Life in the Fast Lane

"Fast" is such a relative, subjective term.

It was the Saturday I was leaving for New Mexico. My alarm went off at 5:10. As usual it was confusing as hell and took me a few seconds to figure out who what when where why.

Oh yeah...Mind slowly comes into focus...Saturday. Run day. Mouth says damn and yay at nearly the same time. Brain and heart are excited. Body, nonetheless, remains poorly skilled at waking up.

I tenderly set my feet on the floor, hoping for a favorable report from the sore ankle. Acceptable. After two days off, I was giddy to go run, especially with the team. This would have been a hard week to miss; we were meeting at the River Market downtown and that's one of my favorites. It's easy to get to (as opposed to Two Rivers or Maumelle or Cook's Landing which are the furthest places from home that we meet), and the routes from downtown are usually fun.

Tom had promised hills since the last two weeks were more or less flat. He was good on his word. Ten miles: Right on President Clinton Avenue, across the bridge to NLR, the usual Karrot loop, back up over the bridge to LR. Wow, we crossed back over just has the sun hit the Arkansas River. Sun and sky were bright hot pink. This is the third or fourth time I've been fortunate to see a scene like this while we're out and I doubt I'll ever get tired of it. This is one of the big payoffs for doing the dragass out of bed.

Back in LR the route continued west on one of the number streets, 3rd I guess, down Markham, up Kavanaugh to Ash (Cuff's Cleaners is the landmark), turnaround and back down to the River Market. Great route. Hilly. Busy. It was really 10.1 or 10.3, depending on whose Garmin GPS I believe. 1:40. All the way, I KNEW it felt fast.

This season I'm trying to stick with Tom, Chris, and their buddies who are just enough faster than me to make me work outside my comfort zone. Left alone, I'll usually do 10:45-ish to 11-ish min/miles. Also, on my own, I've noticed a fast-slow pattern heavily dependent on Gu intake. Start strong, gradually slow down as energy wanes, eat a Gu, notice about fifteen minutes later that I've been going strong for a while, then it all starts over. When I chase Tom or Chris though, we usually run right on 10:'s or slightly under.

I like not having to do the mental work of pacing. Just run. This doesn't mean my mind is clear. If the run is hard, I think about it being hard. I have to focus on keeping up and constantly make the decision to keep keeping up. I do a lot of arguing with myself about whether or not to drop back. But still, this harder running is easier than self-pacing because there is no requirement to make myself speed up even when I don't want to. Just keep up.

So that day, Chris and another girl took off, right from the start. Tom and I talked smack with them about slowing down, because we both like to take the first mile out pretty slow, maybe 11:-ish, as a nice warm up to ease down into the 10: groove. However, they ignored us and we tagged along like puppies anyway. It hurt. I felt stiff and creaky until somewhere around mile 5, when finally I settled into the pace. Later as we cruised down Markham in the last mile, we picked it up even more. I was sucking wind and thankful for Tom's routine of calling out all traffic warnings and intersection reports. I wasn't focusing too well, on anything but keeping up.

We finished, stretched, chatted...the usual. I didn't stay long because I had to get home, clean up, and hit the highway. I didn't think a lot more about the run, except that I was glad I'd gotten up to do it.

Later, just a few minutes before I was due to leave, my phone rang. Tom. He'd downloaded the splits from his watch and couldn't wait to give me the report. I don't remember the details, but I recall that the first mile was 9:45, and the remaining splits had a lot more 9:'s in his list than 10:'s or 11:'s. I heard a couple 9:30's in there, several 9:40's, and a 9:50. I shouted into the phone,"I FREAKIN' KNEW IT FELT FAST! WHAT DID I TELL YOU?" Tom laughed. He added that we even recorded "only" 12:something during the mile when we stopped to help a guy who'd fallen and was injured. (It was a non-life threatening but serious shoulder injury; turned out his buddy was already on the way back to his car and would take him to the hospital, so we waited till he got there, saw them off, and resumed our run).

I rode that high all the way to New Mexico. Mile splits that start in 9: and 10: are speedy for someone like me, who's real used to 11:'s. Taking a minute off a mile may not sound like much to a non-runner, but believe me, it's no easy task, particularly for a slow-twitch runner with my build.

So, two days later I was sitting at a sports bar in NM, having lunch with some colleagues. One happens to be a fast marathoner. I happened to be sitting by him. ESPN happened to broadcast the NYC marathon results, in particular cyclist Lance Armstrong's sub-three hour finish in his first 26.2 footrace. My pal throws his arms in the air and yells, "I beat him! My PR beats Lance!"

I just looked at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Wow," I said. "My first marathon was a 5:05, and I worked my ass off to get down to 4:37 PR (personal record) on my second outing."

I thought he'd respond with something encouraging. Instead, he snickered. "4:37?...what is that, like, 10:30 or 11:-minute miles?"

Uh, yeah. And I was damn proud of that nearly 1/2-hour reduction in time. And I'm going be damn proud again if I ever take any more time off that total. So I'll never be a 6-minute miler. Or 7. Or 8. But maybe a new PR will come this year, if I can keep on up with these niners.

I'm only ever in a race with myself. Fast as fast can be, can't catch me.