Going Shorter, Getting Faster, and Micro-Dosing Pain

There’s not a lot of time to think in a track race. There is pain, there is the attempt at efficiency of movement, there is primal chase, and its corollary — don’t get caught. But there isn’t much thinking going on. It’s different from the running I am used to. Plenty of time to think in a long trail race.

The mile race around a track is just fucking go. Don’t think. Here is what was running through my head:

This hurts
I went out too fast
Breathe smoothe
More arms
Is that my wife at the turn?
Try to smile
Someone is breathing behind me
Don’t look back
I’m too close to Torrey
I went out too fast
Those big digital numbers on the timing clock don’t make any sense
Is this lap 3 or lap 4
This is lap 3 because I just heard the bell
Fuck
One more
More arms
Go hard now
I can’t breathe
I’m going to puke
That was so much fun

I am lucky to run with some great people, and someone is always throwing out ideas to make running more fun. The beer mile, the brewery half marathon, and the Thursday night run, where we go slow and drink beer afterward. Some of the ideas don’t even involve beer. I can count on Torrey for challenging, sometimes crazy, but always well-intentioned ideas. He was the track and cross-country coach at Cal State San Marcos, and he came up with the idea that instead of continuing to go longer (the usual marathon, 50K, 50-mile, 100K, 100-mile ultra progression), we should all try to get faster. He came up with a short-to-long program (1-mile, 5K, 10K, half-marathon, marathon progression).

It’s really easy to type “I’m in” on the group chat, so that’s what I did. I haven’t run a track meet since high school, and I can’t even remember running the mile back then. I usually came up with some excuse to skip the meets. I loved the workouts, but the meets scared me. I think today we call that anxiety, but back then, I just told my coach that my tummy hurts, and he usually rolled his eyes and said “Sure, skip the race.” I think he was on to me, but it’s not like I was scoring any points for the team. Looking back on it, I appreciate his approach.

Last month, I signed up for the all-comers track meet at Cal State San Marcos, and followed Torrey’s plan. I had no idea what I could run a mile in, so I picked 6 minutes because it seemed like a stretch, and it was a round number.

The workouts were fun. Lots of 200s, building to 800s, and finishing with what seemed like an easy one — 600, 500, 400, 300, 200 with a rest that diminished after each interval (6 minutes for the 600, 5 minutes for the 500, and so on). This one was harder than it looked on paper, and I finished the workout thinking there is no way I could hold those paces for a mile.

I did a lot of the workouts on my own. At a track or around a lake, but the workouts that stand out to me are the ones that we did together. A group of 4 or 5 guys pushing ourselves, struggling, and jogging slowly back to the cars for a cooldown. Most of the guys I run with are faster than me, and I love watching fast people run. Track is beautiful for that.

We ran the Master’s Heat in the mile. The women went first, and as I watched them fly around the track, looking effortless, I assumed they were all running an easy 6-7 minute pace, but then the finish times showed just over 5 minutes. They didn’t even seem to be breathing hard. I could do that. The first men’s heat was for guys who planned to run sub-5. They looked effortless as well. The winner was a high school freshman who ran a 4:27. He sat in 4th or 5th place and turned it on in the last lap.

It was my turn to go, and the old guy with the starting gun and a grizzly grey beard growled at us as we stepped up to the starting line, “Back up 8 feet. When I say ‘on your mark,’ come up to the line, and if your toe touches the line, I’ll make you all go back and do it again. My record is 5 times.” I told him that we were here to break records. Some of the other guys laughed, and I think the starting pistol man smiled.

“On your mark.” We all shuffled to the starting line, and the pistol cracked, louder than I expected.

I can’t describe my race, but it didn’t feel effortless. It felt like I was pushing the whole time, redlining. I already wrote about what was going through my brain, and I can’t add much else. After four laps, I crossed the finish line and saw that the first digit on the digital timer was a 5, so I was happy. The training had worked.

I will never be as graceful as those young men and women with long strides, a relaxed face, and the speed and power to float over the rubberized track, but it was amazing to share that track with them. It was a gift to be able to run with friends, sharing in the push, the hypoxia, the lactic acid buildup, and the payoff of crossing that finish line and sharing stories of the battle (over beers).

All of it reminded me of one of my favorite movie scenes ever. Fantastic Mr. Fox is riding a motorcycle with his friend, his son, and his nephew. He sees a wolf in the distance and tries to communicate with it. The wolf doesn’t speak English (or French or Latin). Fox’s eyes water as he shouts, “I have a phobia of wolves.” Then he raises his fist and says, “What a beautiful creature,” and the wolf raises its fist and runs away. It’s emotional, it’s art, and it gets me every time. It’s not only the acknowledgment of something beautiful, but it’s the connection and the sharing in even the smallest taste of that experience.