling in the first place.

What's this 'proprioception' business? It's a sense that we all have, an unconscious self-awareness of the body and its position in space. It's the sense that allows us to close our eyes and touch our finger to our nose.

It's also what keeps my feet landing flat, helps me to compensate when they don't, and makes my body play nicely with itself. And it all happened without me ever realizing it.

Until it failed, of course. Then, I noticed its absence quite shockingly.

I always said I wanted to improve my fitness, to reduce the burden on my knee and allow myself some of the opportunities I'd lost when I tore my ACL. But I accepted that as meaning that I would lose fat and gain muscle. That's what I understood fitness to be.

But this piece of the puzzle has been enlightening. It's invaluable. I taught my body, on the treadmill, how to move more efficiently. My body figured out for itself how to apply that knowledge in the world, over terrain.

Thank goodness it worked this out on its own. I sure couldn't have.

And that's where I find myself today. Stronger, faster, with a body that's officially smarter than I am. I still have so far to go, with so much more to improve, and only time and persistence will make it happen.

On that note, I have my first 5K in nearly two months next weekend. I'll be returning to the farm where I did my first trail 5K, back in May, and I'm interested to see what the course looks like. Armed with trail experience and a lot more endurance, I hope to see my time improve significantly.

If it doesn't, at least I still get a t-shirt out of the deal.