Pace Yourself

Why haven't I learned this lesson yet?

The need to pace yourself hit me full in the face early this morning, as a family situation that's been on my mind for the last few months frustrated me yet again. My friends counselled patience and reminded me that wanting to have things settled yesterday is my biggest shortcoming.

The marathon is a race of patience. Not only must you be certain not to start the race too fast, but you must progress slowly in your training. In addition, each workout in training has a prescribed pace aimed at acheiving a specific goal, and going out too fast will almost always destroy the rest of the workout.

Many a time I have started out a long run at a comfortable jog, only to look at my watch 5 miles in to discover I'm running at marathon pace. And the survival shuffle is always implemented in those runs.

Tonight my workout was an 8-mile "lactate threshhold" run. If you want the science of this, visit the website of marathoner and physiologist Pete Pfitzinger. I'll give you the layman's explanation:

If you want to finish a marathon, you can do it. It may take you the time it takes to drive from Washington to Boston, but I promise, barring injury or other medical condition, by gradually working up your mileage over the course of a year or so, you can complete a marathon. But improving your time, or doing something such as qualifying for the Boston Marathon requires you to run relatively fast (in distance running terms) over a very long distance. When you run, your muscles require oxygen to burn fuel for energy. Obviously this is why you breathe hard when working out. But at a certain point (which is different for everyone) your heart can't pump enough oxygenated blood from your lungs to your legs, resulting in your muscles burining fuel without oxygen. Like a panicked scuba diver out of air, they try to breathe in what they can't use, and in doing so, produce something called lactic acid. The buildup of that lactic acid is what makes it feel as if you're running with cement shoes, and also what causes soreness after a workout.

But the funny thing is - if you run at exactly the pace where that lactic acid production begins, you can train your muscles to become more efficient in using available oxygen, and also train your heart to pump more oxygenated blood to your muscles. And you can lower the pace at which that lactic acid is produced, and "push back the wall."

For me right now, that point is a little under 9 minutes per mile. Since my run is a little longer tonight, I should go a little bit slower to ensure I can keep the pace. Say 9:15. But since its 90 degrees with 90 percent humidity today, I'll be working just as hard if I run slower. So I resolve to set out at 10 minutes per mile, and see how I feel.

Pace is vital to this workout. Run too slow and its like tying your scuba-diving muscles to an infinite air supply from the surface. You increase your ability to keep moving over time, but not your speed. Run too fast at the beginning and you drown your muscles in lactic acid too quickly, forcing them to come up for air later in the workout, and forcing you to slow to deliver that air.

No, the only way to push back the needle on the air supply gauge and get faster at the marathon is to pace yourself just right in these workouts.

But since my eyes are bigger than my hamstrings, I nearly always start these workouts too fast.

I start out tonight with the goal in mind to run a quick but comfortable pace for the first mile. Right at about marathon pace, since its so hot. I'm running on the Capital Crescent Trail from Georgetown, a good place for this workout because the trail is marked every half mile, allowing me to pace myself better.

As I run along, thinking I need to hit the first half mile in just under 5 minutes, I start looking for the marker around 4:45. Most of the lower 4 miles of this trail look pretty similar so I'm not sure where it is. At 5:10 I realize I've missed it.

At 8:17, the first mile marker surprises me. I've run almost a minute faster than goal pace for this workout on a good day, let alone a hot and sticky day like this one. I know I can't keep this up. I just hope I haven't done too much damage.

I start the second mile resolved to slow down. When my mind wanders, I bring it back to my cadence. Count steps. Breathe. Relax. Feel comfortable. Don't overdo it. At 4:30 I hit the next half mile. Better, but I still need to slow down. Mile 2 comes up - 9:05. Much better. But I still need to slow down.

It happens between mile 3.5 and 4. I feel like I'm dragging a Hummer. And not the little one either. My chin drops. I'm hitting shuffle-land. I allow it for just a few seconds. Then I lift my head and push on. Finally comes the next mile marker, several hundred feet down the trail from where I thought it was. 9:45. OK. Faster than it felt. I hope I can keep that up.

Here I allow myself a one minute rest. This is a mental break only. Like drowning swimmers, my muscles can take a fleeting gasp as they break the surface, but the next wave is ready to crash down on them. I'm letting them glimpse the life ring and giving them false hope. One minute is not enough time for the metabolic processes of drowning to stop.

I start the next mile. I'm hurting now, but there's a water fountain coming up at the end of this one, which I mentally strive for. 9:20. I'm back on track, but perhaps still too fast. I fill up my water bottle and soak down my shirt in about a minute, then turn back.

Keep the head up. I contemplate taking another minute at the next half mile. I don't know why I do that. Its like a suicidal thought. I know I can't do it, but its an out. I turn it over in my head a while. What would I do? What would it feel like to just stop? I could just end all the hurt right now.

But that half mile comes and I'm at 4:45 seconds, and I know the rewards of finishing this mile will be so much more than stopping. Focus forward. Not at your feet. Keep your head up. I can see the next mile marker. Push it a little. You can stop there. 9:37. Not bad.

I take a minute walk. I feel like a statue when I start again. I could just stay here on the trail as a monument to all the Marine Corps runners who will be training this trail beginning in the next few weeks. What does one leg up on the statue mean? The general died in battle?

But once I start it gets easier. I've never been able to figure out why that happens to me. I feel best at about 5 miles into a workout. While I'm sure there's a scientific reason, I wonder if it just takes that long for my brain to shut down. Neurons all over are perishing because my legs are stealing all the oxygen. I sure can't walk straight at this point when stop to take a quick drink. My ears are ringing.

Still, the last 3 miles come at pace: 9:34, 9:42, 9:45.

I walk up into Georgetown and buy myself a monster burrito from Chipotle.

Was it fast enough to work? I hope so. It was faster than the pace I originally estimated for such a hot day.

But I need to learn to pace myself. That workout probably would have ended without the ringing ears and staggering gate if I hadn't gone out so fast. And even though I completed it, I may have done enough damage to delay recovery for my planned 20-mile run this weekend.

I will pay for my impatience as I always do. I need to learn to know myself, recognize my flaws, and control them.

As Edmund Burke said: Our patience will achieve more than our force.

But part of me still will always see the other side of that coin: Patience has its limits. Take it too far, and it's cowardice. (George Jackson)