Last Sunday, I finally achieved what seemed impossible a year ago. I broke my ten-minute mile.
I rolled in at 9:51 on the treadmill. And there was much excitement!
After such a huge milestone, I had planned to take an easy week. Runs on Tuesday and Thursday, maybe, with a long run Saturday. This strategy of alternating easy and hard weeks has led to some fantastic breakthroughs over the past month.
But as is so often the case, life got in the way. A different work schedule knocked me out of commission for the week, and it was Saturday before I knew it.
A little rest is a good thing. Too much rest is a miserable thing.
I knew that coming back from a whole week off would be difficult, so why not make it as difficult as possible? This called for a long run, on empty.
As Runner's World explains here, there are sensible training reasons for running on empty, increased efficiency and higher percentage of fat burning chief among them. Forcing the body to make this leap, however, is no walk in the park for me. Frankly, it sucks.
Which is exactly what I was looking for.
I pounded out five miles on the treadmill in 1:04:48, a new PR by a scant sixteen seconds. It was exhausting and strenuous, one of those runs where I checked my progress after what seemed like an eternity and I hadn't even made it halfway. It was a character building run.
Sometimes, running is about enduring. And I endured.
Post-run, I hit the scale. My last weigh-in was a beautiful, shining 190. After months in the low-190s, it was a welcome sight. I wasn't sure where my weight would be after a stressful, athletically-careless week, so I winced when I stepped up, telling myself that if it said 192 I would be forgiving.
And it said 186.
Just like that, I'd lost 50 pounds. Not just 50... 52. I know it isn't magic, that this is hard work. The process can be devastating, and there are times when I feel lost in it all. But when I see these results, real results, I nevertheless find my success incomprehensible.
Here I am, claiming it. I've worked hard for this. I have reached - passed - the halfway point of my weight loss.
I did this.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
Reaping the rewards
After last weekend's do-or-die approach, I opted to cut back during the week and let my body rest up.
You're welcome, body.
One day of running, on Thursday, with nothing the rest of the week but blissful couch time. I'd hoped this little bargain would lead to a satisfying trail run over the weekend.
I wasn't disappointed.
The first part of yesterday's run was sluggish, something that's been happening more and more lately. I had a hard time committing to it from the moment I rolled out of bed, and when I began running, my body just wasn't into it. It wasn't until I'd passed a mile that things really started humming along.
Once I found that groove, though, it was smooth sailing. I didn't really clue into it until I'd reached The Loop halfway through, but I was moving fast, and it felt easier than it had before. It was surely a combination of many things: the cool breeze, the new music on my iPod, the fact that my body and mind were fresh.
At this point, I dared to hope that the end result would be an overall pace of 14:45. On trails, I tend to pull around 15:00, so if I could shave a little time here and there, I'd be satisfied.
I pushed myself on the way back in, not excessively but with 14:45 in my head. I was hunting it down. I'd set out for a sub-6 mile run, so I hoped I'd be able to hang on without my body wanting to quit after five, as it previously wanted to.
And I was running fast enough that, at one point, I could no longer scan the ground quickly enough to respond. I know the trail well enough now to remember where the rocky, rooty parts are, trying to stay aware of my surroundings. Here, I failed, and my right toe caught hard on a root. I pitched forward, my arms outstretched and ready to take the fall when my left leg swung into action. I caught myself and kept running.
It was a little bewildering, as someone who's been deeply accident-prone since childhood, to have averted disaster at the last second. My body just doesn't do things like that. I catch my toe, my brain has long enough to think "Bad thing!", my body says, "Damn, you're bad at this," and I crash to the ground.
I'd gone several strides before I processed that, no, I wasn't on the ground in the dirt with bloody elbows. Oh my god, I'm still running. If I had to name a favorite moment in my run, this was it.
As I came down the final straightaway, I fished out my phone, wanting to be ready to stop my app and see the damage.
I paced 13:29 for 5.74 miles. Really.
Clearly, the lazy week worked out.
Tonight was less storied, but no less exciting. A tempo run on the treadmill, I started running at the same speed as my last tempo run. I struggled to zone myself out, staring blankly ahead, letting my body go on autopilot. I experimented with this on the trail over the weekend and I credit that with some of the improvements I saw, so I attempted to make it work at the gym.
Last tempo run, I gradually decreased my speed as I ran out of steam. Tonight, I gradually increased the speed and made myself damn well take it.
It worked. I finished my first mile in 10:07, a PR by a landslide. I had enough in the tank to put in a good effort, after a two minute walk, and turned out another PR by finishing that second mile in 21:43.
