It is not possible to run too slow

Much of training is counter-intuitive. To be able to run 26 miles at a given pace, you would think you'd have to run your training runs all at that pace or faster, right? You'd have to make sure you could do at least 20-24 miles at that pace, right?

But if you do that, you're racing yourself every day and breaking yourself down. Oddly, aerobic capacity increases best by running at a slower pace than you plan to race at. So most training plans tell you to run 10% slower than your goal marathon pace, or 60-90 second slower, or thereabouts. Sure, you throw in lactate threshhold workouts to lower the speed at which your legs become rubber, and throw in some track work to get your muscles drinking in more oxygen with each heart beat, but that's just spitting in the ocean. The bulk of any training program is comprised of slow, easy miles.

Guru Hal Higdon even says "It is not possible to run too slow during the long run."

I'm keeping that in mind this morning as I set out for an easy 13 miles.

This is a rest week, and rest I have. I've been trying to shake that cold and haven't laced up the shoes all week. I hit the bike a few times, and went to Pilates class, but mostly I've been sitting on my butt.

I'm still horking up some gunk and have a runny nose. I stuffed a few tissues in my pocket but since it's 90 degrees outside and the air feels like dog's breath, I'm pouring water over my head within 10 minutes, turning the tissues to pulp. So it's time to perfect the fine art of the farmer-blow. Some people like to lean over to the side and blow away from themselves, but, not wanting to lose any efficiency in stride or hit an unsuspecting biker coming up fast behind me, I prefer just to let it run down my face. Wipe it with the back of your hand and wipe your hand on your shorts. Anything remaining on your face will be sweated off.

So far in the short life of this blog I've relieved my digestive distress in the trees and blown virus-laden mucous all over myself. What's left to cover? Blood, pus, bile, and urine - a veritable cornucopia of the physical. We'll see if we can get to those in future entries. Running is not a sport for the faint of heart.

I run the first two miles at typical long-run pace of about 10:30 but the air is heavier than liquid lead and thicker than what's coming out of my nose so I give up fighting. Looking at the muddy Potomac tributaries on the stream crossings doesn't refresh me as it usually does, it looks like beef stew.

The typical recommendation for pacing on a hot day is to slow by up to a minute. I run a few miles even slower than that, at 12:00 to 12:30 pace but by the time I turn around I'm feeling a little perkier. I drenched my shirt in a water fountain and I am soaking wet from head to toe by the end. Even though I'm not working too hard today, I'm getting some comments about being tough. I must look like I crawled out of the Potomac. I keep passing two bikers who stop every 200 yards to rest in the shade. The overall pace ended up being about 11:30 for the whole run.

Sometimes on runs like this I take my watch off. I'll let it run to get an overall pace at the end, but I won't check splits every mile. In spite of knowing the value of the survival shuffle, the part of me that couldn't keep up with the cross-country team thinks its not good enough, and I tend to be disgusted at myself if I'm not running at or faster than the prescribed pace for my workout.

I know better, but I can't accept that very deep within me.

My husband started today's run with me. He loathes running but has signed up for a 10K run simultaneously with my goal marathon so that he'll have something to do. He also recognizes he needs to exercise and finds running to be the least of all evils. I wish he could find something to excite his passion the way running does for me. Something that would get him up excited on a weekend morning. But he trudges along running with an empty soul.

DH will try to go 8-10 miles today. Its the longest run he's done since the Cherry Blossom 10-miler. In fact he's done hardly anything since then. But if he's going to run a 10K in four weeks he has to start.

My hope is to catch him on the way back, but shortly into my run I realize that's not going to happen, and try to let it go. My evil competitive twin loves leaving him the dust, but he makes it almost no fun.

Because he's satisfied with whatever he does, no matter what the pace or the workout. He ended up running 6 miles because of the heat, but felt like it was good enough. I came back to find him contentedly sitting in his camp chair reading a magazine. I've run for about 2 hours, he just over 1. He's not terribly impressed with himself but not with me either. He feels no need to keep up with me. He doesn't keep score when we play golf even, picking up on half the holes, just out for a nice walk and a beer at the turn. What abscence of passion divorces him from performance?

And more importantly, how can he teach me to do that? For at every mile marker today I've beat back a small measure of disappointment and self-loathing when I looked at my split.

I have always battled the Martha Stewart of my self, the perfectly coiffed goddess who throws a fit if the Merlot is not the right vintage, if the cover shot of the magazine isn't a picture of perfection, if my stock takes a tumble. I berate myself with each failure to measure up to an impossible standard.

I have a feeling when I learn to stop doing that, I'll start training smarter and get faster. But will I enjoy running more or less? If part of what I love is the challenge of pushing myself harder and further, will running more miles without the pressure of the watch make me lonely and empty? Or will it leave more room for birds, and streams, and "good mornings" and sunrises?

Just as I have a fear when I step to the starting line of the marathon, that my 20-mile run substantially slower than my goal race pace will not be enough to get me through, I fear that those niceties of running will not fill me up the way the watch can. It's a dysfunctional, addictive relationship, and I have to break myself of it.

Until I learn to let go of the watch, I'm going to have to keep dragging my husband with me. For his apathy dulls my competitive edge and keeps it from slitting my throat.