My last post was August 18th,... needless to say a lot has happened since then to get me to where I am. But rather than try to sum it up in a quickly written paragraph or two, I'll just let you experience my NOW.
It took me four and a half long years to fully comprehend the meaning of "Live in your present." Coach McGuire reiterated that saying over and over, but it had eluded my comprehension until recently. So here is my present:
I just saw Quigley's ass. More importantly, I am chilling in a hotel room in Dekalb, IL waiting for the start of my first 10k ever in my first regional race. And yet I'm not terrified; I'm ecstatic. It's time to go out and explain via footsteps and seconds the ungodly amount of work that my teammates and I have logged this fall.
That's all for now. Look for a novella of a catch-up post to follow shortly. I want to get my season on paper as much as I want to see the results of this race. We're ready to turn some heads. Let's go TIGERS!!!!
I'm finally ready to toe the line...
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Crank it to Eleven
In the few remaining pre-practice days before the onslaught of two-a-days, weights, circuits, and workouts, I sat beside myself in a newly acquired apartment room void of external interaction. No cable, no internet, and no true sense that the world is still revolving as the hands of the clock seem to remain still. The turmoil of evacuating my former residence in the most inane way humanly plausible has left me with an elevated blood pressure and a mind fogged by stress. The thought that a move to the apartment building across the street would require two days of moving trailers, a thousand dollars, a brief stay on a friend's couch and countless forms of agonizing paperwork is nearly too ridiculous to believe. However, the antics of our slumlord real estate managers have prepared us to at least expect the most ludicrous thing imaginable. I mean, honestly...thirty minutes late to an inspection because you couldn't find a sock and you wanted to wear tennis shoes? Stupid people shouldn't be allowed to breed.
So putting that on the back burner of my overheated brain, my next move was to sit in silence and immerse myself into the world of literature. The Hunger Games trilogy, Life of Pi, and a textbook on LabVIEW have overtaken all of my waking hours.... well that and guitar hero. If only I could write as well as the authors of those novels or play the real guitar as well as I can bang on the cheap plastic one then maybe I wouldn't be sitting here typing out the mundane happenings of my pedestrian life.
However, after a week of down time practice reared its head with an awful vengeance. Coming off a down week, my ears must have been mistaken, as I could have sworn the new coach explained his strategy to have everyone running 80-120 miles a week. That's a lot. So as I sit here on the third official day of practice between my morning and afternoon session, my legs are aching. By the end of today I will have run 45 miles, lifted twice, done three P90X style circuits, and will be fully consumed by a constant state of soreness and exhaustion. Yet, despite the long death march laid out in front of my ever moving feet, I find comfort in its infinitude. Although the mileage is high, its a direct progression towards my goal of becoming an elite runner. I once again have the desire and can't wait to prove my mettle to the team and mostly to myself. I'm locked in on my future... let's just hope school, stress, fatigue, and injury can keep to themselves.
So putting that on the back burner of my overheated brain, my next move was to sit in silence and immerse myself into the world of literature. The Hunger Games trilogy, Life of Pi, and a textbook on LabVIEW have overtaken all of my waking hours.... well that and guitar hero. If only I could write as well as the authors of those novels or play the real guitar as well as I can bang on the cheap plastic one then maybe I wouldn't be sitting here typing out the mundane happenings of my pedestrian life.
However, after a week of down time practice reared its head with an awful vengeance. Coming off a down week, my ears must have been mistaken, as I could have sworn the new coach explained his strategy to have everyone running 80-120 miles a week. That's a lot. So as I sit here on the third official day of practice between my morning and afternoon session, my legs are aching. By the end of today I will have run 45 miles, lifted twice, done three P90X style circuits, and will be fully consumed by a constant state of soreness and exhaustion. Yet, despite the long death march laid out in front of my ever moving feet, I find comfort in its infinitude. Although the mileage is high, its a direct progression towards my goal of becoming an elite runner. I once again have the desire and can't wait to prove my mettle to the team and mostly to myself. I'm locked in on my future... let's just hope school, stress, fatigue, and injury can keep to themselves.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Lost in My Mind
Escape.
The sticky, humid midwest air is an aphrodisiac to my disgruntled mind. The sweet scent floods my lungs as my nostrils flare, greedily craving the feeling of freedom it evokes. My chest heaves and my body relaxes as the rhythmic percussion of synthetic rubber on concrete, my last tie to the world, slowly slips into the oblivion. With each passing step the material world disappears, as I become an ethereal being, existing as only a constant stream of thoughts meandering through the city streets. I have escaped.
Along the trails, backroads, and dirt paths of my route exists an unearthly sense of levity. The troubles of life simply fade away as I press further into my Eden. Without this temporary solace, I am quite certain I would lose my mind. You see, my mind is a terrible thing...always thinking. Contrary to what one might expect, thinking can be extremely hazardous to your health. Life's simple problems and deadlines, goals and dreams, the dues and owes, all weigh more heavily on my mind than most. It is only when I lace up that the gravity of worry and stress piled on my shoulders morphs from the globe on burden laden Atlas' shoulders to the bright red ball resting on the nose of a frivolous seal. I admit, that's not my best metaphor, but it illustrates my point poignantly.
Speaking of my mind, the damn thing never stops. Whether I'm out on a run imagining typing a grandiose blog post or huddled in bed staring at the ceiling, the thoughts never cease. It's scary the power that thoughts hold over me. Only with my daily hour long meditation in my running shoes have I slowly begun to harness their unimaginable power. It's amazing to watch how the smallest of pains, the most innocent comments, and the littlest stresses can derail me from positive thought and make the task ahead seam insurmountable. Sometimes I marvel at the ease at which my mind convinces me I can't do something. One day I'll embrace my inner Oppenheimer and discover the power of fusion between my body and mind and turn the impossible to the every day.
And so I press on.
The sticky, humid midwest air is an aphrodisiac to my disgruntled mind. The sweet scent floods my lungs as my nostrils flare, greedily craving the feeling of freedom it evokes. My chest heaves and my body relaxes as the rhythmic percussion of synthetic rubber on concrete, my last tie to the world, slowly slips into the oblivion. With each passing step the material world disappears, as I become an ethereal being, existing as only a constant stream of thoughts meandering through the city streets. I have escaped.
Along the trails, backroads, and dirt paths of my route exists an unearthly sense of levity. The troubles of life simply fade away as I press further into my Eden. Without this temporary solace, I am quite certain I would lose my mind. You see, my mind is a terrible thing...always thinking. Contrary to what one might expect, thinking can be extremely hazardous to your health. Life's simple problems and deadlines, goals and dreams, the dues and owes, all weigh more heavily on my mind than most. It is only when I lace up that the gravity of worry and stress piled on my shoulders morphs from the globe on burden laden Atlas' shoulders to the bright red ball resting on the nose of a frivolous seal. I admit, that's not my best metaphor, but it illustrates my point poignantly.
Speaking of my mind, the damn thing never stops. Whether I'm out on a run imagining typing a grandiose blog post or huddled in bed staring at the ceiling, the thoughts never cease. It's scary the power that thoughts hold over me. Only with my daily hour long meditation in my running shoes have I slowly begun to harness their unimaginable power. It's amazing to watch how the smallest of pains, the most innocent comments, and the littlest stresses can derail me from positive thought and make the task ahead seam insurmountable. Sometimes I marvel at the ease at which my mind convinces me I can't do something. One day I'll embrace my inner Oppenheimer and discover the power of fusion between my body and mind and turn the impossible to the every day.
And so I press on.
Random Rants of the Residentially Restrained
My mind is a jumble of thoughts, longings, regrets and ideas that have aroused from the countless hours of contemplation 70 mile weeks of running bring. So, unlike my usual "central theme of the day" post, this one is gonna jump around in a more eclectic path than a cicada in mid-Missouri. Speaking of cicadas, thank god they're finally giving up. For two or three weeks there I was convinced that I would either lose my hearing or get my eyes poked out by a dive bombing insect that only comes out of the ground to fly around and scream after 13 years of underground solitude. I mean, come on. They live for two weeks, max, and are constantly looking to get it on. So, naturally, all they do is scream: "HEY! HEY! HEY!!!! HEEEEY!! HEY!" Their incessant chants made afternoon naps impossible, their tree infestations made grilling hazardous, and their overwhelming numbers allowed them to actually supplant the June Bug as the most annoying and haphazardous flyer in the sixth month of the year. I truly don't think I've seen a June bug this month.... Anyway, they're shutting up, so I'll shut up about them.
Today's father's day, and that's bringing up some uncomfortable thoughts of my rapidly approaching future. I love my family beyond description, and can't imagine getting this far in life without them. So when considering a possible future on the west coast for even more graduate school, there's always a bittersweet taste in my mouth. Four years of my ever continuing life could possibly be spent a thousand miles away from everyone I care about. On top of that, when I finally do valiantly return with a new salutation affixed before my name, I'll be pushing thirty years old. Wow... my life is just flying by. Time has never been on my side, and recently that fact is making me self-conscious about my choices and actions locked in the past. I can't help but always feeling as if I squandered the first four years here at Missouri, only skimming the top of my potential. So many goals and dreams were simply overlooked, as the stress and pain associated with running, injuries, and college life in general was too much weight atop my shoulders. It seems foolish to me now that I behaved as I did. Why was I so stressed, and unhappy? My actions look more like martyrdom and self-loathing rather than normal reactions to arising problems. So many days I spent curled up in my room, watching TV and ignoring friends, school, and the whole college experience! What the hell was I thinking!
There's an amazingly beautiful, fun, spontaneous, and downright perfect world right at my fingertips that has an expiration date. I only have one year left in this city, and I'll be damned if I'm not going to enjoy it. The unique experience of living downtown on a college campus with a jumble of amazing friends who are just like you on a constant search for a good time is not something I'm ready to relinquish. I love my friends and I love my life, and I don't want to look back and be disappointed with myself, regretting my immature actions. As every day goes by, I realize more clearly than ever that life is short. Slaid Cleaves gets it right when he says, "You'll never see those blue skies through young eyes again." So enough with both dwelling on my past, cursing my regrets, and letting everything ride on my future. Life is not about past or future, it's about the present. Carpe Diem. Enjoy every day!
