A different kind of endurance test

This morning’s schedule called for 1200 m repeats at about the fastest pace my short legs can carry me for any sustained amount of time. After a very hard 11 mile run on Tuesday night, and looking ahead to a whopping 23-miler scheduled for this Saturday, I figured that my legs and knees could use a change of surface, so I opted for the gym. Additionally, every gym trip helps to justify our stupidly-priced membership, and, because I had to get up just after 5 am to fit in this workout, it is comforting to be in close proximity to both water and bathrooms at that uncertain hour.

And so although it was a lovely, dry morning, I figured that the gym -- despite its still, hot air -- was the safer option. At the very least, in my sleepy state and with tired legs, I knew that I’d be forced to run my prescribed pace on the treadmill, while I couldn’t be so sure that I wouldn’t slow down considerably if it was just me versus the open road. And I was right. By the fourth repeat, my HR was climbing to strangely high territory. By the fifth 1200 m repeat my legs were beginning to burn, and I began counting down the remaining time by the second. By the sixth repeat, I could barely go quickly enough to prevent myself from flying off the back of the machine altogether. And when I finally started my cool-down, I kept the pace a tad higher than I should have because, I figured, the faster I finish this workout, the faster I get to go home, drink a cup of coffee, and eat my cereal (and by this time, Zdenek was already complaining on the treadmill next to me that he was hungry). In running, it seems, quickness helps not just when you’re working hard, but also when you want to stop working. Quickness is everything.

The same cannot be said of other sports -- in particular, golf. This past weekend, Zdenek and I flew to Canada to spend Easter with his parents. On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, we stayed up until (relatively) late, drinking, eating, and talking with my in-laws. It was good to be with family, and we seemed to cover every subject under the sun. It was exactly the way I would have designed the weekend. But when I am with my in-laws, I know that a golf game is always on the table. On past visits, I have run 18 miles while the rest of the family golfed 18 holes, but this weekend, we had only an easy 13 miles on our Saturday schedule. The weather was beautiful, and we had plenty of time for nine holes in the afternoon.

To be clear: I am most definitely not a golfer. Although I’m not very good at it, it doesn’t leave me frustrated or cursing on the green as it seems to do for those who truly love the sport (a perverted love indeed). It does, however, bore me. I find that on the first couple of holes, I’m relatively focused. I concentrate, take note of my stance, and practice my swing a few times. By about the sixth hole, however, I start to lose interest. I just want the game to be over as quickly as possible. I don’t return my club (one of only three that I use) to the bag between turns. I forgo practice swings in favor of connecting with the ball -- however poorly -- more quickly, which just leaves me chasing it down the fairway in ten foot increments, thus wasting even more time. Towards the end, I sometimes don’t even finish the hole at all, instead opting to take whatever score the scorekeeper decides I might be worth. I just grab my ball and head off to the next hole, ticking them off like miles in a marathon.

Something about golf just bores me and strikes me as a waste of time (and money and water and green space). I may not be quick enough to be a great runner, but I surely lack the necessary focus to ever become a great golfer. Golf just isn't challenging for me in an adrenaline-rushing, heart-pumping kind of way. I don’t grin from ear to ear like I sometimes do when riding my bike. I don’t enter a zone the way I can while running hard and long. It doesn’t even seem good for my body in the way yoga or swimming does. And it most certainly does not reward speed. To attempt to play quickly will certainly just backfire and end up prolonging the game. In golf, unlike running, to be quick is to suck, and I am definitely not cut out for the patience demanded over nine or 18 holes. Eighteen miles, on the other hand, is a different story.

My kind of golf

Quick reminders

This week marks the beginning of interval repeats, which is probably my least favourite part of marathon training (tied with hill repeats, that is). I’m not very good at running quickly, and I feel awkward when even attempting a sprint. My body type surely is not cut out for fast-twitch muscle action. And intervals tend to just leave my legs and lungs burning without, it seems, having much impact on my overall performance. I don’t feel that I get much faster throughout the six weeks of interval training, and I certainly don’t improve very much from year to year. What, then, is the point?