I floundered around for the last mile, having given up on chasing records until the final five minutes, when I looked at the time and berated myself for accepting a poor effort. Cranked up the speed and finished my third in 36:05. Another PR.
All of a sudden, everything is paying off. I have this astonishing sensation that I, somehow, actually know what I'm doing. I'm getting better, I'm not getting hurt. I'm putting in my speed work, my tempo runs, my long runs outdoors and my easy runs on the treadmill. And it's working.
Next on the agenda: my first 10K. Soon. Eep.
You're welcome, body.
One day of running, on Thursday, with nothing the rest of the week but blissful couch time. I'd hoped this little bargain would lead to a satisfying trail run over the weekend.
I wasn't disappointed.
The first part of yesterday's run was sluggish, something that's been happening more and more lately. I had a hard time committing to it from the moment I rolled out of bed, and when I began running, my body just wasn't into it. It wasn't until I'd passed a mile that things really started humming along.
Once I found that groove, though, it was smooth sailing. I didn't really clue into it until I'd reached The Loop halfway through, but I was moving fast, and it felt easier than it had before. It was surely a combination of many things: the cool breeze, the new music on my iPod, the fact that my body and mind were fresh.
At this point, I dared to hope that the end result would be an overall pace of 14:45. On trails, I tend to pull around 15:00, so if I could shave a little time here and there, I'd be satisfied.
I pushed myself on the way back in, not excessively but with 14:45 in my head. I was hunting it down. I'd set out for a sub-6 mile run, so I hoped I'd be able to hang on without my body wanting to quit after five, as it previously wanted to.
And I was running fast enough that, at one point, I could no longer scan the ground quickly enough to respond. I know the trail well enough now to remember where the rocky, rooty parts are, trying to stay aware of my surroundings. Here, I failed, and my right toe caught hard on a root. I pitched forward, my arms outstretched and ready to take the fall when my left leg swung into action. I caught myself and kept running.
It was a little bewildering, as someone who's been deeply accident-prone since childhood, to have averted disaster at the last second. My body just doesn't do things like that. I catch my toe, my brain has long enough to think "Bad thing!", my body says, "Damn, you're bad at this," and I crash to the ground.
I'd gone several strides before I processed that, no, I wasn't on the ground in the dirt with bloody elbows. Oh my god, I'm still running. If I had to name a favorite moment in my run, this was it.
As I came down the final straightaway, I fished out my phone, wanting to be ready to stop my app and see the damage.
I paced 13:29 for 5.74 miles. Really.
Clearly, the lazy week worked out.
Tonight was less storied, but no less exciting. A tempo run on the treadmill, I started running at the same speed as my last tempo run. I struggled to zone myself out, staring blankly ahead, letting my body go on autopilot. I experimented with this on the trail over the weekend and I credit that with some of the improvements I saw, so I attempted to make it work at the gym.
Last tempo run, I gradually decreased my speed as I ran out of steam. Tonight, I gradually increased the speed and made myself damn well take it.
It worked. I finished my first mile in 10:07, a PR by a landslide. I had enough in the tank to put in a good effort, after a two minute walk, and turned out another PR by finishing that second mile in 21:43.
I floundered around for the last mile, having given up on chasing records until the final five minutes, when I looked at the time and berated myself for accepting a poor effort. Cranked up the speed and finished my third in 36:05. Another PR.
All of a sudden, everything is paying off. I have this astonishing sensation that I, somehow, actually know what I'm doing. I'm getting better, I'm not getting hurt. I'm putting in my speed work, my tempo runs, my long runs outdoors and my easy runs on the treadmill. And it's working.
Next on the agenda: my first 10K. Soon. Eep.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Goal: Met. Barely.
With six miles down on Saturday, I set out yesterday afternoon to see how many more I could add to the total. Would I feel good enough for another long run? Or would I split my remaining six miles into two days? The suspense! The intrigue!
I decided to try for a longer run, around five with the option of tacking on an extra mile at the end, if things were feeling good.
My knee was protesting mildly when I hit the trail. I've learned that many of my little aches will go away as my body warms up, and I was happy that this one disappeared after a mile or two.
On the whole, the run felt much better than the previous day. My body was moving with more freedom, and as I was running around the three mile mark, I had the vague impression that I was moving faster than usual. Looking at the map and my splits, I was right. I average 15min/mi on my long runs, but this time, miles three and four were 14:19 and 14:02 respectively.
