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
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