I Hate Track Days

I wish I could explain to you how much I hate track days. Unfortunately, my trainer Keith Wise, makes me train on the track every tuesday, bright and early, at 8am. Preparation for these days usually begin with a aggravated moan as I roll (literally) out of bed at 7:30. I lazily throw my comfortable night clothes on the floor of my room, trading them for an old pair of spandex shorts and a smelly sports bra, all while collecting my hair into a sloppy and careless braid. I usually have time to think about what I'm about to do when I sit down and slap my socks and shoes on my feet. The pain, the agony, the dreadful feeling that my heart is about to explode, those thoughts usually rush through my head.
The thing I hate most about the track is how every single second counts. A 1:42 400-meter is better than a 1:43 400-meter. I can't slow down, I can't give up. I can't even think because it takes too much time. It's the biggest competition known to man: a race against himself; a race against time. And I feel like most runners, especially sprinters know, it's harder than hell to win a race against time.
I am NOT a sprinter. I do not like to sprint more than 100 meters. And when I am forced to sprint longer than 400 meters, i tend to look like a fat kid playing hopscotch. But I suppose that's what its all about, doing the things you don't think you can do.
Running hard enough, there is no such thing. Enough is an operational definition. You can never run hard enough. I guess its better to think about making every second count.
kinda how life should be

The Run

 

Most of the time I just like being alone with it.

Because it’s never just a run.

 Its just me and itself,

laid out in front of me in all of its glory.

And once my feet hit cool pavement,

we become one.

As if my rhythmic footsteps are the beat

of a heart in which we share.

Its demands are few,

but strong enough that I can feel them

pushing me,

the wind a solemn hand on my back.

It demands more as I move.

It wants me for all I have,

all I am

because it is jealous,

and unforgiving.

It demands my focus,

my attention,

and I aim for giving it that.

And as the sweat begins to pour down my back,

this is all that I think about.

It listens to me.

It understands my problems,

doubts,

flaws,

weaknesses.
Yet it still wants

all of me.

And when I know I only have a few minutes left,

It lends a hand and pulls me,

Telling me I’m not going to give up,

not going to give in.

And after the final stride,

When I breathe clean air into new lungs,

It sings to me,

and I slowly whisper to myself

 “Good Run.”

But I know it’s never just a run.