On a less indoctrinated note, I'm slowly beginning to get in shape. It never ceases to amaze me how much repetition can improve fitness. You can read thousands of books, inquire hundreds of running legends, and develop a multitude of training regiments, and still never succeed. The one true secret of distance running is that there is no secret. To be good at running, you just have to run, plain and simple. Ten miles a day. Every day. So as I continue to pound out the miles, I can feel the transformation from injured fat-ass to high-octane champion. My resting heart rate drops below 45 at night. The low, deep beats have enough power to physically move the bed! Breathing seems less necessary, and once challenging tasks such as ascending the basement stairs no longer cause a baroreceptor reflex to adapt. And instead of transforming all food straight into fat, my body has become an incinerator that requires upwards of 6000 calories a day to operate. I feel good.
(WRITTEN EARLY JUNE)
Today's father's day, and that's bringing up some uncomfortable thoughts of my rapidly approaching future. I love my family beyond description, and can't imagine getting this far in life without them. So when considering a possible future on the west coast for even more graduate school, there's always a bittersweet taste in my mouth. Four years of my ever continuing life could possibly be spent a thousand miles away from everyone I care about. On top of that, when I finally do valiantly return with a new salutation affixed before my name, I'll be pushing thirty years old. Wow... my life is just flying by. Time has never been on my side, and recently that fact is making me self-conscious about my choices and actions locked in the past. I can't help but always feeling as if I squandered the first four years here at Missouri, only skimming the top of my potential. So many goals and dreams were simply overlooked, as the stress and pain associated with running, injuries, and college life in general was too much weight atop my shoulders. It seems foolish to me now that I behaved as I did. Why was I so stressed, and unhappy? My actions look more like martyrdom and self-loathing rather than normal reactions to arising problems. So many days I spent curled up in my room, watching TV and ignoring friends, school, and the whole college experience! What the hell was I thinking!
There's an amazingly beautiful, fun, spontaneous, and downright perfect world right at my fingertips that has an expiration date. I only have one year left in this city, and I'll be damned if I'm not going to enjoy it. The unique experience of living downtown on a college campus with a jumble of amazing friends who are just like you on a constant search for a good time is not something I'm ready to relinquish. I love my friends and I love my life, and I don't want to look back and be disappointed with myself, regretting my immature actions. As every day goes by, I realize more clearly than ever that life is short. Slaid Cleaves gets it right when he says, "You'll never see those blue skies through young eyes again." So enough with both dwelling on my past, cursing my regrets, and letting everything ride on my future. Life is not about past or future, it's about the present. Carpe Diem. Enjoy every day!
On a less indoctrinated note, I'm slowly beginning to get in shape. It never ceases to amaze me how much repetition can improve fitness. You can read thousands of books, inquire hundreds of running legends, and develop a multitude of training regiments, and still never succeed. The one true secret of distance running is that there is no secret. To be good at running, you just have to run, plain and simple. Ten miles a day. Every day. So as I continue to pound out the miles, I can feel the transformation from injured fat-ass to high-octane champion. My resting heart rate drops below 45 at night. The low, deep beats have enough power to physically move the bed! Breathing seems less necessary, and once challenging tasks such as ascending the basement stairs no longer cause a baroreceptor reflex to adapt. And instead of transforming all food straight into fat, my body has become an incinerator that requires upwards of 6000 calories a day to operate. I feel good.
(WRITTEN EARLY JUNE)
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Moving ever forward...
The heat of early June on a mid-Missouri morning never dissipates; a fact that is clearly evident while tracing the bike-worn indent, sole after sole, down the MKT trail at 6 AM. The drops of sweat barely have time to bead, as the pounding footsteps create a river of saline, burning the eyes and soaking what little clothing droops over our fragile frames. Pure thoroughbreds in an elegant stride, our pack of tigers round the corner pushing 10 miles per hour. Toned muscles bulge and powerful hearts pound as our army of footsteps resound off the gravel in a beautiful harmony. The true meaning of both extreme power and utter exhaustion mix in a gray haze as the miles add up and the conversation stales. We are machines that run on routine, vociferously wearing down our shoes to become invincible. The sweat and pain mix with mental fortitude to create immensely powerful bodies hidden in our meager, war-torn figures. And as the sun beats down through the thicket of trees above, we press on.
The tantalizing allure of the summer grind has a very limited audience, yet it holds great rewards for those who submit to the calling and obey its strict regiment. There's just something very primitively enjoyable in the callousing of both body and mind. Call it masochistic, but chiseling an athlete from the unfit mold of early summer is downright a carnal pleasure. The willingness to submit to a goal of sweet success demands each runner to conquer the mind's unwillingness to continue. Powerful thoughts of giving up, slowing down, taking short-cuts, and slacking-off must become synonymous with the utmost perversion. The very thought of leaving a day on the holy calendar of training unmarked should send shivers of anger and self-loathing down the spine. Seemingly harmless habits such as drinking or staying out late must be vanquished, and the cravings for that triple cheeseburger must only be satiated after the toll of the Saturday long run, where 16 miles can be fairly traded for a greasy delight.
Hell on earth, some might think, as college students are supposed to be frivolous and irresponsible. "You only go to college once," is the trademark expression handed down from every graduate as a justification for overindulging. However, I've had the chance to be a pure college student. I got to experience partying on a Tuesday, taking Jaeger bombs and playing video games all night, and squandering both athletics and academics to fully immerse myself in all that is "frat-tastic." But none of those quick-fix, immediate gratification antics hold a candle to the pure euphoria extruded from the summer grind. What I "miss out on" while opting to take a nap to heal my tattered body means nothing in comparison to what I would discard by giving up running. Through injuries, depression, and countless reasons to quit, I remain steadfast to my goals. If there is one thing I've truly learned in my whirlwind of a life, is that the most basic and necessary form of happiness comes from becoming who you set out to be. I am a runner, and with the summer that brings a glorious break from workouts, school, and extra stress, my essence will finally be realized. Footstep by footstep. Mile by mile. Morning by morning. The mighty walls built between me and my Jericho will eventually fall.
"Be resolutely and faithfully what you are; be humbly what you aspire to be." -Henry David Thoreau
The tantalizing allure of the summer grind has a very limited audience, yet it holds great rewards for those who submit to the calling and obey its strict regiment. There's just something very primitively enjoyable in the callousing of both body and mind. Call it masochistic, but chiseling an athlete from the unfit mold of early summer is downright a carnal pleasure. The willingness to submit to a goal of sweet success demands each runner to conquer the mind's unwillingness to continue. Powerful thoughts of giving up, slowing down, taking short-cuts, and slacking-off must become synonymous with the utmost perversion. The very thought of leaving a day on the holy calendar of training unmarked should send shivers of anger and self-loathing down the spine. Seemingly harmless habits such as drinking or staying out late must be vanquished, and the cravings for that triple cheeseburger must only be satiated after the toll of the Saturday long run, where 16 miles can be fairly traded for a greasy delight.
Hell on earth, some might think, as college students are supposed to be frivolous and irresponsible. "You only go to college once," is the trademark expression handed down from every graduate as a justification for overindulging. However, I've had the chance to be a pure college student. I got to experience partying on a Tuesday, taking Jaeger bombs and playing video games all night, and squandering both athletics and academics to fully immerse myself in all that is "frat-tastic." But none of those quick-fix, immediate gratification antics hold a candle to the pure euphoria extruded from the summer grind. What I "miss out on" while opting to take a nap to heal my tattered body means nothing in comparison to what I would discard by giving up running. Through injuries, depression, and countless reasons to quit, I remain steadfast to my goals. If there is one thing I've truly learned in my whirlwind of a life, is that the most basic and necessary form of happiness comes from becoming who you set out to be. I am a runner, and with the summer that brings a glorious break from workouts, school, and extra stress, my essence will finally be realized. Footstep by footstep. Mile by mile. Morning by morning. The mighty walls built between me and my Jericho will eventually fall.
"Be resolutely and faithfully what you are; be humbly what you aspire to be." -Henry David Thoreau
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Changing Planes
Gazing out the portside window of the multi-ton leviathan jetting at over 500mph across the continent, I’ve come to realize just how quickly time is passing by. The endless minutes between two delayed flights after a week long vacation in California have opened my eyes and allowed me to contemplate my life with an introspective lens. Just what memories accumulated in the past Olympiad do I truly cherish? How much time have I spent on the wrong road, or perhaps in the wrong lane? A sad feeling washed over me as I gazed down upon the city of Boulder, where a few short years ago I ran in my first Big XII Outdoor Track meet. I realized that city marked the beginning of my demise, and as I continue to scrutinize the details packed in the three years that have passed since that moment, I struggle to find justification for all the pain and hardship I’ve endured. Sure, the path I chose was my calling, and I believe wholeheartedly that if placed in the same predicament I would no doubt repeat my former escapades, yet it all seems so fruitless. I can’t help feeling that it was all a blur of disappointment atop a mountain of unnecessary work and mental anguish. The path I have chosen was far from the easy road, and I can take solace in the fact that it has made me a greater person. But as I grow older, what once seemed integral to my existence has begun to fade away; the flames of my desire smoldering to embers.
Never has this feeling been more evident than on vacation, where days of sun and sand slow my frantic pace, melting the feeling of persistence, and replacing it with one of well-deserved laziness. I yearn for the day where running is no longer a chore, but a necessity on a whole new level. My once daily routine will, in a short year, no longer be mandatory, and that fact is unbelievably hard to grasp. There’s so much left undone, and only three seasons left to achieve my life-long dream. Therein lies the root of my insomnia.
Apart from the feeling of remorse for the physical ailments and mental woes bestowed upon me by years of pushing my body past its limits is an overwhelming feeling to be great. In times of epic laziness, usually a few beers deep, the disciplined runner rears his ugly head to set me on a crash course to fitness. An overwhelming sense of desire morphs my mood from pessimist to masochist, as I long to train my body into the ground and emerge from the dust a chiseled athlete fit to set the track ablaze. This feeling is hard to corral, but summer grants the unique property of hitting the reset button. Monstrous attitude changes require routine, and endless summer days supply the ample amount of sacred time with which to mold myself from couch potato to division 1 athlete.
