Breath-taking...breath giving...birthing
1. Quick recap of my week's running2. Thoughts about today's (8/7) run
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Recap (feel free to skip over, although runners might find it of interest)
Tuesday: Mile, then 4x1/4
Mile: 8:37 (2:03, 4:09, __, 8:37)
Quarters: 1:57, 2:00, 2:04, 1:59
Mile warm-up/cooldown
Pylo drills: skips, shorter, then longer distance; “majorette” steps; curb steps (fast up and down for ten seconds)
Wed. Easy 45 mins.—weather hot and humid, spent about ½ hour in gym on treadmill, then did some weights
Thursday: One hour run with ½ hr. at goal marathon pace. Ran it on the track—cool, overcast conditions. Here’s how it broke down:
First mile, 9:34—2:20, 2:25, 2:25, 2:24
Second mile, 19:15—11:55?, 14:15, 16:44? ~9:41
Third mile 28:58—21:34, 24:53, 26:25 ~9:43
28:58 @ 3 miles, then @ 3 miles + 200m it was 30:12
My goal pace approximately 9:45. So in that sense, this was successful, but I did slow down each mile, which I’d like to correct.
Friday: off
Saturday: Ran mostly on Belmont Plateau
Easy run (warm-up) ~25 mins.
2.9 mile (“5k”) time trial on old xc course: 31:04.73
Uphill skips (6 reps)
Ran from Belmont Plateau to Lloyd Hall for cooldown
2. Today's run
Breath-taking...breath giving...birthing
The runner has emerged from the gravel path leading away from Parachute Hill, a hard climb that required a few walking steps. Two weeks earlier she got lost on that section of the course, took a wrong turn, and ended up with a considerably longer mile than planned. This time, cones were in place, and she finished the second mile without incident—except for the searing, burning breathlessness and the full knowledge that the pain was not over yet. The last hill, up through a patch of trees, and through the web of branches left by a downed tree at the top, loomed ahead. Her chest could hardly hold enough air to pump through her tired body. And behind her, nearing her were breaths, footsteps. A place about to be surrendered. No way. Muttering to God and to herself, she ungracefully negotiated the fallen branches and was in the open, where she felt confident that she could shake the next runner if she pushed the pace hard enough. But no, he came flying past—and was not in the race, to her relief. Still, the next runners could be close, and she was going to hold on. Past the buildings, down the hill, hopping islands of grass, and making her way around batting cages. “Go Akiba!” showed up worn but clear alongside one of the baseball fields. “Go Akiba” she whispered to herself, although she was not an Akiba student at any time during her life. It just made sense to pretend she was at this moment, so that the worn letters could form a cheer for her. Through the grass, around the pole, and through another clump of trees whose exposed roots slowed her down again. She was not about to take a header so near the finish, only because she was dealing with enough pain now, thank you. She could hear no one behind her by now, but it wasn’t worth taking chances, and as the finish line came into view, she picked up her pace still more, much as it hurt, and sprinted in, holding on to third—third to last place.
This little drama took place today, Saturday, August 7, 2004, on Belmont Plateau. The protagonist was not a high school or college student but me, a 53-year-old woman whose speed has been fading of late, but who, like the goddess who shares my name (or a variation of it), glories in the chase. Never having run for a high school or college (would I even have had the sense to do so if the opportunity were available?), I have signed on for a team experience, with Peak Performance and Team 26.2, groups composed of adult runners who regularly claim the sacred space of Kelly Drive and Belmont Plateau for our forays into youth. I look at the backs of most of the runners, many younger, faster, with more potential than I ever had. Yet I keep coming back.
The cheering helps. From the fastest to the slowest, people cheer one another on. My 31:05 doesn’t lessen the enthusiasm of the people who have finished and are shouting for me as I come in, some of whom have finished in less than 20 minutes.
But even deeper, each day, with each step I run, something good, something healing takes place. I felt, as I approached the finish the cheers not only of my team-mates but of family members, including my mother, felt their pride in their niece, grand-daughter, daughter crazy enough to dash around Belmont Plateau at whatever speed she could muster, getting her feet soaked and her hair dissheveled, disregarding the “I’m too old for this” rule that society tries to impose.
I come to learn what is in me. Sometimes I surprise myself. Sometimes disappoint myself. But it’s all temporary, really, both the surprise and the disappointment. What would disappoint me more is not to try, not to find out that, yes, I can run this course without getting lost, tripping over a root or rock. Yes, I can survive this course. Yes, I can survive.
Moments before we started, I felt apprehension. I wasn’t sure why. I could fall perhaps. I could finish dead last because I didn’t have enough breath to cover the miles, perhaps. I’d look completely foolish. Or, more primordially, it could hurt. I took a moment to “chi-breathe,” the belly breathing taught in my t’ai chi class, took a moment to tell myself, “the best you can do is all you can do. The rest is up to God.” Took a moment to let fear float away, decide that whatever happens, it will be an experience, and I’ll variously hurt and love it. And so I did.
The flip side of the running workout coin is the Thursday evening t’ai chi class—slowness emphasized. Joe, my t’ai chi instructor, keeps reminding me to slow down my movements—my competitive, get-it-done-first side fights but yields. Interestingly, some of the movements in the class are slowed-down versions of the bounding drills that Dave teaches us. I mentioned this to Joe, and he said that the common thread was that in both I was pulling energy to me, and sending it out, that the two were intimately connected, needed each other—giving and receiving, receiving and giving. The essence of my team experience. Of my solitary running experiences. Breathing in, breathing out. Recognizing that it is about the journey. Noticing from the top of the hill after the skip bounds when the lungs rebell the skyline of the city off in the distance, framed by the plush green of the hillside and trees and the swirling white clouds playing through a blue almost autumnal sky. Why do they call a view “breathtaking”? Inspiring? It both takes your breath away and gives it back again. You are stopped in your tracks—and moved, receiving in return for your attention senses and soul sharpened by pain and pleasure, receptive to amazement in simple things.
Balance: what I breathe in during t’ai chi, and breathe out when I run, if I’m getting it right.
posted by DPMcManus @ 1:12 PM
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