You never know where things might take you. You do what you love, and you see what happens – and sometimes you wind up in Japan. Well, I haven’t ended up in Japan, but a woman I run with is right now somewhere in the stratosphere on her way to Chiba, Japan as part of Canada’s entry into the prestigious invitational road relay that’s been held there since 1988.
Here’s how it happened. Denise was part of Nova Scotia’s Timex series team that ran in the Oasis Zoo Run back in October. This race also served as Athletics Canada’s National 10k Road Race Championships. As I mentioned in a previous blog, Denise was the third woman to cross the line that day. Now, if that wasn’t cool enough – a 41 year old mother of three finishing third in Canada – the race also served as the qualifier for the 2009 Chiba Ekiden team. So for her tremendous effort in the zoo run, Athletics Canada rewarded Denise with a spot on the team. Now she’s pretty much the queen of the roads in Canada – and I run intervals with her!!
So what the heck is this Chiba Ekiden thing? Well, I had no idea either before October. Apparently, though, the Japanese are crazy about running, especially marathon running – and they’ll take their marathon running any way they can get it. For variety, the Ekiden takes the marathon distance and chops it up into 6 stages. These 6 legs are run by teams of women and men; they are distributed thus: 5k men, 5k women, 10k men, 5k women, 10k men, 7.195k women. I assume that, like most other road race relays, each leg has a common start and accumulated time decides the winners. I could be wrong, though.
Now the Japanese don’t fool around when it comes to events like this. In order to create the best event possible, they foot the bill for teams of elite runners from around the world to attend. It’s pretty neat – and next to the Olympics and the World Championships, it’s as world class as it gets.
Each invited country sends a total of 8 runners (4 men and 4 women) – 6 who run and 2 alternates (the alternates run a 5k on the track – no free rides here). Last time I talked to Denise, she hadn’t been told what leg she was running (actually, she was most nervous about being chosen as the alternate because she hasn’t run a track race in spikes in over 2 decades!), but she knew who her teammates were: Marilyn Arsenault, Reid Coolsaet, Malindi Elmore, Megan Metcalfe, Richard Mosley, Steve Osaduik, and Dylan Wykes. That’s a pretty amazing team to be a part of!
The team left for Japan today, and they’ll race the Ekiden on Monday. I can only imagine Denise will have an amazing experience, despite a cold and a nagging hamstring issue, which she jokingly blames me for because it showed up when we were doing intervals two Saturdays ago.
The whole thing is pretty cool, and everyone in Cliff’s group specifically and Run Nova Scotia generally is so proud of her. She’s gone from picking up running recreationally about 6 years ago to becoming the Canadian Masters Marathon record holder, a top-10 finisher at Boston, a Nike-sponsored athlete, and now a member of a national team. As Arthur Lydiard said, “There are champions everywhere” – apparently that includes Dartmouth, Nova Scotia.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Olympic Flame
I just watched the Olympic flame pass by only a few blocks from where I live. To put it bluntly, I was moved. Say what you will about the negative aspects of the Games (and do say them), call me delusional, call me naïve, call me maudlin, call me sentimental, call me corny, call me whatever the heck you want – but I could feel my own Olympic fire smouldering, could feel it find new fuel as I watched the torch’s orange flame dancing and vanishing upwards into a cloudless sky. Ignoring (for a moment) everything that surrounded the torch, from the giant Coke vehicles to the armed police escort, I focused only on that flame, felt only what it has represented to me – an ever-moving energy, a spirit within that strains against limitations, pushes out with a creative force.
I’ve been to the Olympic Museum and the IOC headquarters in Lausanne. I’ve stood beside a statue of Paavo Nurmi and looked out across the shining waters of Lake Geneva to the French Alps beyond. I’ve dreamed the Olympic dream as the sun set behind the French hills – not for love of fame or power or control, but for love of human ideals, which seemed so fragile against the darkening mountains. We project meaning into the world, and sometimes it seems to diffuse like a spotlight splaying into the night sky. But our meaning has the power to move us, and the meaning of the Olympics – faster, higher, stronger – has the power to move us beyond what we thought was possible. Yes, it makes some cheat and makes others roll their eyes in disdain, but against all that, I hold fast to a belief that its ideals have done some good and that they still hold valuable potential.