As my 747 approaches St. Louis, the memories of my great vacation are mirroring my former life. The past few months my life has been up in the air, but when the rubber finally hits the tarmac and my G rolls back into Columbia I am a changed man. Greatness requires drastic sacrifice, and I have given way too many years of my life drowning in a pool of half-assed monotony. No longer will school or social life spread me too thin. However, I’m making this post as my mantra, putting down in writing what I need to see to carry on with my emotionally and physically draining task.
I am a runner. Nothing can stand in my way.
In the million steps I will take from now until next year at this time, my only hope is to have no regrets. This is my last go around, and in 12 months, the previous statement no longer applies to me. For too long have I said that running is my life, while failing to live as a runner. No longer. Watch out, it’s almost my time to shine.
Never has this feeling been more evident than on vacation, where days of sun and sand slow my frantic pace, melting the feeling of persistence, and replacing it with one of well-deserved laziness. I yearn for the day where running is no longer a chore, but a necessity on a whole new level. My once daily routine will, in a short year, no longer be mandatory, and that fact is unbelievably hard to grasp. There’s so much left undone, and only three seasons left to achieve my life-long dream. Therein lies the root of my insomnia.
Apart from the feeling of remorse for the physical ailments and mental woes bestowed upon me by years of pushing my body past its limits is an overwhelming feeling to be great. In times of epic laziness, usually a few beers deep, the disciplined runner rears his ugly head to set me on a crash course to fitness. An overwhelming sense of desire morphs my mood from pessimist to masochist, as I long to train my body into the ground and emerge from the dust a chiseled athlete fit to set the track ablaze. This feeling is hard to corral, but summer grants the unique property of hitting the reset button. Monstrous attitude changes require routine, and endless summer days supply the ample amount of sacred time with which to mold myself from couch potato to division 1 athlete.
As my 747 approaches St. Louis, the memories of my great vacation are mirroring my former life. The past few months my life has been up in the air, but when the rubber finally hits the tarmac and my G rolls back into Columbia I am a changed man. Greatness requires drastic sacrifice, and I have given way too many years of my life drowning in a pool of half-assed monotony. No longer will school or social life spread me too thin. However, I’m making this post as my mantra, putting down in writing what I need to see to carry on with my emotionally and physically draining task.
I am a runner. Nothing can stand in my way.
In the million steps I will take from now until next year at this time, my only hope is to have no regrets. This is my last go around, and in 12 months, the previous statement no longer applies to me. For too long have I said that running is my life, while failing to live as a runner. No longer. Watch out, it’s almost my time to shine.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Not just a finish line...
Here I sit, one final away from the culminating experience of my entire scholarly life, with graduation on Sunday seeming like a finish line. An entire life's worth of persistence, hard work, homework, studying, and attrition meshed with my choices have woven a tapestry of experience to lead me to where and who I am at this moment. So the question is, who and where am I?
The questions, although seemingly simple, have taken all of my twenty-two years to answer. Yet after all those years, I still believe I have uncovered my true self much sooner than most: I am what I've chosen to be.
I am a perfectionist to the point of self-deprication.
I am a hopeless romantic, with dreams and goals outlandish to most.
I am on an endless pursuit for both completeness and the missing piece.
I want to prove people wrong.
Regret is not an option.
I am a runner.
Though I could fill pages of "I am"s, the message stays the same: I'm focused. And right now, in the midst of finals week, graduation, and the scintillating heat of my AC-less house, I know exactly how I want to live this summer: with a dream.
As a good friend once said, "It always starts with a goal, but without a plan and the will to press on, the finish line is hard to find." I have my goal. I have my plan. I have the will to press on.
Bring on the summer grind...
The questions, although seemingly simple, have taken all of my twenty-two years to answer. Yet after all those years, I still believe I have uncovered my true self much sooner than most: I am what I've chosen to be.
I am a perfectionist to the point of self-deprication.
I am a hopeless romantic, with dreams and goals outlandish to most.
I am on an endless pursuit for both completeness and the missing piece.
I want to prove people wrong.
Regret is not an option.
I am a runner.
Though I could fill pages of "I am"s, the message stays the same: I'm focused. And right now, in the midst of finals week, graduation, and the scintillating heat of my AC-less house, I know exactly how I want to live this summer: with a dream.
As a good friend once said, "It always starts with a goal, but without a plan and the will to press on, the finish line is hard to find." I have my goal. I have my plan. I have the will to press on.
Bring on the summer grind...
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Fallout
It's been a long while since I was laying in that hotel bad in Georgia writing about my boring life. I'm sure no one is wondering how I did at the Dual, but I'm prepared to explain in excruciating detail for those unlucky enough to stumble upon my blog. The past three weeks have just been the most hectic, homework-filled days of my life, all culminating to my pending graduation a week from today. Needless to say, time wasted on a blog was not an option when there was so much to be done. Instead of regurgitating my experience in one simple post, I'll let you know about Georgia and the rest of my season, then save the rest for later.
Although the night of the meet I wrote how good I was feeling and how confident my attitude was, in truth it was all mind games; I was simply trying to convince myself through positive thought that I wasn't completely exhausted from the season of tough training crammed into 6 weeks of work. From the moment I stepped on the campus, I knew I didn't feel right. Lethargy filled by bones, and the only thing I could think about was how perfect it would be if I was curled up in bed at home with all my worries cast aside. But that was 800 miles and a month away...
My warm-up served as a good indicator of how well I'd fare in the race. If you ask my cohorts, the minimum amount of times that I complained of being tired was around the 15-20 range. I honestly felt drained dragging my ass up and down hills at 7+ minute pace. That's never a good feeling. Spikes laced and uni donned, the humidity made my legs feel even heavier, like water-logged sequoias. I new from right then that it was going to be a long, embarrassing race.
Crossing the line in last place, seven seconds after my freshman teammate was the most embarrassing experience of my life. I even got a pity clap. Shit. I was filled with rage, frustration, doubt, and above all confusion. Is this really what I want to do with yet another year of my life. Sitting crouched in the shade with my spikes kicked off, head hanging low, I couldn't find my answer to that question. All I wanted to do was sink into the ground where no one could see me.
No amount of words can ever truly describe any one feeling, much less the menagerie of feelings welled up in my brain at that moment. The excitement of being on one of my first college trips in three years had completely worn off. There's nothing exciting about being with the big dogs and getting destroyed on the track. This is not the way I want to be seen. I mean, it's beyond frustrating. I'm here, I see what I can do, I see how to do it, I'm in the race, I want to out-kick everyone, and yet I just CAN'T! I'm sick of being the outcast on the team that no one really talks to or wants to hang out with because they feel awkward about why I'm still even on the team. Injuries leave you like an ex-con, and when you get out of the prison cell of the training room, there's no going back to the good old days. The person you were has been tainted by the persona you have to carry as the kid who used to be good, the washed up state-champion. I'm pretty sure there is no one on the team, coaching staff, or even in my life that truly believes I can rise back to the top and be a prominent runner again. Everyone has given up on me. Sometimes I fear I've given up on myself...
That night I drowned my sorrows with an old teammate, who may be my last tie to the good old days. We were two freshman studs, duking it out in all the middle distance races, dropping times that would make any rookie proud. We were the new face of Mizzou, and all the coaches and teammates saw it. What the hell happened?
A dismal travel day landed me back in mid-Missouri to revel on my predicament. I know my season is over, and I know my legs have had enough torture for one half-assed season. But I only had around thirty minutes to plot my next move, as the contents of my bookbag were slowly plotting to take over my life. As the physiology book escaped, all hell broke loose, and from then until now my nose has been buried deep in the final chapter of my undergraduate career. It was non-stop work, computer screens and squinted eyes, from then until yesterday at 4pm, where I completed the Mizzou tradition, and walked back through those iconic columns I ceremoniously entered as a freshman four short years ago. The "$30,000" beer was bittersweet, as what I accomplished at school seemed to pale in comparison to what I left unfinished. I came into college wanting to be a writer and a runner, and came out an engineer. Milkshakes melt, people change...
Although the night of the meet I wrote how good I was feeling and how confident my attitude was, in truth it was all mind games; I was simply trying to convince myself through positive thought that I wasn't completely exhausted from the season of tough training crammed into 6 weeks of work. From the moment I stepped on the campus, I knew I didn't feel right. Lethargy filled by bones, and the only thing I could think about was how perfect it would be if I was curled up in bed at home with all my worries cast aside. But that was 800 miles and a month away...
My warm-up served as a good indicator of how well I'd fare in the race. If you ask my cohorts, the minimum amount of times that I complained of being tired was around the 15-20 range. I honestly felt drained dragging my ass up and down hills at 7+ minute pace. That's never a good feeling. Spikes laced and uni donned, the humidity made my legs feel even heavier, like water-logged sequoias. I new from right then that it was going to be a long, embarrassing race.
Crossing the line in last place, seven seconds after my freshman teammate was the most embarrassing experience of my life. I even got a pity clap. Shit. I was filled with rage, frustration, doubt, and above all confusion. Is this really what I want to do with yet another year of my life. Sitting crouched in the shade with my spikes kicked off, head hanging low, I couldn't find my answer to that question. All I wanted to do was sink into the ground where no one could see me.
No amount of words can ever truly describe any one feeling, much less the menagerie of feelings welled up in my brain at that moment. The excitement of being on one of my first college trips in three years had completely worn off. There's nothing exciting about being with the big dogs and getting destroyed on the track. This is not the way I want to be seen. I mean, it's beyond frustrating. I'm here, I see what I can do, I see how to do it, I'm in the race, I want to out-kick everyone, and yet I just CAN'T! I'm sick of being the outcast on the team that no one really talks to or wants to hang out with because they feel awkward about why I'm still even on the team. Injuries leave you like an ex-con, and when you get out of the prison cell of the training room, there's no going back to the good old days. The person you were has been tainted by the persona you have to carry as the kid who used to be good, the washed up state-champion. I'm pretty sure there is no one on the team, coaching staff, or even in my life that truly believes I can rise back to the top and be a prominent runner again. Everyone has given up on me. Sometimes I fear I've given up on myself...
That night I drowned my sorrows with an old teammate, who may be my last tie to the good old days. We were two freshman studs, duking it out in all the middle distance races, dropping times that would make any rookie proud. We were the new face of Mizzou, and all the coaches and teammates saw it. What the hell happened?
