I've been silent for the lat couple weeks, which is in direct conflict with my pledge to write more often. Part of it has been the heat, which in addition to stifling my running happened to stifle my willingness to do just about anything productive. Part of it, too, has been a case of writer's block, which I'd love to blame on the heat but which really stemmed from a place of frustration.
If you're among the dozen people who reads this blog, you'll remember that I boldly proclaimed I'd be running a marathon later this year. Shortly after doing so, life intervened, training was derailed a bit, and I began to regret being so bold. I feared writing anything that might further embarrass me.
Last week, though, I came up with a goal for my upcoming marathon, which will be my eighth. I'm aiming to beat the 3:22:45 that I ran in my first, the 2001 BayState Marathon.
That race was a trip. I was a junior in college and had just turned 21. My longest training run had been 18 miles, and that was only because I got lost in Jamaica Plain, or Allston, or somewhere nowhere near my apartment. When race day came, I actually maintained a Boston Marathon qualifying pace -- that is, 7:15 per mile -- for about 16 miles. Then my legs stopped working. I leaned against a telephone pole in North Chelmsford for a minute or so, then commenced a 10-mile walk-jog of shame to the finish line. For several days, it hurt to move.
So, yeah, my goal is to run faster at 32 than I did at 21. I benefit from experience these days -- in my last race, the 2011 Hyannis Marathon, I started slowly, kept myself hydrated and ran something close to negative splits en route to a 3:26:22. I felt good enough to hop in my car, drive home and work the next day. (Oh, and it snowed at the beginning and the end of the race. Then again, as you can probably guess, I enjoyed that.)
This time around, I have a training plan -- Run Less, Run Faster, a tough but manageable three-day-a-week schedule -- and a much better sense of my limits. My schedule is just as hectic, I can't run quite as well if I'm hungover or overtired, I need to stretch my legs even on the days that I don't run, and my training is already a bit behind, but my soon-to-be-32-year-old self is fairly confident that he'll be able to pass his 21-year-old self in the last few miles of the race and not look back.
And if I don't? Well, I'll just make fun of the terrible haircut and fashion sense of my 21-year-old self that much more.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
It's getting hot out there
A while back I complained about running in the rain. I tried to tell myself that it was the only weather that made it hard for me to run.
Turns out I was kidding myself. I hate running in the heat, mostly because I hate the heat. When the temperature's between, say, 75 and 85 degrees Fahrenheit, it's merely a source of amusement among family and friends, as I start to get uncomfortable. Beyond that, though, I get miserable and usually plant myself in front of the nearest fan.
Needless to say, running in the heat is right out, especially since I increasingly struggle to drag my ass out of bed early enough in the morning to run before work. In my younger days (read: 20s) I would grab a few miles at lunchtime, then wonder why I felt like crap the rest of the day. Now I know better.
It sucks, because I, like any runner, would rather be running than sitting on my ass. (It doesn't help that I really don't have one, so sitting on it for prolonged period of time makes it sore.) But it's the sort of thing that I've accepted. Instead, I try to cross train -- as I did on a recent trip to Florida, when I hit the pool instead of trying to run in 90-degree heat -- or do some core work while watching TV (with the ceiling fan on, of course), all the while reminding myself that, in six months, I'll be much happier.
Turns out I was kidding myself. I hate running in the heat, mostly because I hate the heat. When the temperature's between, say, 75 and 85 degrees Fahrenheit, it's merely a source of amusement among family and friends, as I start to get uncomfortable. Beyond that, though, I get miserable and usually plant myself in front of the nearest fan.
Needless to say, running in the heat is right out, especially since I increasingly struggle to drag my ass out of bed early enough in the morning to run before work. In my younger days (read: 20s) I would grab a few miles at lunchtime, then wonder why I felt like crap the rest of the day. Now I know better.
