I am
currently trying to get myself in shape for my first running event of 2016, the
venerable Around the Bay Road Race. It’s a 30k run through the streets of
Hamilton Ontario, and it takes place either at the end of winter or the
beginning of spring, depending on the weather that day. Last year it was a
cold, sunny day with a bitter wind, so I was glad I was bundled up. Other years
it has been almost balmy.
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| The Old Man and the Bay |
Until
recently our winter here was very sparse snow-wise, but I still do most of my
off-season running on the treadmill. That way I can watch TV and stop and fill
my water bottle when I want to. The atmosphere is more Family Guy than Chariots of
Fire, but at least I get the workout done.
One of my
favourite Sunday workouts at this time of year is my 90-minute run. Although
the long run of the week is supposed to be long-slow-distance with no thought
to speed, I do try to keep an even pace. I have found that my run divides itself
into three roughly even sections; each has its own characteristics, challenges,
rewards.
The first
thirty minutes of my long run are always the hardest. Each system in my body
protests the transition from stillness to motion and my mind is overwhelmed by
how far I have to go before I am finished. When I’m outdoors I really don’t
take a lot of time to notice my surroundings in this first half hour. I am too
busy trying to remember how to run.
My thoughts
during this first third of my run are mostly status checks of my body. Although
I haven’t had as many injuries as some of my friends, I am aware that I should
expect different things from my physical self at 64 than I did at 34. It is only
as I approach the half-hour mark that I come to accept – as if for the first
time – that I am a runner.
The second 30
minutes of my run are always the easiest. I credit myself with the distance I
have travelled so far and my mind is less preoccupied with how far I have yet
to go. My muscles are warm and fluid and strong and my stride lengthens. If I started
my run out of breath and feeling lazy, that mood leaves me and is replaced by a
calm rhythm.
It’s funny
how I can never really forget that I’m running. I rarely drift off into a
daydream and wake up to discover that I’ve covered another couple of kilometres
while dozing. Running is likely the most present thing I do. I am always aware
of my arms swinging, of my feet hitting the ground, of my breath filling my
chest, of my legs pivoting forward in turns to catch me just in time to stop me
from falling. I find myself surprised and grateful every time they do.
The final
half hour is when I start to feel like a distance runner. Because I have
suffered through my share of injuries over the past 30 years (most of them in
the past 10), I am always relieved and energized when all my moving parts have worked
together through thousands and thousands of repetitions to carry me this far. Nothing
about me ever feels as perfect as it does at this time.
I tell myself
I am picking up the pace, even though I know that I’m really just working harder
to keep up the pace I started at. By the
end I usually feel the way I wanted to feel: ready for more. I am grateful to
have run and finished, not because I finished, but because I ran.
Ninety minutes
is less than half of what it will take me to run around Hamilton Bay in a few
weeks. But it translates into a good distance for me: more than a 10k and less
than a half marathon. A useful workout that doesn’t leave me too wrecked to do
anything else for days. I like the synergy of the three sections; none would
exist without the other, and together they dare me and test me. And then they recreate
me.