A dismal travel day landed me back in mid-Missouri to revel on my predicament. I know my season is over, and I know my legs have had enough torture for one half-assed season. But I only had around thirty minutes to plot my next move, as the contents of my bookbag were slowly plotting to take over my life. As the physiology book escaped, all hell broke loose, and from then until now my nose has been buried deep in the final chapter of my undergraduate career. It was non-stop work, computer screens and squinted eyes, from then until yesterday at 4pm, where I completed the Mizzou tradition, and walked back through those iconic columns I ceremoniously entered as a freshman four short years ago. The "$30,000" beer was bittersweet, as what I accomplished at school seemed to pale in comparison to what I left unfinished. I came into college wanting to be a writer and a runner, and came out an engineer. Milkshakes melt, people change...
Friday, April 22, 2011
Deja Vu
Just stepped out of the shower at the Hampton Inn in Athens, Georgia and I can't help but feel like I was just here. Every bit of this weekend hotel getaway is a repeat of last week, only 300 or so miles to the south. Welcome to my cookie-cutter life.
It never ceases to amaze me how much money is spent on college athletics, and I'm only keen to the Track and Field finances. We flew 58 people from STL to ATL, with a total ticket cost of around $40,000. On top of that, every person on the team receives per diem, of $52! Couple that with a team dinner earlier tonight and the cost to bus us all from airport to hotel, and you have quite an expensive operation. I'm very lucky to be a part of it.
As for tomorrow, the Georgia Dual should be a ton of fun. I can't wait to get in and race my ass off to get some points for the team! I'm really not that worried this weekend, as I'm feeling good and really wanting to get a PR. Sub 4 min. here I come! Also, I get to see a long lost teammate tomorrow night...
But in all honesty, all I want to do is get home and finish out this year. Graduating suddenly got much tougher these last couple weeks. Projects, papers, research, posters, and exams loom in the near future; the last hurdles in my undergraduate plight. I'm really tired, and I'm really burnt out. 18 hours, track meets on weekends, working in the lab, and trying to train is becoming almost too much to handle.
So it's time to sleep. Can't wait to race. Can't wait to be home. Can't wait til summer. I have to remember to stop and enjoy my hectic life...
It never ceases to amaze me how much money is spent on college athletics, and I'm only keen to the Track and Field finances. We flew 58 people from STL to ATL, with a total ticket cost of around $40,000. On top of that, every person on the team receives per diem, of $52! Couple that with a team dinner earlier tonight and the cost to bus us all from airport to hotel, and you have quite an expensive operation. I'm very lucky to be a part of it.
As for tomorrow, the Georgia Dual should be a ton of fun. I can't wait to get in and race my ass off to get some points for the team! I'm really not that worried this weekend, as I'm feeling good and really wanting to get a PR. Sub 4 min. here I come! Also, I get to see a long lost teammate tomorrow night...
But in all honesty, all I want to do is get home and finish out this year. Graduating suddenly got much tougher these last couple weeks. Projects, papers, research, posters, and exams loom in the near future; the last hurdles in my undergraduate plight. I'm really tired, and I'm really burnt out. 18 hours, track meets on weekends, working in the lab, and trying to train is becoming almost too much to handle.
So it's time to sleep. Can't wait to race. Can't wait to be home. Can't wait til summer. I have to remember to stop and enjoy my hectic life...
Sunday, April 17, 2011
A day in the life...
It’s hard to discern exactly what my overall feelings were this weekend. Elation for sure, as I had finally made it to the big times, getting to ride on the bus. But with the elation came insecurity. Being in the big times requires a certain level of performance, which is not securely within my fitness capabilities. Then there was pure fear. The questions piled, one on top of another, exploiting my insecurities and amplifying my innermost worries. Will I do well? Will my teammates accept me? What if I fail? How do I fit in on this team, since no on has seen me compete in the past three years? There’s an unbelievable feeling generated when the bleak hopelessness that accompanies injury meets the stark contrast of racing, feet once again placed in the fire of competition. And with that feeling comes the resurgent hopes and dreams of the athlete I once was, vying for the top spot on the podium. However, a vast chasm segregates my hopes and my abilities at the moment, as I can still count the number of workouts and the number of weeks post-injury on one hand. Indiana could be my bridge; a fine tightrope stretched taut across the gap.
The nerves were odd. Not that I don’t remember them, I just remember them stemming from alternate origins. Back in the day, a strong field, tough conditions, or even a teammate in my race could shake my confidence. On this bus ride, the main thing on my mind was improvement. I wanted to simply beat a week old version of my self, at my own game. The only way to achieve that was to go out and RACE. Last week, I described in frustration my lack of focus, and inability to keep my head in the moment. For the upcoming 1500, my focus was to lie solely on the back of the jersey I was chasing. Still, every passing minute I was fully aware that I am much older, more mature, and not a tad bit wiser. Whatever it was that I was supposed to learn on my way from lowly freshman to standout senior (ha), I apparently missed out on while I was in the time machine that is the training room.
Read a book to pass the time. Eat light and right at dinner. Get to sleep early. Lounge all day. Eat a fulfilling breakfast. Follow the routine. Mental preparation lies in the ability to convince yourself that all stepping stones on the way to race day are properly paved. Routine is the morphine to placate the anguish and insomnia.
The hours rapidly melt away as the seconds tick slowly en route to 8pm. The TV can only temporarily cage the butterflies now flying rampant in my stomach, as commercials come intermittently to set them free. The only wish of a runner in his pre-race self-loathing is to fixate on his watch at a time just past the end of his race. Oh, how I longed to see the liquid crystals on my Timex display that heavenly hour of 9pm. A feeling of doubt envelops all thought, as the time draws near. Why do I do this? How can I possibly think this sport is fun? Words cannot fully explain how much more preferable a glass of Jack and Coke resting in my hand on a futon in Columbia would be than the painful experience of the race soon to be run. A single thought reverberates in my head: “I hate this.”
Time to get on the bus. The butterflies have mutated into evil winged demons, hell-bent on tearing my insides apart. Luckily, I brought the one implement of destruction that can keep my demons at bay. Slipping on the white ear-buds, I slide slowly into melancholy harmonies, ignoring the cacophony around me. The faces of my coaches and teammates are silent and still, stone gargoyles that awaken only when my task is complete. The world is dead to me, and only the melodies ringing in my ears are real. The cityscape of Bloomington slides peacefully by, as the diesel bus engine’s low frequency remains my only tie to reality. Cold rain peppers the window pane, as the gloomy grey sky shows no mercy. The trees whip in random spurts of wind, indicating the horridly unpleasant racing conditions I would soon encounter. Four layers and a wind/water-proof jacket proved not enough armor to assuage my unwillingness to leave my cozy seat.
The bus slows and a demon escapes, as a pang of adrenaline surges through my veins. The quick walk from my seat to the indoor track facility confirmed my fears as a shiver ran down my spine. A hand through the hair to remove the rain instantly turned icy, serving as a foreboding sign of the race to come. Two hours until game time.
The bathroom soon became my home, as nerves do terrible things to the digestive system. Within the hour before warm-up, I had passed an entire week’s worth of excrement. I have no idea where that comes from, but as all runners know, it comes every time. Nervous pacing between my place on the track surface and my home did nothing speed the passage of time. The iPod had stopped doing its job of pacification, leaving me to dwell in the conversation of my teammates who never seemed to be as nervous as I.
“If I had a wish from a genie,” one freshman said, “I would wish to never have a dead battery. I mean, think about it. You’d never have a dead phone, iPod, laptop…”
“Vibrator?” interjected a comically challenged distance runner.
“Vibrator,” continued the freshman, “ANYTHING!”
“That’s a good wish,” a voice cried from the peanut gallery, “ but I’d definitely wish for invisibility. Or to fly!”
“I’d wish to be able to stop time, you know?” I said. “You could get so much done, and control everything!”
“Yeah right,” said Mr. Inappropriate, a man who literally has no filter whatsoever. “You just want to be able to stop time so you can take girl’s clothes off and rape them.”
“You’re unbelievable,” was my reply.
“You know what I’d wish?” piped up a quiet member of the team. “I’d wish that I was really good at running.”
A solemn silence followed by a repeating echo of agreement slowly overcame the room, as we once again became aware of our predicament. Even amongst the frivolity and candor of our discussion, the seriousness of our situation was always lurking beneath the surface. There was no escape. The only option was to race to the limit, compiling no regrets.
The minutes ticked by until an hour before the race, signaling the start of our warm up. My teammate and I suited up, and entered the dark, cold evening. Two miles of wind battered and rain-soaked footsteps served as a systems check of preparedness. I was definitely tired, but not from any recent cause. The stress and strain placed on my body in the past three weeks of racing were compiling, and my lack of training was catching up quick. My shin was sore, an injury I’d picked up from the quick transformation from couch potato to collegiate athlete. The new experience of pounding my shins over forty plus miles of terrain had taken its toll, and the shin splint was a physical manifestation of my status as a lowly greenhorn of the sport. My back seemed tight, not surprising as the whiplash had set in from Thursday’s fender bender. Anger boiled in my head as I remembered my beat-up car and my unused ticket to the concert I’d been looking forward to for months. But that was something to be dealt with in the coming days.
Seven minutes into the warm up and the achy soreness had worn off. My legs now felt less like weights, and more like the powerful stalks that could propel me around the painted oval. A glimmer of hope snuck into my mind and I felt a power well beyond my current physical capabilities as I drove up a short hill and rounded the muddy corner. I may not be fit, but I’ll be damned if I don’t have some talent still lingering in this tattered body of mine. The demons were corralled, and for a moment, I felt invincible. A shooting pain from my shin woke me from my fantasy, and the rain reassured me that my world was indeed bleak, cold and dreary. The demons escaped.
