Hill Training

It's been another shamefully long silence since my last post, but I was inspired by my run today. I've been on a bit of a quest for the past few weeks, to find hills that I think could approximate something San Franciscan - flat Toronto doesn't have a whole lot to offer. Except (extreme forehead-slapping moment) a wicked valley about two seconds away from my house that I didn't even think of until now. Nine hills, one functional nostril, and still I had one of those runs that makes you feel like a god, drunk on endorphins.

It made me think about the philosophy of slow and steady winning the race, the tortoise and the hare, those old chestnuts. While they remain my guiding principles for my actual race pacing, that's certainly not how training has ever felt to me.

Three weekends ago I had my comeback run. It was my first official, all-in, post-laryngitis effort (don't worry, I'm knocking on a hardcover in my purse as a type - that counts as wood, right?) and it was So. Damn. Good. I was set to run 11K, but I figured it was probably a pipe dream at that stage of recovery, so I went in with no expectations. It turned out to be the kind of run that keeps me purchasing running shoes. No aches and pains, because my muscles weren't sore from a previous day's work. Perfect legging and tank top cohesion, which sounds ridiculous, but anyone who has had a run in new pants (after tossing old ones that were slipping down every three steps) knows the joy I am talking about.

The most magical moment, however, was when it almost fell apart - I got a little tired, a little bored with my playlist, a little overheated. Ok, a lot overheated - which was weird because it wasn't that hot, and it was dark out. Don't tell my mom about that; we have a don't ask don't tell agreement where she gets to pretend that I never, ever, run after sunset. Anyway, I was praying for rain. I'm not really a praying sort of person, so it was more like doing a little rain jog. And then, it happened - the clouds opened up, and on the count of one, two, amazing-Lady-Gaga-mash-up (8 Tracks, you have changed my life), the clouds opened up and I got my rain run. My iPod even did this creepy thing where it pumps up the volume completely of it's own accord. There I was in my own running shoe commercial, dripping wet and polishing off 11K, much the way I would later polish off an unreasonably large piece of pralines and cream birthday ice cream cake. It was magic.

Fast forward now to two Saturdays ago, when I rose at the crack of this-is-a-bloody-stupid-time-for-anyone-to-be-awake-on-a-Saturday-unless-they-are-still-finishing-off-Friday-night, and subwayed uptown to do a 19K group run. It was the longest distance I have ever covered that was a not a half marathon in itself. I ate a whole six pack of those gummy gel shot things, and they were both delicious and energizing. But if I have to stop, break, and walk, I consider it an unsuccessful run. Lost in Sunnybrook park (Can we please stop having runs there? Picturesque: yes, easy to navigate: no.), I used my little remaining energy to stop myself from crying, and I had to stop for a brief walk. I won't lie, I was rather crushed.

I kept running, eventually, but it was a constant, bitter struggle against my limbs. When I made it back to the gym where we meet, one of my lovely, enthusiastic co-runners asked how far I had gone, and then exclaimed with glee that I was "set" for my race. "But I had to stop and walk a few times..." I gave my feeble disclaimer. "But you still covered 19K!" Was her incredulous reply. She was probably right, but I still felt like hell. The duration of the run was awful, and I didn't feel any of that awesome payoff at the end. I couldn't wait for the final run to be over, so I could return to my post-office dates with the couch.

After tonight I'm back on top of the world, and I'm realizing that this entire, months-long process is a lot like hill training (and a little like manic depression...). Sometimes I am way up, and at others I feel as low as the pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum (name that movie!). I will never be one of those people who wholeheartedly loves the act of running. I love it when it makes me feel good, and put up with it when it doesn't. Eventually there will always be another blissful downhill stretch, right?