I’m glad the torch passed by on a Wednesday, a day when I meet Cliff and the others at the track for some hard speed work. I can carry this over-wrought enthusiasm onto the track and let it push me in my quest to become faster and stronger. I’ll never run in the Olympics, but I’ve got my own Olympic goals and dreams that invest my training with meaning. And that faith that what I do in training has some kind of meaning spills over into all aspects of my life. Against an ever-looming empty darkness, I try to keep my own Olympic flame lit. It would be easy to lay down in the darkness and sleep this life away, but I think it’s way more fun to chase the flame up the mountainside.
Here’s to sport – one of the best things we do as a species.
I’ve been to the Olympic Museum and the IOC headquarters in Lausanne. I’ve stood beside a statue of Paavo Nurmi and looked out across the shining waters of Lake Geneva to the French Alps beyond. I’ve dreamed the Olympic dream as the sun set behind the French hills – not for love of fame or power or control, but for love of human ideals, which seemed so fragile against the darkening mountains. We project meaning into the world, and sometimes it seems to diffuse like a spotlight splaying into the night sky. But our meaning has the power to move us, and the meaning of the Olympics – faster, higher, stronger – has the power to move us beyond what we thought was possible. Yes, it makes some cheat and makes others roll their eyes in disdain, but against all that, I hold fast to a belief that its ideals have done some good and that they still hold valuable potential.
I’m glad the torch passed by on a Wednesday, a day when I meet Cliff and the others at the track for some hard speed work. I can carry this over-wrought enthusiasm onto the track and let it push me in my quest to become faster and stronger. I’ll never run in the Olympics, but I’ve got my own Olympic goals and dreams that invest my training with meaning. And that faith that what I do in training has some kind of meaning spills over into all aspects of my life. Against an ever-looming empty darkness, I try to keep my own Olympic flame lit. It would be easy to lay down in the darkness and sleep this life away, but I think it’s way more fun to chase the flame up the mountainside.
Here’s to sport – one of the best things we do as a species.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Addicted to the Lightning
Burn hot – fizzle fast. That pretty much sums up one of my major training and racing weaknesses. I go out like a shot… then I fade… and fade… and… fade. I’m not alone in this habit: many runners are addicted to the lightning. In fact, it’s an ancient tradition. Even goode olde Socrates knew about the phenomenon. Take a look at this passage in Book X of The Republic – it sounds eerily familiar:
Do not clever but unjust men act like runners who run well for the first part of the course, but not for the second part? At first they leap away sharply, but they become ridiculous by the end with their ears sunk into their shoulders and they leave the track without being crowned, whereas true runners get to the end, take the prizes, and are crowned. (613b-c)
So even back in the day, guys were giv’n’er way too hard doing intervals around the Parthenon – makes me feel a bit better… although the suggestion that runners who fizzle and “clever but unjust men” act similarly makes me bristle. Well, at least he only says that the unjust “act like” fizzly runners – fortunately it does not follow logically that “ridiculous” runners are unjust… just stupid.
You’d think that after years of going out too fast in speed work, long runs, and races, I’d freakin’ learn to slow down. But no. It feels so good to go fast with fresh legs… even though no long-term good has ever come of it.
Ridding me of this addiction has become one of Cliff’s (my coach’s) projects. He wants me not only to understand intellectually and theoretically that an even pace is superior in interval training and racing, but he also wants me to experience this truth viscerally – right in the guts. And he did just that this past Saturday.
Here’s how it went down. The football dudes were occupying the track at SMU, so we headed to Point Pleasant Park to get our workout in. Cliff paired me up with a great guy named Alexander and laid out what he wanted: 3 x 1 mile intervals at Threshold pace – 5:45/mi – with short rests and 2 x 1 kilometre repeats at VO2 max pace – 3:20/km. Now, for Alexander, who used to run for Windsor back in the 90s when they regularly won CIS cross country, this workout was a piece of cake. But for me, this was stretching things a little.
Regardless, I was up for the challenge. Hey, why not? If Cliff says I can do it – I can do it. So off we went.
The way interval training works in Point Pleasant is that Cliff stands at a certain trail intersection (I like to call it Cliff’s corner) while his runners go madly off in all directions. As we run, he stands there, holding three or four watches to keep track of each group’s splits. It’s crazy. What’s neat is that there’s this one loop that, by some supernatural grace, is pretty much exactly 800m. So for our mile repeats, we simply do two loops… this gives Cliff a chance to yell at us to slow down if we cross 800m too fast.