That's one of the hardest parts about running at this stage, I think. My sustainable speed is still quite slow, and I don't mean that in a numbers and pacing sense. I mean it feels slow. When I move just a little faster, I click into that beautiful place where it's like gliding. But I can't maintain it for very long. The sensation leaves many of my runs feeling a little lackluster.
The more I do this, the closer I get to holding onto that feeling. And boy, is it worth it.
I wrapped the run at 5.67 miles, leaving me just short of my goal total. No problem, I thought, I'll do the rest at the gym tomorrow, maybe with a little extra.
And then, it hit.
It crept in, slowly, throughout the day. It began in my lower back, my muscles tightening slightly, and worked its way up my spine and into my shoulders. By the evening, my neck was sore, full of kinks I couldn't quite get out. I had that all-over feeling of extreme discomfort.
I tried to shake it off, thinking it was fatigue from overuse. That was the obvious solution. I parked myself on some ice packs and called it good.
Hours later, when I began shivering on the couch, unable to warm myself, I realized I was wrong. The last time I checked my temperature before finally drifting into a fitful, interrupted sleep, the display said 102.6.
There is a lesson here, and that lesson is this: When trainers and doctors say that vigorous exercise may suppress your immune response, they mean it. I opened the door with my run, and some kind of vile, heinous bug walked right in and made itself at home.
The good news is that the fever broke quickly. By the time the sun came up, I was a sweaty mess and my vital signs once again made sense. I spent most of my day alternately resting and dozing, a suitable use of my Labor Day.
And, of course, as the day went on, I was less and less satisfied with the fact that I hadn't hit my goal. A fraction of a mile stood between me and where I wanted to be today.
This evening, I caved to my own pressure and hit the gym.
Know what's weird? It was a great run. Slow, controlled. My breathing was very slow and unstressed. I'd been expecting to labor my way through a mile or so, and the ease with which I ran tonight was a huge surprise.
So. There we have it. 13.2 miles in three days. Someday, I hope these numbers will be typical and unimpressive. But for now, they're pretty awesome.
I decided to try for a longer run, around five with the option of tacking on an extra mile at the end, if things were feeling good.
My knee was protesting mildly when I hit the trail. I've learned that many of my little aches will go away as my body warms up, and I was happy that this one disappeared after a mile or two.
On the whole, the run felt much better than the previous day. My body was moving with more freedom, and as I was running around the three mile mark, I had the vague impression that I was moving faster than usual. Looking at the map and my splits, I was right. I average 15min/mi on my long runs, but this time, miles three and four were 14:19 and 14:02 respectively.
That's one of the hardest parts about running at this stage, I think. My sustainable speed is still quite slow, and I don't mean that in a numbers and pacing sense. I mean it feels slow. When I move just a little faster, I click into that beautiful place where it's like gliding. But I can't maintain it for very long. The sensation leaves many of my runs feeling a little lackluster.
The more I do this, the closer I get to holding onto that feeling. And boy, is it worth it.
I wrapped the run at 5.67 miles, leaving me just short of my goal total. No problem, I thought, I'll do the rest at the gym tomorrow, maybe with a little extra.
And then, it hit.
It crept in, slowly, throughout the day. It began in my lower back, my muscles tightening slightly, and worked its way up my spine and into my shoulders. By the evening, my neck was sore, full of kinks I couldn't quite get out. I had that all-over feeling of extreme discomfort.
I tried to shake it off, thinking it was fatigue from overuse. That was the obvious solution. I parked myself on some ice packs and called it good.
Hours later, when I began shivering on the couch, unable to warm myself, I realized I was wrong. The last time I checked my temperature before finally drifting into a fitful, interrupted sleep, the display said 102.6.
There is a lesson here, and that lesson is this: When trainers and doctors say that vigorous exercise may suppress your immune response, they mean it. I opened the door with my run, and some kind of vile, heinous bug walked right in and made itself at home.
The good news is that the fever broke quickly. By the time the sun came up, I was a sweaty mess and my vital signs once again made sense. I spent most of my day alternately resting and dozing, a suitable use of my Labor Day.
And, of course, as the day went on, I was less and less satisfied with the fact that I hadn't hit my goal. A fraction of a mile stood between me and where I wanted to be today.
This evening, I caved to my own pressure and hit the gym.
Know what's weird? It was a great run. Slow, controlled. My breathing was very slow and unstressed. I'd been expecting to labor my way through a mile or so, and the ease with which I ran tonight was a huge surprise.