It sucks, because I, like any runner, would rather be running than sitting on my ass. (It doesn't help that I really don't have one, so sitting on it for prolonged period of time makes it sore.) But it's the sort of thing that I've accepted. Instead, I try to cross train -- as I did on a recent trip to Florida, when I hit the pool instead of trying to run in 90-degree heat -- or do some core work while watching TV (with the ceiling fan on, of course), all the while reminding myself that, in six months, I'll be much happier.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Life is waiting for you
Last week I got on my high horse, who happened to be perilously perched atop a soap box, and made the incredibly surprising revelation that running is hard. This remains true. It has been balls hot this week, and I abhor the heat, so I haven't been running much.
No matter. It's been a good week. My wife's birthday was yesterday. I woke up early to make her breakfast (note: the house did not burn down), and after work we went out for dinner and then met a friend who' in town for the weekend.
Was a small part of me feeling guilty that I didn't squeeze in a few miles? Mercury notwithstanding, yes. However, as one of my favorite bands says, life is waiting for you. Taking an unplanned off day here and there is no big deal.
Some runners and coaches will tell you it is, but, in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter? I'm not gonna qualify for the Olympics. Hell, I'll be happy with a top-3 finish in my age group someday. Falling asleep at the table for my wife's birthday dinner would not have been worth a quick run through the neighborhood as the sun was rising.
Obviously, things will be different in about a month, when training does officially kick off and I can't really afford to skip a speed workout (as much as I'm sure I'll want to). Even then, though, I won't be afraid to juggle the schedule to accommodate a dinner date, a family gathering, or a Sunday morning 5K with friends when my training schedule calls for 18 or so miles. Life is waiting, and I sure as hell don't want to miss it.
No matter. It's been a good week. My wife's birthday was yesterday. I woke up early to make her breakfast (note: the house did not burn down), and after work we went out for dinner and then met a friend who' in town for the weekend.
Was a small part of me feeling guilty that I didn't squeeze in a few miles? Mercury notwithstanding, yes. However, as one of my favorite bands says, life is waiting for you. Taking an unplanned off day here and there is no big deal.
Some runners and coaches will tell you it is, but, in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter? I'm not gonna qualify for the Olympics. Hell, I'll be happy with a top-3 finish in my age group someday. Falling asleep at the table for my wife's birthday dinner would not have been worth a quick run through the neighborhood as the sun was rising.
Obviously, things will be different in about a month, when training does officially kick off and I can't really afford to skip a speed workout (as much as I'm sure I'll want to). Even then, though, I won't be afraid to juggle the schedule to accommodate a dinner date, a family gathering, or a Sunday morning 5K with friends when my training schedule calls for 18 or so miles. Life is waiting, and I sure as hell don't want to miss it.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Running is hard, as it should be
Running is hard.
Admittedly, it's a matter of priorities and, perhaps, maturity. At 21, with no real responsibilities, not to mention bills, it was easy to crank out a few miles after a long day at work while mom and dad made dinner. A decade later, I'm lucky to run three times a week. Working two jobs, getting married and ripping and replacing your entire backyard will do that. Rain certainly doesn't help either.
Motivation -- specifically, a lack thereof -- has played a role in my recent doldrums. With no race on the horizon, it's easy to pick up the shovel and spread some mulch instead of pounding the pavement. I did make it to the James Joyce Ramble earlier this spring, but, at the risk of sounding like a running snob, a 10K isn't enough to push me all that hard.
More than once, though, I have tried to commit to a marathon, only to back out after a few weeks of training. (That's why I don't register too soon.) It's usually a combination of life intervening -- why I thought I could conceivably run 26.2 miles two weeks before my wedding I'll never know -- and my brain somehow convincing my body that it's better to quit while I'm ahead than go through months of training only to run what most everyone else in the free world would consider a kickass time (say, 3:30) but what, when I cross the finish line, is only bound to disappoint me
A couple weeks ago, though, my wife told me something in passing. "You should run more," she said. "It makes you happy." It got me thinking. (Hence the first blog post in almost a year.)