And it’s inevitable that we go too fast. For example, in our first interval, Alexander and I crossed the 400m mark in 76s – we were supposed to be on an 86s pace. Not wanting to disappoint Cliff, we reined it in, but we still crossed 800m way too fast. “That’s a bit fast guys,” Cliff said quietly as we passed. I winced with shame. We waved our apologies and ran the second half pretty much how we were supposed to. Actually, after that second loop, our legs got a feel for the pace, and we were pretty much right on for the second two mile intervals.
However, Cliff’s style is always to change things up – and he likes to throw in different paces in the same workout to keep our legs guessing. On our first VO2 max kilometre interval, we tried to guess the right pace… but we were way off. We were supposed to be on a 2:40 800m pace, but we crossed somewhere in the low 2:30s… I’m not sure what it was – I didn’t look at my watch because I was trying like hell to keep up with Alexander who had way more gas in the tank than I did. Cliff was not impressed.
He urged us to slow down for the last interval, but this one was even worse. We crossed 400m in 72s – we were supposed to cross in 80s. My legs filled up with lactic acid, and I struggled just like Socrates’ unjust man for the last 600m. I had no clever quip when Cliff asked how I was through 800m. It was obvious I wasn’t okay at all. A VO2 max interval is not supposed to hurt like that – I was screwing up the workout.
After the workout, we were chatting about pace. I told Cliff that I thought maybe the workout was a bit too fast for me, at least the VO2 max stuff. My last interval was 3:16, but I struggled for it. “The 3:20 pace isn’t the problem,” Cliff replied. “It’s your pacing.” I frowned in disbelief. “No. No. Look,” he said (Cliff’s always saying this). “You went out too fast, but if you relax and pace evenly, you can run 3:20 no problem.” I looked sceptical and continued stretching. This is where things took a turn.
“Come here,” Cliff said. I looked over. “You’re going to run another one.”
“What?” I looked at the other runners who were finished – they all looked puzzled.
“Yeah. Do one more. But this time run relaxed. Don’t go crazy.”
“But…”
“No. You can handle it.”
I was a bit shocked, but I lined up for another interval. What the heck, right? As I was about to take off, though, Cliff interrupted me.
“Wait a second. Give me your watch.”
“What?” I felt naked without my watch, but I gave it to him.
Then he spoke to me very quietly, almost a whisper. “Just relax. Go.”
I could hear him start his stopwatch as I went. I tried to relax. Every time I felt that lactic acid pain in my gut, I backed off and relaxed. I crossed 400m and had no idea how fast or slow I was going. But I kept his voice in my head. Relax. Focus on your form. As I neared the 800m mark, Cliff started reading out the times: “2:38, 2:39, 2:40.” I crossed 800m in 2:40… exactly on pace for a 3:20km. “Stop!” he yelled, figuring 800m was enough to drive his point home. It was.
As I wandered towards him with a stunned look on my face, he smiled. “How did that feel?”
“Way better than the last two.” I was running about the same overall pace as the last two, but this one felt easier, much easier.
He nodded. He could see by my face that I got it. I could run a comfortable 3:20km, even after 7km of fast running. All it took was relaxed, even pacing. In one dramatic pedagogical decision, he’d both made his point about pacing and given me new confidence.
It was awesome.
I doubt my addiction to the lightning is cured. But I won’t soon forget all of Cliff’s dramatic efforts to get me to quit.
Do not clever but unjust men act like runners who run well for the first part of the course, but not for the second part? At first they leap away sharply, but they become ridiculous by the end with their ears sunk into their shoulders and they leave the track without being crowned, whereas true runners get to the end, take the prizes, and are crowned. (613b-c)
So even back in the day, guys were giv’n’er way too hard doing intervals around the Parthenon – makes me feel a bit better… although the suggestion that runners who fizzle and “clever but unjust men” act similarly makes me bristle. Well, at least he only says that the unjust “act like” fizzly runners – fortunately it does not follow logically that “ridiculous” runners are unjust… just stupid.
You’d think that after years of going out too fast in speed work, long runs, and races, I’d freakin’ learn to slow down. But no. It feels so good to go fast with fresh legs… even though no long-term good has ever come of it.
Ridding me of this addiction has become one of Cliff’s (my coach’s) projects. He wants me not only to understand intellectually and theoretically that an even pace is superior in interval training and racing, but he also wants me to experience this truth viscerally – right in the guts. And he did just that this past Saturday.