Yesterday I received awful news about the health of someone I know quite well and like very much. It’s heart-wrenching news, really -- the kind that makes you shake your head and wonder about the unfairness of life, and why bad things seem to happen to good people. It’s the kind of news that makes you pause to think about how short and fragile life really is, and how we should all count our blessings on a daily basis. It’s the kind of news that makes you feel like any complaint or gripe you might have is undoubtedly minor and almost embarrassing to mention.

Heading home from work yesterday evening, I felt tired and sluggish. I wasn’t feeling particularly excited about running, let alone about the prospect of running 1200 m repeats. But any hesitation I had quickly gave way to the realization that I should just be thankful that I can run, and I should remember how good it feels to work my body hard. I feel wobbly but strangely refreshed after a hard workout. I enjoy my dinner and a glass of wine that much more. I sleep like a log. I know that I’ve done something good for my health and my body and my state of mind. I feel proud of my effort.

It is no lie that, as I ran back on forth on the relatively flat stretch of East Drive last night, I thought several times about how lucky I am to be running. The news I received yesterday provided ample motivation for me to keep going. To be sure, I wasn’t running for anybody or in tribute to anyone -- it doesn’t even make sense to me how my act of running could possibly be for anyone else. I recognize that running back and forth as quickly as I can (which is not very quickly) is a selfish (and some might say, pointless) activity. But I know that someday -- hopefully later rather than sooner -- I won’t be able to run. Maybe I’ll get injured or sick for an extended period of time. Maybe the other demands in my life won’t allow time for such a self-indulgent activity. Maybe I’ll eventually get old and running will hurt too much to be worth the effort. I’m not sure what will spell the end of my running days, but I know that it will come.

And so last night, in spite of the fact that I’m not very good at running intervals, I tried to enjoy the burning sensation in my legs and the labored breathing in my lungs, and all that they represent. It may be hard to believe, but I know that, someday, I’ll miss it.

Intervals: success
Pizza: hot
Beer: in hand
LOST: about to begin

(Not) the fast lane

Tonight I have to run intervals. (Since I know that, after doing so, I'm guaranteed to be sitting on my couch with my husband in a Jell-O-like state, beer in hand, watching last night's recorded Lost episode, and since we are off tomorrow to visit my in-laws for Easter, I know this post is now or never.)

If there's any part I dislike about marathon training, speed intervals would be it (hills are a close second). Something about my short, thick legs makes them rather inconducive to rapid turnover, and I'm simply horrible at this aspect of training. When non-runners tell me they don't like running, intervals are the one area in which I can see their point. They're simply work for work's sake. Round and round, back and forth, up and down. I usually start dreading these workouts the night before, thinking about them as I go to sleep. I fear them when I awake on the scheduled day. (It doesn't help that last night we were out late (for me) celebrating a friend's birthday, and I'm still trying to shake off the three glasses of red wine this morning. So far the only thing that Thursday, April 9, 2009 has going for it is the fact that it's gloriously sunny outside, and it's difficult to be in a bad mood with blue skies and sunshine.)

That I am not a good sprinter is not helped by the fact that I don't know how to pace myself. Kevin, my coach, tells me that I should alternate slow-fast-slow-fast, etc., and the last rep should be the fastest. Instead, my reps usually end up looking something like this:

1. very, very fast (for me)
2. very fast
3. fast
4. respectable
5. pathetic
6. embarrassing
7. very fast

The difference between this round of interval training and all those I've done over the last five years is that, this time, my husband is out suffering with me. He's running the Half Marathon in Mississauga, and is therefore following a training plan that looks similar to mine, except that he drops out of every Saturday long run about halfway through (as I like to tell him, he doesn't know the half of it) and he skips one workout, on average, each week (usually the fartlek, in spite of how much he loves to say that word). Running hill repeats or intervals with Zdenek consists mostly of me looking at his backside. He's so much stronger and faster than me that my already slow self feels like the fat kid in gym class, the gap between us ever increasing. It also annoys me that, because he lets me start a few seconds before him and ends up passing me midway through to finish a few seconds ahead of me, his total rest time is longer than mine. This seems profoundly unfair. But I try not to complain because I am grateful for his company; it's true what they say about misery.