Running does make me happy, in part because it is hard. Running is supposed to be hard. Squeezing in three-and-a-half miles on your lunch break, as I did today, is hard. Waking up at the asscrack of dawn for a weekend long run so you don't miss work, a family event or an afternoon of pulling weeds is hard. Driving halfway across the state by yourself for a road race that serves as a marathon tune-up is hard (or an indication that you need more friends).
It's time, then, to kick myself in the pants. This fall, I am going to run the Manchester City Marathon, come hell, high water or a couple dozen raspberry bushes that need to be trimmed. This time around, I'm setting aside the notion that I can qualify for Boston -- after all, at this point I am 0-for-7 -- and simply giving myself a reason to run. That, it turns out, is pretty easy.
Admittedly, it's a matter of priorities and, perhaps, maturity. At 21, with no real responsibilities, not to mention bills, it was easy to crank out a few miles after a long day at work while mom and dad made dinner. A decade later, I'm lucky to run three times a week. Working two jobs, getting married and ripping and replacing your entire backyard will do that. Rain certainly doesn't help either.
Motivation -- specifically, a lack thereof -- has played a role in my recent doldrums. With no race on the horizon, it's easy to pick up the shovel and spread some mulch instead of pounding the pavement. I did make it to the James Joyce Ramble earlier this spring, but, at the risk of sounding like a running snob, a 10K isn't enough to push me all that hard.
More than once, though, I have tried to commit to a marathon, only to back out after a few weeks of training. (That's why I don't register too soon.) It's usually a combination of life intervening -- why I thought I could conceivably run 26.2 miles two weeks before my wedding I'll never know -- and my brain somehow convincing my body that it's better to quit while I'm ahead than go through months of training only to run what most everyone else in the free world would consider a kickass time (say, 3:30) but what, when I cross the finish line, is only bound to disappoint me
A couple weeks ago, though, my wife told me something in passing. "You should run more," she said. "It makes you happy." It got me thinking. (Hence the first blog post in almost a year.)
Running does make me happy, in part because it is hard. Running is supposed to be hard. Squeezing in three-and-a-half miles on your lunch break, as I did today, is hard. Waking up at the asscrack of dawn for a weekend long run so you don't miss work, a family event or an afternoon of pulling weeds is hard. Driving halfway across the state by yourself for a road race that serves as a marathon tune-up is hard (or an indication that you need more friends).
It's time, then, to kick myself in the pants. This fall, I am going to run the Manchester City Marathon, come hell, high water or a couple dozen raspberry bushes that need to be trimmed. This time around, I'm setting aside the notion that I can qualify for Boston -- after all, at this point I am 0-for-7 -- and simply giving myself a reason to run. That, it turns out, is pretty easy.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Running off the edge of the world
The thing I hate about training is that you can't really pull one over on yourself. You're lungs aren't going to forget you took a week off. Rather than run (poorly) the same path I usually do, I decided to just run. Somewhere I've never been so I didn't have to feel terrible for running it less well than I had sometime back in June.
It didn't go spectacularly, but I did manage to triple my distance even if a half mile was walking up a 45 degree incline. I crested and managed to slog my way home. There were a few downsides to a new route. I almost got hit my a car, and I took a pizza box in the face running along store fronts, but I can feel in my legs today that they got a workout.
Maybe I've found a new way to lie to myself, in the end. Maybe I can't pretend I didn't just eat a steak 15 mins ago, or that my 2 week vacation of booze binging and sitting on a couch were a resting period, but I can at least unhinge my mind from expectations by running in some unknown direction until I feel like I've gone far enough. Then I can head back to civilization on the west side of Somerville.
With the cold creeping in, the options are becoming less apparent. Soon I'll be strapped to a treadmill for my long runs, when black ice and uprooted sidewalks make outdooring running more deadly than smoking. Still for the time being, I'm going to chart new courses, let go of my own frantic paranoia, and pretend I'm going somewhere I cna't return from.
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