Groping around my bag, I unearthed my uniform and quickly slid it over my shoulders in the biting cold. I suited back up in my warm-ups and checked the clock: 7:40. Twenty minutes until the gun. In the rhythm of pre-race routine, I laced my spikes and adjusted the tongues for a tight but painless fit. These Nike Victories had only served me for two races, but I already consider them an integral part of my uniform. One stride in their grasp, and my feet reassumed the feeling of weightlessness and agility only Vics could provide. There’s pop in my stride, but fatigue in my bones. It seems impossible to shake my body out of the tired funk that evolved from the past weeks of training. A couple strides later, the fatigue is still there, but exists only as problem with no solution, and I erase it from my mind. With spikes on, the pounding in my shin is worse, but bearable. My calves are feeling stretched, but poised to perform. As the girls run through the finish line, my last stride confirms that I’m ready to race.
There used to be a time back in high school where I toed the line, looked right and left, and a smirk would emerge on my face as I realized that I was about to put on a show of serious ass kicking. Presently, the smile is replaced by a large gulp and the strong feeling that I am severely outmatched. Needless to say, I miss the smirk.
The crack of the gun jolts my engines to life, as a speedy anaerobic back-stretch puts me into position on the outside middle of the pack. Elbows are held high and legs criss-cross precariously close, wielding spiked weapons eager to bloody the shins of the overexcited chaser. Although in seemingly a sprint, the pack calms down into a methodic pace. Smooth breathing and a calm mind are the only keys to energy conservation. Lap one in 63, as I’m stuck on the heels of a group of ten or so thoroughbreds. However, the screams of the official chanting “63” did not bode well with the pack. Instantly, the pace quickened, and the race began to spread out. By the home stretch I was clinging to the ISU runner with all of my energy. Unfortunately, it was not enough. As the pace began to quicken, I could not will my legs to speed up. It seemed as if I was locked into one pace, unable to go faster or slower, a product of my lack of fitness.
Through the half in 2:08, and already the dream of holding on for dear life and out-kicking a few rubes was dying. The icy air burned my lungs, and the lactic acid pooled in my legs, turning them into cement prosthetics and transformed the track from rubber to quicksand. Digging deep, I drove my legs harder, hoping to catch the pack. The move was futile. I simply had nothing left in the tank. Entering the bell lap I saw the clock gleaming 3:00, almost mocking my pedestrian pace. It was all I could do to bend down and power through the last 400 meters that seemed like an eternity, only to cross the finish line in the same time I had last week, defeated and distraught. I was third to last, and failed to help my team.
Immediately a wave of frustration enveloped me. I was in it! Right there! I want to be in that pack! After a few hunched over moments, I began my return to the tent, a painfully cold and stinging saunter to face my no doubt disappointed coach and team. My lungs were on fire, as abrasions from the cold air caused a bloody pain. The coughing began, and I knew it would not relent for days. I just wanted to go home.
I know that I’m out of shape. I know I’ve only been running for five weeks. I know that I don’t have any speed yet. I know that I did the best I could. I know, I know, I know! But no comforting fact or excuse can make me feel alright about not being in the race. Where’s that runner I once knew who could push himself to limits well beyond his physical capabilities? Where is the champion that blew by the competition, kicking home to a first place finish? What happened to the machine that transformed hours of work into gold medals, completely focused on the task of becoming a high-caliber athlete? Why is that person always so far out of reach?
These questions dwell within me, but slowly I began to draw comfort from coaches, teammates, and former athletes, reassuring me that I’m on the right path. The greatest eye-opener came when Coach pulled me aside, and in Enke-like fashion, stated the obvious fact I recently failed to see: I’m running on pure talent.
Thinking further, I realize just how astonishing my performance today would seem if I viewed it under the right lens. My circumstances are nowhere near ideal, as it takes years of consistent mileage to conjure true endurance strength. I’ve had less than 5 workouts, all focusing on high-end speed rather than interval training. Two months ago, my only dream was to walk out the door with running shoes on and conquer ten miles of Columbia terrain. I was running 2 miles every other day, with no palpable hopes of racing until the fall. Lastly, three weekends of racing in a row is a shock to a body that hasn’t raced on the track in three years. Instead of recovering in ample time, my body is accruing pains and aches from each compiled race. The fatigue in my legs is evident, even on the easy run days. I’m at the point now where a weekend off would be less of a disappointment and more of a medical benefit. I am, in a sense, running outside my league.
And 4:04 is no jog in the park, my former teammate pointed out to me. He made me realize that if I ran a 4:21 mile (4:04 equivalent in the 1500) as a season opener in high school, I’d be ecstatic! I’m only eleven seconds off my PR with no training to my name! It’s, in a sense, unbelievable. Old man strength is starting to rear its head, as I realize now that I can focus on the race, and press through most pain that, as a freshman, I would consider unbearable. I’m on the right track, though at times the results may not indicate that fact.
So now, as I sit through the six hour bus ride home typing out this mini-novel of my experience, I’m torn between feeling happy with my performance or lingering in frustration. I believe after typing all this up, I’ve come to the conclusion that I should take the good with the bad, and turn my frustration into the driving force behind my training. I’m ambivalent about the Georgia trip next weekend, and would be equally happy going home for Easter as I would be for suiting up and getting on the plane to yet another race. My focus now lies in self-betterment, and I plan to hit the weights and training hard this week, after I take Monday off, of course. The feelings of hatred toward my sport are once again a situational hazard, as I realize how much I love and rely on this sport. It’s an integral part of my life, and the simple presence of track in my daily routine keeps me positive.
So my last thought before I pen the conclusion to the Indiana trip, is this: It sucks to suck, but all is not lost, as I securely hold the reins to my destiny. I can’t wait to see what the future holds.
The human body can only take so much then the heart and spirit take over. -Anonymous
The nerves were odd. Not that I don’t remember them, I just remember them stemming from alternate origins. Back in the day, a strong field, tough conditions, or even a teammate in my race could shake my confidence. On this bus ride, the main thing on my mind was improvement. I wanted to simply beat a week old version of my self, at my own game. The only way to achieve that was to go out and RACE. Last week, I described in frustration my lack of focus, and inability to keep my head in the moment. For the upcoming 1500, my focus was to lie solely on the back of the jersey I was chasing. Still, every passing minute I was fully aware that I am much older, more mature, and not a tad bit wiser. Whatever it was that I was supposed to learn on my way from lowly freshman to standout senior (ha), I apparently missed out on while I was in the time machine that is the training room.
Read a book to pass the time. Eat light and right at dinner. Get to sleep early. Lounge all day. Eat a fulfilling breakfast. Follow the routine. Mental preparation lies in the ability to convince yourself that all stepping stones on the way to race day are properly paved. Routine is the morphine to placate the anguish and insomnia.
The hours rapidly melt away as the seconds tick slowly en route to 8pm. The TV can only temporarily cage the butterflies now flying rampant in my stomach, as commercials come intermittently to set them free. The only wish of a runner in his pre-race self-loathing is to fixate on his watch at a time just past the end of his race. Oh, how I longed to see the liquid crystals on my Timex display that heavenly hour of 9pm. A feeling of doubt envelops all thought, as the time draws near. Why do I do this? How can I possibly think this sport is fun? Words cannot fully explain how much more preferable a glass of Jack and Coke resting in my hand on a futon in Columbia would be than the painful experience of the race soon to be run. A single thought reverberates in my head: “I hate this.”
Time to get on the bus. The butterflies have mutated into evil winged demons, hell-bent on tearing my insides apart. Luckily, I brought the one implement of destruction that can keep my demons at bay. Slipping on the white ear-buds, I slide slowly into melancholy harmonies, ignoring the cacophony around me. The faces of my coaches and teammates are silent and still, stone gargoyles that awaken only when my task is complete. The world is dead to me, and only the melodies ringing in my ears are real. The cityscape of Bloomington slides peacefully by, as the diesel bus engine’s low frequency remains my only tie to reality. Cold rain peppers the window pane, as the gloomy grey sky shows no mercy. The trees whip in random spurts of wind, indicating the horridly unpleasant racing conditions I would soon encounter. Four layers and a wind/water-proof jacket proved not enough armor to assuage my unwillingness to leave my cozy seat.
The bus slows and a demon escapes, as a pang of adrenaline surges through my veins. The quick walk from my seat to the indoor track facility confirmed my fears as a shiver ran down my spine. A hand through the hair to remove the rain instantly turned icy, serving as a foreboding sign of the race to come. Two hours until game time.
The bathroom soon became my home, as nerves do terrible things to the digestive system. Within the hour before warm-up, I had passed an entire week’s worth of excrement. I have no idea where that comes from, but as all runners know, it comes every time. Nervous pacing between my place on the track surface and my home did nothing speed the passage of time. The iPod had stopped doing its job of pacification, leaving me to dwell in the conversation of my teammates who never seemed to be as nervous as I.
“If I had a wish from a genie,” one freshman said, “I would wish to never have a dead battery. I mean, think about it. You’d never have a dead phone, iPod, laptop…”
“Vibrator?” interjected a comically challenged distance runner.
“Vibrator,” continued the freshman, “ANYTHING!”
“That’s a good wish,” a voice cried from the peanut gallery, “ but I’d definitely wish for invisibility. Or to fly!”
“I’d wish to be able to stop time, you know?” I said. “You could get so much done, and control everything!”
“Yeah right,” said Mr. Inappropriate, a man who literally has no filter whatsoever. “You just want to be able to stop time so you can take girl’s clothes off and rape them.”
“You’re unbelievable,” was my reply.
“You know what I’d wish?” piped up a quiet member of the team. “I’d wish that I was really good at running.”
A solemn silence followed by a repeating echo of agreement slowly overcame the room, as we once again became aware of our predicament. Even amongst the frivolity and candor of our discussion, the seriousness of our situation was always lurking beneath the surface. There was no escape. The only option was to race to the limit, compiling no regrets.
The minutes ticked by until an hour before the race, signaling the start of our warm up. My teammate and I suited up, and entered the dark, cold evening. Two miles of wind battered and rain-soaked footsteps served as a systems check of preparedness. I was definitely tired, but not from any recent cause. The stress and strain placed on my body in the past three weeks of racing were compiling, and my lack of training was catching up quick. My shin was sore, an injury I’d picked up from the quick transformation from couch potato to collegiate athlete. The new experience of pounding my shins over forty plus miles of terrain had taken its toll, and the shin splint was a physical manifestation of my status as a lowly greenhorn of the sport. My back seemed tight, not surprising as the whiplash had set in from Thursday’s fender bender. Anger boiled in my head as I remembered my beat-up car and my unused ticket to the concert I’d been looking forward to for months. But that was something to be dealt with in the coming days.