So. There we have it. 13.2 miles in three days. Someday, I hope these numbers will be typical and unimpressive. But for now, they're pretty awesome.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Sometimes, my body is a dirty liar
For my first three-day weekend in ages, I set myself lofty goal.
Twelve miles.
Totally possible, especially since I've upped my short runs to three miles and my long runs to six. Well within my grasp, if I just keep moving.
So when I woke up this morning feeling like I'd rather do anything than hit the trail, it was a little discouraging. I dragged around until noon, putting it off, until finally forcing myself to lace up and get it done.
Last week, I breezed through my six miler, only feeling fatigue set in around mile five. It was beautiful and blissful, the perfect weather for it.
This week, it was warm and relentlessly sunny. My water bottle felt too heavy, my legs were stiff, and despite making a pit-stop within the first mile, I had the sensation of a rather urgent bathroom need every time I ran.
Yes, the entire time. (You're welcome.)
I felt every step today. The run began as a labor, my quads still aching from the hill I battled on Thursday. I took a different path than usual, and when I made it out to my old friend "The Loop", I sighed and pulled out my phone. The run felt like it was lasting forever, and I had no idea how far I'd gone.
The display read 3.26 miles in 48:45. Less than a minute off my target pace, including bathroom break.
Here I was, holding pace and potentially setting a new personal best for the trail in the face of (what felt like) reasonable adversity, and I was giving myself zero credit for it.
I wavered, weighing going back immediately (hello, bathrooms) against continuing on my course. To complete The Loop would be to add another mile or so. An extra fifteen minutes between me and relief.
I told myself to stop complaining and continued on.
Besides, I was in the woods. If I became that desperate, surely I could find a robust tree to hide behind. Right?
And then, a funny thing happened. The run got easier. My splits didn't get any faster, but I stopped complaining so much.
Your quads will be tired whether or not you run. Keep going.
Insulting yourself won't make you run faster.
Running isn't all fun. Sometimes, it's about finding out what you're capable of.
By the time I reached park land, the aforementioned bathroom need had become persistent, and all attempts at jogging were off. It's one thing to push yourself and risk everything for a marathon PR, but in the woods during a training run? I just didn't see the appeal. The last mile was slow. Very slow.
All told, when I turned off my tracker, I had finished 6.03 miles in 1:33:48. Not bad for a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad run. Pretty damned good, actually.
Six down, six to go.
Twelve miles.
Totally possible, especially since I've upped my short runs to three miles and my long runs to six. Well within my grasp, if I just keep moving.
So when I woke up this morning feeling like I'd rather do anything than hit the trail, it was a little discouraging. I dragged around until noon, putting it off, until finally forcing myself to lace up and get it done.
Last week, I breezed through my six miler, only feeling fatigue set in around mile five. It was beautiful and blissful, the perfect weather for it.
This week, it was warm and relentlessly sunny. My water bottle felt too heavy, my legs were stiff, and despite making a pit-stop within the first mile, I had the sensation of a rather urgent bathroom need every time I ran.
Yes, the entire time. (You're welcome.)
I felt every step today. The run began as a labor, my quads still aching from the hill I battled on Thursday. I took a different path than usual, and when I made it out to my old friend "The Loop", I sighed and pulled out my phone. The run felt like it was lasting forever, and I had no idea how far I'd gone.
The display read 3.26 miles in 48:45. Less than a minute off my target pace, including bathroom break.
Here I was, holding pace and potentially setting a new personal best for the trail in the face of (what felt like) reasonable adversity, and I was giving myself zero credit for it.
I wavered, weighing going back immediately (hello, bathrooms) against continuing on my course. To complete The Loop would be to add another mile or so. An extra fifteen minutes between me and relief.
I told myself to stop complaining and continued on.
Besides, I was in the woods. If I became that desperate, surely I could find a robust tree to hide behind. Right?
And then, a funny thing happened. The run got easier. My splits didn't get any faster, but I stopped complaining so much.
Your quads will be tired whether or not you run. Keep going.
Insulting yourself won't make you run faster.
Running isn't all fun. Sometimes, it's about finding out what you're capable of.
By the time I reached park land, the aforementioned bathroom need had become persistent, and all attempts at jogging were off. It's one thing to push yourself and risk everything for a marathon PR, but in the woods during a training run? I just didn't see the appeal. The last mile was slow. Very slow.
All told, when I turned off my tracker, I had finished 6.03 miles in 1:33:48. Not bad for a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad run. Pretty damned good, actually.
Six down, six to go.
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