I meant to write after a particularly happy run about a week ago. As I trained myself back to a regular running routine, I gained appreciation for interval running. I noticed that by running, say, for five minutes and walking for one, I could use the five minute interval to push really hard and run really fast, then recover for the walking interval.
So I decided to add interval training into my regular runs, once I got back to speed. Now I can't recall how long I've been running without needing to walk.
But I'm back to a comfortable 10 km distance, regularly, though I haven't gone much further than that.
Anyway, the happy run was a 10-km interval run on a relatively flat circuit course. I didn't walk, but did a light job to recover after a 200-metre pick-up followed by a 100-metre sprint. The course was 900 metres long, so that meant I spent about a third of the running time going faster than felt strictly comfortable. I finished my final kilometre in a full-out pick-up pushing it pace, and came in with my fastest time for a 10 km run in over a year: 48:51. That's about a minute slower than my fastest recorded race time, and I'm not getting any younger, so I was seriously pleased by the result. I had to fight to keep up the pace till the very end, and afterward, staggering around feeling light-headed as if I'd been in a real race, I wondered why the heck I enjoy doing these things to myself. But I do.
It gives me confidence. It helps me see myself differently, and reminds me of my mental toughness and strength, because that's really what powers a person through as the body begins to suffer. I'm inspired by a friend's daughter who has become an incredible runner and just competed at the Nationals in cross country in the United States. This amazingly talented young woman qualified for the Nationals in only her third race this season, due to recovery from surgery this past summer -- now that's courage and strength of mind.
I watch my own daughter work uncomplainingly, and with an almost detached interest, as she trains hard as a competitive swimmer, and I'm constantly amazed at what she's willing to put herself through to make gains in future races. She said that sometimes she realizes she's crying from effort, her goggles filling up with tears as she struggles to complete an underwater set of dolphin kicks, her lungs emptied of all air. She reported this matter-of-factly, but I'll admit it gave me great pause, as her mother -- should I allow her to suffer like this? Her coach tells me no one works harder in the pool. And in races I can see it myself -- how she loves it. How she loves the competition. She loves pushing herself to her limits. How to explain this kind of drive?
I can only admire it, and enjoy it where I find it in myself, too. I was trying to explain to a friend that being competitive doesn't necessarily mean wanting to defeat other people. It's actually a very personal thing. There will always be others who are faster and more talented. What I think matters, to the competitive soul, is to set high standards for oneself -- high, but within reach -- and then to meet or even surpass those standards. The goals are individual. We set them for ourselves, and we may be the only ones to appreciate or notice when they've been met. But the joy is there all the same. It's even a joy just to be trying.
I think the truly competitive people are the ones who don't worry about failing, and who don't give up when they don't meet their goals -- who see this only as reason to keep trying, or to re-evaluate and set new goals, but never, ever to give up. It's the process of striving that brings us joy. That's why meeting a goal can feel kind of empty. It's all the work that matters, that feeds us, and the goal is just the excuse, maybe, to explain to ourselves why we care, and what we're doing this for. When really we're doing this because it makes us feel alive.
Why else would I get up at 5AM and run for 10km in a chilly wind, on snowy streets, like I did this morning? I can't explain it otherwise. I didn't run fast, because my muscles never seemed to warm up, but I pushed hard up every hill, and returned home feeling wonderful. I'd done my best, again.