Seven minutes into the warm up and the achy soreness had worn off. My legs now felt less like weights, and more like the powerful stalks that could propel me around the painted oval. A glimmer of hope snuck into my mind and I felt a power well beyond my current physical capabilities as I drove up a short hill and rounded the muddy corner. I may not be fit, but I’ll be damned if I don’t have some talent still lingering in this tattered body of mine. The demons were corralled, and for a moment, I felt invincible. A shooting pain from my shin woke me from my fantasy, and the rain reassured me that my world was indeed bleak, cold and dreary. The demons escaped.
Groping around my bag, I unearthed my uniform and quickly slid it over my shoulders in the biting cold. I suited back up in my warm-ups and checked the clock: 7:40. Twenty minutes until the gun. In the rhythm of pre-race routine, I laced my spikes and adjusted the tongues for a tight but painless fit. These Nike Victories had only served me for two races, but I already consider them an integral part of my uniform. One stride in their grasp, and my feet reassumed the feeling of weightlessness and agility only Vics could provide. There’s pop in my stride, but fatigue in my bones. It seems impossible to shake my body out of the tired funk that evolved from the past weeks of training. A couple strides later, the fatigue is still there, but exists only as problem with no solution, and I erase it from my mind. With spikes on, the pounding in my shin is worse, but bearable. My calves are feeling stretched, but poised to perform. As the girls run through the finish line, my last stride confirms that I’m ready to race.
There used to be a time back in high school where I toed the line, looked right and left, and a smirk would emerge on my face as I realized that I was about to put on a show of serious ass kicking. Presently, the smile is replaced by a large gulp and the strong feeling that I am severely outmatched. Needless to say, I miss the smirk.
The crack of the gun jolts my engines to life, as a speedy anaerobic back-stretch puts me into position on the outside middle of the pack. Elbows are held high and legs criss-cross precariously close, wielding spiked weapons eager to bloody the shins of the overexcited chaser. Although in seemingly a sprint, the pack calms down into a methodic pace. Smooth breathing and a calm mind are the only keys to energy conservation. Lap one in 63, as I’m stuck on the heels of a group of ten or so thoroughbreds. However, the screams of the official chanting “63” did not bode well with the pack. Instantly, the pace quickened, and the race began to spread out. By the home stretch I was clinging to the ISU runner with all of my energy. Unfortunately, it was not enough. As the pace began to quicken, I could not will my legs to speed up. It seemed as if I was locked into one pace, unable to go faster or slower, a product of my lack of fitness.
Through the half in 2:08, and already the dream of holding on for dear life and out-kicking a few rubes was dying. The icy air burned my lungs, and the lactic acid pooled in my legs, turning them into cement prosthetics and transformed the track from rubber to quicksand. Digging deep, I drove my legs harder, hoping to catch the pack. The move was futile. I simply had nothing left in the tank. Entering the bell lap I saw the clock gleaming 3:00, almost mocking my pedestrian pace. It was all I could do to bend down and power through the last 400 meters that seemed like an eternity, only to cross the finish line in the same time I had last week, defeated and distraught. I was third to last, and failed to help my team.
Immediately a wave of frustration enveloped me. I was in it! Right there! I want to be in that pack! After a few hunched over moments, I began my return to the tent, a painfully cold and stinging saunter to face my no doubt disappointed coach and team. My lungs were on fire, as abrasions from the cold air caused a bloody pain. The coughing began, and I knew it would not relent for days. I just wanted to go home.
I know that I’m out of shape. I know I’ve only been running for five weeks. I know that I don’t have any speed yet. I know that I did the best I could. I know, I know, I know! But no comforting fact or excuse can make me feel alright about not being in the race. Where’s that runner I once knew who could push himself to limits well beyond his physical capabilities? Where is the champion that blew by the competition, kicking home to a first place finish? What happened to the machine that transformed hours of work into gold medals, completely focused on the task of becoming a high-caliber athlete? Why is that person always so far out of reach?
These questions dwell within me, but slowly I began to draw comfort from coaches, teammates, and former athletes, reassuring me that I’m on the right path. The greatest eye-opener came when Coach pulled me aside, and in Enke-like fashion, stated the obvious fact I recently failed to see: I’m running on pure talent.
Thinking further, I realize just how astonishing my performance today would seem if I viewed it under the right lens. My circumstances are nowhere near ideal, as it takes years of consistent mileage to conjure true endurance strength. I’ve had less than 5 workouts, all focusing on high-end speed rather than interval training. Two months ago, my only dream was to walk out the door with running shoes on and conquer ten miles of Columbia terrain. I was running 2 miles every other day, with no palpable hopes of racing until the fall. Lastly, three weekends of racing in a row is a shock to a body that hasn’t raced on the track in three years. Instead of recovering in ample time, my body is accruing pains and aches from each compiled race. The fatigue in my legs is evident, even on the easy run days. I’m at the point now where a weekend off would be less of a disappointment and more of a medical benefit. I am, in a sense, running outside my league.
And 4:04 is no jog in the park, my former teammate pointed out to me. He made me realize that if I ran a 4:21 mile (4:04 equivalent in the 1500) as a season opener in high school, I’d be ecstatic! I’m only eleven seconds off my PR with no training to my name! It’s, in a sense, unbelievable. Old man strength is starting to rear its head, as I realize now that I can focus on the race, and press through most pain that, as a freshman, I would consider unbearable. I’m on the right track, though at times the results may not indicate that fact.
So now, as I sit through the six hour bus ride home typing out this mini-novel of my experience, I’m torn between feeling happy with my performance or lingering in frustration. I believe after typing all this up, I’ve come to the conclusion that I should take the good with the bad, and turn my frustration into the driving force behind my training. I’m ambivalent about the Georgia trip next weekend, and would be equally happy going home for Easter as I would be for suiting up and getting on the plane to yet another race. My focus now lies in self-betterment, and I plan to hit the weights and training hard this week, after I take Monday off, of course. The feelings of hatred toward my sport are once again a situational hazard, as I realize how much I love and rely on this sport. It’s an integral part of my life, and the simple presence of track in my daily routine keeps me positive.
So my last thought before I pen the conclusion to the Indiana trip, is this: It sucks to suck, but all is not lost, as I securely hold the reins to my destiny. I can’t wait to see what the future holds.
The human body can only take so much then the heart and spirit take over. -Anonymous
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
A long time coming...
Today, out of sheer amazement, my coach informed me that I would be making the trip to Indiana this weekend. Needless to say, I am ecstatic. In all honesty, I shed a tear when I received the paper I'd yearned for more than anything else for the past year; the trip roster. No single thing could have brought me more joy than that inconspicuous sheet covered in black and white font with eight letters reserved for my name. It was the holy grail of parchment, the Desert Sea Scrolls of my forgotten and often undocumented tumultuous past.
Alright, enough with literary drivel about how awesome it was to be handed the trip roster. I'm going to Indiana!!!!! WOOOOOO!
So after getting the news, I immediately had to transition into workout mode. Today I was harshly introduced to the pace I'd be maintaining in the 1500 this weekend. Starting with a 600 at 1:31, our workout followed with two 300s in 41 seconds. To cap it off, we shifted into top gear to roll through four 150s.... I'm beat. I quickly realized that having a stress fracture and taking 3 months off does not allow smooth transition into speed work. My fast twitch muscle fibers are definitely still in hibernation. I hope they decide to kick in when I round the final turn on the famous track in Bloomington.
After a recovery dinner of pasta and three loads of laundry while watching last night's episode of House, I'm now parked in front of a cozy fire pit, radiating comforting heat to my tired bones. The sky is clear and lit by a crescent moon, and the sixty degree breeze is intoxicating. It's unbelievable how far away winter feels, even though snow blanketed the University not even a month ago.
But for now, a chocolate milkshake, a beautiful night, a tantalizing fire are soothing my nerves and recharging my batteries. A weekend abroad and a chance to brush my PR will have to wait a few more nights.
As a side note, the second most exciting news is that The Damnwells will be in St. Louis on Thursday night! I'm beyond excited to see them in concert again, and have been rocking to Air Stereo for the past month of homework nights. Yes, I'm obsessed, and yes they're awesome. This week is going to be awesome.
It's good to be alive...
Alright, enough with literary drivel about how awesome it was to be handed the trip roster. I'm going to Indiana!!!!! WOOOOOO!
So after getting the news, I immediately had to transition into workout mode. Today I was harshly introduced to the pace I'd be maintaining in the 1500 this weekend. Starting with a 600 at 1:31, our workout followed with two 300s in 41 seconds. To cap it off, we shifted into top gear to roll through four 150s.... I'm beat. I quickly realized that having a stress fracture and taking 3 months off does not allow smooth transition into speed work. My fast twitch muscle fibers are definitely still in hibernation. I hope they decide to kick in when I round the final turn on the famous track in Bloomington.
After a recovery dinner of pasta and three loads of laundry while watching last night's episode of House, I'm now parked in front of a cozy fire pit, radiating comforting heat to my tired bones. The sky is clear and lit by a crescent moon, and the sixty degree breeze is intoxicating. It's unbelievable how far away winter feels, even though snow blanketed the University not even a month ago.
But for now, a chocolate milkshake, a beautiful night, a tantalizing fire are soothing my nerves and recharging my batteries. A weekend abroad and a chance to brush my PR will have to wait a few more nights.
As a side note, the second most exciting news is that The Damnwells will be in St. Louis on Thursday night! I'm beyond excited to see them in concert again, and have been rocking to Air Stereo for the past month of homework nights. Yes, I'm obsessed, and yes they're awesome. This week is going to be awesome.
It's good to be alive...
Poor Effort
It was one of those days... I was just not in it. I'm brooding over my lack of focus, knowing full well I could have had a much better race. Simply put, I psyched myself out.
I felt some serious pressure going into the race. For one, I knew I had to follow up last weeks performance with another PR. Second, the field was better, and I knew we'd go through the 8 in 2:10 or so. Most of all, I knew my season was on the line; if I didn't perform today, I would not make the trip to Indiana. I got inside my head :/
Couple my mental weakness with a week full of work, school, and loads of Benadryl, I was NOT all there when I stepped on the track today. Lethargic is the best way to describe it, and I'm completely and utterly disgusted with my performance.
