Halfway Plus. Or the Old Motor's Revenge

Last Sunday was perfect in Mojave. I was gonna go for a 12.2 mile run but it all felt good and it turned into a 14.4 mile run. That puts me over halfway to the marathon distance. My pace was about eight and a half min per mile. Nothing to write home about, but at least it is about the same pace as my shorter runs.

Last week I watched a documentary about six runner preparing for the Chicago marathon. The runners ranged from world class athletes to first time runners. The most interesting thing was how humble the world class runners were. Almost like they realized that they had tuned their bodies as best they could and the rest was up to chance. Most of the new runners, or at least the non competitive runners, seemed to have this subconscious arrogance. Its hard to explain, but it was interesting. In this film they asked all the runners what they thought about when they were running. That got me thinking about where my mind wanders while I'm running.

For me, long runs are like driving my old pickup. The old girl is a '52 model Chevrolet that I put together in high school. There is no cruise control and driving is a full time job. You have to balance speed with water temp. and are constantly listening for anything out of the ordinary. She is not a powerhouse by any means and is an encyclopedia of quirks. Every start and every shift are an exercise in technique. When you drive cross country, you drive with the dash throttle, which always wants to creep toward idle if you are not paying attention.

Running is alot like that for me. I spend most of the time tinkering with breathing or cadence, or how my feet land in the dirt. For me, keeping pace is like manning that old dash throttle. When my mind wanders, I tend to slow down. It is a constant battle to maintain a head of steam. When I am pushing hard, I find myself breathing with my whole torso. Arched back on the intake stroke and crunch forward on the exhaust stroke. Sometimes I find my self sort of detached from my body just listening to the rhythm of another motor on a road trip. Wind. Step. Step. Intake. Step. Step. Exhaust. Ad infinitum. I am just the driver, making little adjustments now and then. Add a little water, push the pace a little now and then, and enjoy the ride. Other times I let my self be the motor and let the pace be pushed be pushed by some unseen driver. I let my legs and lungs burn. This is my penitence for every old motor I pushed too hard. I imagine all the times I was in a hurry to get some place and let the water temp wander a little too close to the 'H' or when I pushed the rpm a little too far past its comfortable cadence. Maybe I pretend that that all those old motors are driving me and I let them have their revenge.