Here’s how it went down. The football dudes were occupying the track at SMU, so we headed to Point Pleasant Park to get our workout in. Cliff paired me up with a great guy named Alexander and laid out what he wanted: 3 x 1 mile intervals at Threshold pace – 5:45/mi – with short rests and 2 x 1 kilometre repeats at VO2 max pace – 3:20/km. Now, for Alexander, who used to run for Windsor back in the 90s when they regularly won CIS cross country, this workout was a piece of cake. But for me, this was stretching things a little.
Regardless, I was up for the challenge. Hey, why not? If Cliff says I can do it – I can do it. So off we went.
The way interval training works in Point Pleasant is that Cliff stands at a certain trail intersection (I like to call it Cliff’s corner) while his runners go madly off in all directions. As we run, he stands there, holding three or four watches to keep track of each group’s splits. It’s crazy. What’s neat is that there’s this one loop that, by some supernatural grace, is pretty much exactly 800m. So for our mile repeats, we simply do two loops… this gives Cliff a chance to yell at us to slow down if we cross 800m too fast.
And it’s inevitable that we go too fast. For example, in our first interval, Alexander and I crossed the 400m mark in 76s – we were supposed to be on an 86s pace. Not wanting to disappoint Cliff, we reined it in, but we still crossed 800m way too fast. “That’s a bit fast guys,” Cliff said quietly as we passed. I winced with shame. We waved our apologies and ran the second half pretty much how we were supposed to. Actually, after that second loop, our legs got a feel for the pace, and we were pretty much right on for the second two mile intervals.
However, Cliff’s style is always to change things up – and he likes to throw in different paces in the same workout to keep our legs guessing. On our first VO2 max kilometre interval, we tried to guess the right pace… but we were way off. We were supposed to be on a 2:40 800m pace, but we crossed somewhere in the low 2:30s… I’m not sure what it was – I didn’t look at my watch because I was trying like hell to keep up with Alexander who had way more gas in the tank than I did. Cliff was not impressed.
He urged us to slow down for the last interval, but this one was even worse. We crossed 400m in 72s – we were supposed to cross in 80s. My legs filled up with lactic acid, and I struggled just like Socrates’ unjust man for the last 600m. I had no clever quip when Cliff asked how I was through 800m. It was obvious I wasn’t okay at all. A VO2 max interval is not supposed to hurt like that – I was screwing up the workout.
After the workout, we were chatting about pace. I told Cliff that I thought maybe the workout was a bit too fast for me, at least the VO2 max stuff. My last interval was 3:16, but I struggled for it. “The 3:20 pace isn’t the problem,” Cliff replied. “It’s your pacing.” I frowned in disbelief. “No. No. Look,” he said (Cliff’s always saying this). “You went out too fast, but if you relax and pace evenly, you can run 3:20 no problem.” I looked sceptical and continued stretching. This is where things took a turn.
“Come here,” Cliff said. I looked over. “You’re going to run another one.”
“What?” I looked at the other runners who were finished – they all looked puzzled.
“Yeah. Do one more. But this time run relaxed. Don’t go crazy.”
“But…”
“No. You can handle it.”
I was a bit shocked, but I lined up for another interval. What the heck, right? As I was about to take off, though, Cliff interrupted me.
“Wait a second. Give me your watch.”
“What?” I felt naked without my watch, but I gave it to him.
Then he spoke to me very quietly, almost a whisper. “Just relax. Go.”
I could hear him start his stopwatch as I went. I tried to relax. Every time I felt that lactic acid pain in my gut, I backed off and relaxed. I crossed 400m and had no idea how fast or slow I was going. But I kept his voice in my head. Relax. Focus on your form. As I neared the 800m mark, Cliff started reading out the times: “2:38, 2:39, 2:40.” I crossed 800m in 2:40… exactly on pace for a 3:20km. “Stop!” he yelled, figuring 800m was enough to drive his point home. It was.
As I wandered towards him with a stunned look on my face, he smiled. “How did that feel?”
“Way better than the last two.” I was running about the same overall pace as the last two, but this one felt easier, much easier.
He nodded. He could see by my face that I got it. I could run a comfortable 3:20km, even after 7km of fast running. All it took was relaxed, even pacing. In one dramatic pedagogical decision, he’d both made his point about pacing and given me new confidence.
It was awesome.
I doubt my addiction to the lightning is cured. But I won’t soon forget all of Cliff’s dramatic efforts to get me to quit.
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