(Written post race, but didn't publish out of rage)
I felt some serious pressure going into the race. For one, I knew I had to follow up last weeks performance with another PR. Second, the field was better, and I knew we'd go through the 8 in 2:10 or so. Most of all, I knew my season was on the line; if I didn't perform today, I would not make the trip to Indiana. I got inside my head :/
Couple my mental weakness with a week full of work, school, and loads of Benadryl, I was NOT all there when I stepped on the track today. Lethargic is the best way to describe it, and I'm completely and utterly disgusted with my performance.
(Written post race, but didn't publish out of rage)
Saturday, April 9, 2011
No Rest for the Weary
I had truly forgotten what it was like to be a student-athlete until this past week. "Busy" would not begin to describe my plight. With a midterm paper, lab report, exam, and research, I literally had no time to myself. Couple all of those with practice and workouts, and you get one tired, out of shape 22 year old.
My allergies were icing on top of the cake. They kicked in on Monday, and six benadryl later, I'm feeling like a zombie. Still, my eyes itch, my nose is stuffy, and my legs are exhausted. This is going to be an interesting race.
On the positive side, my heat is set up perfectly for a great race, I'm running against a high school teammate, and I have a drove of fans for the first time, ever! BRING IT ON!
See you on the other side...
My allergies were icing on top of the cake. They kicked in on Monday, and six benadryl later, I'm feeling like a zombie. Still, my eyes itch, my nose is stuffy, and my legs are exhausted. This is going to be an interesting race.
On the positive side, my heat is set up perfectly for a great race, I'm running against a high school teammate, and I have a drove of fans for the first time, ever! BRING IT ON!
See you on the other side...
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Sunday, Cruddy Sunday
Sundays suck. There, I said it. There's not a day in the week I loathe more. The boredom is unbearable. Piles upon piles of homework have been put off until this magical day wherein I have absolutely nothing to do, and can therefore study!! But, that's not how it works. Instead, I procrastinate even more, switching from TV to computer in an endless game of what's the least boring thing I can do right now. In rare bursts of excitement, I have the TV on WHILE searching the web on my laptop... I know, crazy right?
But that's not all. Sundays are an end, but a new beginning. My head is brimming with post-race euphoria, but at the same time sowing the seeds of worries. Next weekend's race is already at the forefront of my mind, along with getting into shape and running a mark that would get me on the team bus! Ah, the endless cycle of a runner. The only true time I'm not nervous or preparing for my next race is Saturday afternoon.
I remember this feeling, and not surprisingly, it's one of the feelings I didn't miss. Minute layers of stress are woven thinly between my day to day activities, constantly in the fabric of my life. It's a rarity that I can be completely oblivious my nerves. However, I'm ready. I have never been this mentally prepared to take on and overcome an obstacle. I just wish my body was on the same page...
I'm officially a zombie. Well, either a zombie, or an old man. Standing up takes so much effort, and the shuffle to the toilet this morning nearly cost me a year of my life. I think my legs are plotting a mutiny...
So let's see... 68.9, 68.1, 65.3, 45.9. We went out slooooooooow. However, I'm not complaining. It just might have been the perfect race for me to test my engine. Our "blistering" 2:17 through the half felt smooth, and I got to experience some tactics. I also found out just how bad a mile hurts when you haven't adequately prepared for it. I raced way outside my training level. But that was just step one. Next week should be 2:10 through the half, and I hope to be around 4:02 for the 15!
But that's a week away. For now, there's a gaggle of research projects, papers, exams, and abstracts to attend to in order to keep my academic life from getting lapped. Then again, it is Sunday.... I'll probably just wait until tomorrow to start all that crap. Here's an awesome quote, instead.
EVERYONE should read the book "Once a Runner" by John L. Parker Jr.
"From the crucible of inner turmoil come the various metals, soft or brittle, flawed or pure, precious or common, that determine the good runners, the great runners, and perhaps the former runners...(and the great runner sits) there in the quiet tiled solace of the early afternoon locker room, knotting his loathsome-smelling laces for yet another, Jesus God, ten-miler with the boys. Once a runner..."- John L. Parker Jr.
But that's not all. Sundays are an end, but a new beginning. My head is brimming with post-race euphoria, but at the same time sowing the seeds of worries. Next weekend's race is already at the forefront of my mind, along with getting into shape and running a mark that would get me on the team bus! Ah, the endless cycle of a runner. The only true time I'm not nervous or preparing for my next race is Saturday afternoon.
I remember this feeling, and not surprisingly, it's one of the feelings I didn't miss. Minute layers of stress are woven thinly between my day to day activities, constantly in the fabric of my life. It's a rarity that I can be completely oblivious my nerves. However, I'm ready. I have never been this mentally prepared to take on and overcome an obstacle. I just wish my body was on the same page...
I'm officially a zombie. Well, either a zombie, or an old man. Standing up takes so much effort, and the shuffle to the toilet this morning nearly cost me a year of my life. I think my legs are plotting a mutiny...
So let's see... 68.9, 68.1, 65.3, 45.9. We went out slooooooooow. However, I'm not complaining. It just might have been the perfect race for me to test my engine. Our "blistering" 2:17 through the half felt smooth, and I got to experience some tactics. I also found out just how bad a mile hurts when you haven't adequately prepared for it. I raced way outside my training level. But that was just step one. Next week should be 2:10 through the half, and I hope to be around 4:02 for the 15!
But that's a week away. For now, there's a gaggle of research projects, papers, exams, and abstracts to attend to in order to keep my academic life from getting lapped. Then again, it is Sunday.... I'll probably just wait until tomorrow to start all that crap. Here's an awesome quote, instead.
EVERYONE should read the book "Once a Runner" by John L. Parker Jr.
"From the crucible of inner turmoil come the various metals, soft or brittle, flawed or pure, precious or common, that determine the good runners, the great runners, and perhaps the former runners...(and the great runner sits) there in the quiet tiled solace of the early afternoon locker room, knotting his loathsome-smelling laces for yet another, Jesus God, ten-miler with the boys. Once a runner..."- John L. Parker Jr.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Per Diem
It's been such a long time. So many seemingly pointless miles through the trails. So many stifling 90+ degree summer days, humidity bearing down. So many more sub-freezing days, where there was always a possibility of losing an extremity. Even more hours spent cycling away, confined by the walls of not only the training room, but the barriers erected in my mind walling off any hope of reaching my goals. I've biked like a maniac for 90+ minutes with only an iPod and the occasional text message. I've cruised through rec-center days on the elliptical, solely focused on the 3x3 screen constantly blurred by the drips of sweat falling from my hair. I've even swam, miles upon miles back and forth in the pool, with thoughts and burning desires swimming freely through my mind. It's been such a long time.
Retribution. Today on the track was retribution; a per diem of sorts for all my miserable, painful, and generally forlorn days fighting to keep my dream alive, when so many had long since given up hope. After so many hours chipping away at the formidable fortress constructed to keep me from my goals, I've finally broken through! Let the trumpets sound! No one in the entire nation is as happy as I am to complete 3 and 3/4 laps around a track in a meager 4:08.2, but that's their problem. Today I am reveling in the payoff to all the effort spent, days wasted, and lifestyle amended. Simply put, I raced my ass off today.
Although I didn't set the track on fire today, a 4:08.2 after ~3 weeks of running is in no way disappointing to me. Three weeks ago I ran 15 miles, with constant soreness in my hip. Two weeks ago I ran 30, with an eye-opening 3-2-1 fartlek. Last week was a set of quarters in 66, and a total of 40 miles. To go out today and run a 4:08 is nothing short of astounding. In truth, it was frustration that trumped fitness, and the slow heat at the MU RELAYS had no chance to respond :)
However, I'm exhausted, and even the small task of typing has somehow drained me even more. Time for some final four action and a night on the town with one of the greatest guys I've ever met. Life couldn't be better.
Today, after three years of soul searching, I remembered why running is fun. Carpe Diem.
Retribution. Today on the track was retribution; a per diem of sorts for all my miserable, painful, and generally forlorn days fighting to keep my dream alive, when so many had long since given up hope. After so many hours chipping away at the formidable fortress constructed to keep me from my goals, I've finally broken through! Let the trumpets sound! No one in the entire nation is as happy as I am to complete 3 and 3/4 laps around a track in a meager 4:08.2, but that's their problem. Today I am reveling in the payoff to all the effort spent, days wasted, and lifestyle amended. Simply put, I raced my ass off today.
Although I didn't set the track on fire today, a 4:08.2 after ~3 weeks of running is in no way disappointing to me. Three weeks ago I ran 15 miles, with constant soreness in my hip. Two weeks ago I ran 30, with an eye-opening 3-2-1 fartlek. Last week was a set of quarters in 66, and a total of 40 miles. To go out today and run a 4:08 is nothing short of astounding. In truth, it was frustration that trumped fitness, and the slow heat at the MU RELAYS had no chance to respond :)
However, I'm exhausted, and even the small task of typing has somehow drained me even more. Time for some final four action and a night on the town with one of the greatest guys I've ever met. Life couldn't be better.
Today, after three years of soul searching, I remembered why running is fun. Carpe Diem.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Pre-Race Jitters
Dear anyone in the universe... Can you please tell me why even a simple race, wherein I have NO expectations, against no one I know, and with little to no prior training can be so ridiculously nerve-racking!!!
Although it's 9:30, I felt I should at least put that down on the blog. Now I have to sleep... I'm too nervous for descriptive descriptions. See :/
I'll be sure to write more post-race.
WISH ME LUCK!! (sub 4:10 I hope!!)
Although it's 9:30, I felt I should at least put that down on the blog. Now I have to sleep... I'm too nervous for descriptive descriptions. See :/
I'll be sure to write more post-race.
WISH ME LUCK!! (sub 4:10 I hope!!)
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Spring Broke
Today, as I sat idly by watching my millionth college basketball game of the year, my girlfriend and nearly everyone else I know have just arrived in Panama City, FL. I was supposed to be on that trip.
Ah, yes, the pristine beaches, 80 degree weather, and a week of being a bum is nearly the greatest thing I could think to be doing at the moment. However, as my track coach has almost certainly read a chapter or two of Mein Kampf in the recent months, I could not make the trek for fear of being kicked off the team. The numbers are thinning, as 9 of my teammates have been extradited from the team just this past Monday. I therefore reasoned that my absence on the first day of practice this coming Wednesday would no doubt be the end of my career.
Thus, I am currently sitting in my basement post 8 mile adventure run in the snowy tundra of mid-Missouri eating a large plate of pasta, staring at my computer screen, and praying to all manner of deities that Kansas gets upset by VCU today. GO RAMS!!
On that note, this will be a short and unorthodox post, but I'll leave you (haha like anyone reads this thing) with a picture that epitomizes what Spring Break 2011 in Columbia Missouri is all about!
Thank god I get to run this Saturday!
Ah, yes, the pristine beaches, 80 degree weather, and a week of being a bum is nearly the greatest thing I could think to be doing at the moment. However, as my track coach has almost certainly read a chapter or two of Mein Kampf in the recent months, I could not make the trek for fear of being kicked off the team. The numbers are thinning, as 9 of my teammates have been extradited from the team just this past Monday. I therefore reasoned that my absence on the first day of practice this coming Wednesday would no doubt be the end of my career.
Thus, I am currently sitting in my basement post 8 mile adventure run in the snowy tundra of mid-Missouri eating a large plate of pasta, staring at my computer screen, and praying to all manner of deities that Kansas gets upset by VCU today. GO RAMS!!
On that note, this will be a short and unorthodox post, but I'll leave you (haha like anyone reads this thing) with a picture that epitomizes what Spring Break 2011 in Columbia Missouri is all about!
Thank god I get to run this Saturday!
Saturday, March 26, 2011
If at first you don't succeed...
Words cannot describe the elation I felt yesterday at track practice. I crossed the boundary into my former life, if only for a moment, as I cruised around the tartan loop. I felt the lightness of a sit-and-kick specialist, waiting in the pack to devour the unsuspecting rabbits. I smelled the sweat as it trickled over the corners of my eyes, unabated by a wipe of my hands, as energy efficiency was top priority. I tasted the blood in the back of my throat, as breathing became raspy in the chilly March air. I sunk into nostalgia, as my legs cycled at an up-tempo clip, propelling my nearly pain free body around my favorite place in the universe. For a minute there, I was back!
And what a feeling it was! Quarters never felt so good! However, what is this lactic acid crap? It's been so long since I've felt it's burn on the first turn of each successive interval, but it was, in an odd, sadistic way, a comfort. I'm back down the long, arduous training path of the competitive miler, and right now, I feel on top of the world. Although my quarters were only run at around 66 second pace with a 3 min. rest in between, I warn my miler brethren, I'm coming for you.
My last post delineated all the troubles I've been having finding the desire to move forward, but that mindset is in the past. I now balance a tight rope of personal expectations and exciting prospects, with a pit of unsuspecting injuries, setbacks, obstacles, and probably a few poison-tipped spikes looming underneath. The fall will be the worst I've experienced, and most likely the last I can handle, but for now the rope is taut, and I plan to continue my journey, one step at a time, to the other side. Progression is all that I know, and a set back is not in my vocabulary.
But, as Missouri has been relentless this year at fueling and reinforcing depression, I'll have to wait until the freak spring break blizzard is over to run my 4 mile recovery run. It seems that 90% of the time I write in this blog, it's snowing or freezing. I hope the trend doesn't continue, as I don't plan on resting my fingers til the journey of my outdoor season is over.
I race one week from today. 7 days until I don that Missouri track singlet I've yearned so passionately to adorn for the past 3 years. That's 1,095 days. According to my running log, that's 5,723.5 miles! March 2008, I was a freshman, Brett Farve was just retiring (from Green Bay), Stephen Curry was tearing up the tourney in his Davidson uni, and George Bush was president! Surprisingly, gas was still the same price.... hmmm.
But in 7 days I'll traverse that unyielding oval four glorious, painful times, banking on pure guts and heart to stay with the pack, dig in deep, and kick desperately for a finish line I've longed so long to cross. However, I am completely aware that no world records will be broken, and I would be more than content to clock a 4:15 in my upcoming 1500. Anything to get a baseline value, where the only way to go is up. I love beginnings, and in a mere week, my new life as track athlete be born.
"The only race pace is suicide pace, and today feels like a good day to die" -Steve Prefontaine
And what a feeling it was! Quarters never felt so good! However, what is this lactic acid crap? It's been so long since I've felt it's burn on the first turn of each successive interval, but it was, in an odd, sadistic way, a comfort. I'm back down the long, arduous training path of the competitive miler, and right now, I feel on top of the world. Although my quarters were only run at around 66 second pace with a 3 min. rest in between, I warn my miler brethren, I'm coming for you.
My last post delineated all the troubles I've been having finding the desire to move forward, but that mindset is in the past. I now balance a tight rope of personal expectations and exciting prospects, with a pit of unsuspecting injuries, setbacks, obstacles, and probably a few poison-tipped spikes looming underneath. The fall will be the worst I've experienced, and most likely the last I can handle, but for now the rope is taut, and I plan to continue my journey, one step at a time, to the other side. Progression is all that I know, and a set back is not in my vocabulary.
But, as Missouri has been relentless this year at fueling and reinforcing depression, I'll have to wait until the freak spring break blizzard is over to run my 4 mile recovery run. It seems that 90% of the time I write in this blog, it's snowing or freezing. I hope the trend doesn't continue, as I don't plan on resting my fingers til the journey of my outdoor season is over.
I race one week from today. 7 days until I don that Missouri track singlet I've yearned so passionately to adorn for the past 3 years. That's 1,095 days. According to my running log, that's 5,723.5 miles! March 2008, I was a freshman, Brett Farve was just retiring (from Green Bay), Stephen Curry was tearing up the tourney in his Davidson uni, and George Bush was president! Surprisingly, gas was still the same price.... hmmm.
But in 7 days I'll traverse that unyielding oval four glorious, painful times, banking on pure guts and heart to stay with the pack, dig in deep, and kick desperately for a finish line I've longed so long to cross. However, I am completely aware that no world records will be broken, and I would be more than content to clock a 4:15 in my upcoming 1500. Anything to get a baseline value, where the only way to go is up. I love beginnings, and in a mere week, my new life as track athlete be born.
"The only race pace is suicide pace, and today feels like a good day to die" -Steve Prefontaine
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Ten things I hate about me:
It's been so long since I've looked in the mirror and really thought about who I was, or how I want to define my life. Previous stages of my life simply melted together, faded quietly, or simply ended with a new beginning, but now as I the blinders are slowly being removed from my eyes, I can't really figure out how or what I'm supposed to feel. A concept larger than just losing running is dawning upon me; I am no longer an athlete. No doubt, countless others have dealt with this same realization, but instead of the injury filled frustration that has become my existence, they most likely have chosen to quit, embarking on life's bigger quests, such as college's laundry list of temptations. However, I've never been one to take the easy route, and my crutch and sole motivation in life has laid in the self-bettering pursuit of athletics. Nothing gives me more courage, more self-confidence, and more joy than training to the edge of exhaustion and pushing my body through limits only few have experienced. I love what I do, and being an athlete is who I am. Well, it was...
Now I am deprived of the only thing I truly loved. I can't run. I can't get into shape. I can't stay motivated, as the goal of becoming an all big twelve athlete is becoming almost invisible, clouded in a fog of bad luck and unfortunate occurrences. The dream is elusive, and bordering on impossible. Yet still I yearn for the day when a 14 mile run was possible, and every day it eats away at my soul, bit by bit, and only a true runner can understand the final outcome of perpetual steps in one direction. Just as the bits of rubber slowly eroded from the soles of the 70 mile a week runner I once was, the bits of desire and motivation are being eroded from my brain. Day by day, setback by setback. I hate the fact that one day I will have lost the determination to be a runner, and on that day I fear I will lack the motivation to do anything else.
I fear the inevitable is closer than ever, and I want to fight it. I make lists of weight lifting routines, swimming and biking schedules,... hell my background on my computer right now is a comeback schedule for running. However, it only seems to take a day or two for me to deviate from my lists. I can't follow along. I can't push myself. I don't have a reason anymore.
It's so sad to admit that I hate the person I am, but the worst part is I have no way to escape this imprisonment. I see what I want to be, I see how to do it, and then as soon as a window of opportunity is open and the goal seems obtainable, an obstacle emerges to knock me back down to ground zero. I've been so close so many times, but now I'm further away than ever. I can't help but ask the question, "Is it worth it,...again."
But I'm not totally done yet. Giving up doesn't come easily. I just need some warm weather to reenergize my agonizing bones. I want to be a runner. I am one at heart.
Now I am deprived of the only thing I truly loved. I can't run. I can't get into shape. I can't stay motivated, as the goal of becoming an all big twelve athlete is becoming almost invisible, clouded in a fog of bad luck and unfortunate occurrences. The dream is elusive, and bordering on impossible. Yet still I yearn for the day when a 14 mile run was possible, and every day it eats away at my soul, bit by bit, and only a true runner can understand the final outcome of perpetual steps in one direction. Just as the bits of rubber slowly eroded from the soles of the 70 mile a week runner I once was, the bits of desire and motivation are being eroded from my brain. Day by day, setback by setback. I hate the fact that one day I will have lost the determination to be a runner, and on that day I fear I will lack the motivation to do anything else.
I fear the inevitable is closer than ever, and I want to fight it. I make lists of weight lifting routines, swimming and biking schedules,... hell my background on my computer right now is a comeback schedule for running. However, it only seems to take a day or two for me to deviate from my lists. I can't follow along. I can't push myself. I don't have a reason anymore.
It's so sad to admit that I hate the person I am, but the worst part is I have no way to escape this imprisonment. I see what I want to be, I see how to do it, and then as soon as a window of opportunity is open and the goal seems obtainable, an obstacle emerges to knock me back down to ground zero. I've been so close so many times, but now I'm further away than ever. I can't help but ask the question, "Is it worth it,...again."
But I'm not totally done yet. Giving up doesn't come easily. I just need some warm weather to reenergize my agonizing bones. I want to be a runner. I am one at heart.
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