Pulling a fast one

Over the course of my career as a cross country athlete, one of the questions I have gotten most often is, “What do you think about out there?”

I’ve always hesitated to reveal the unglamorous truth, which is that, more often than not, I am simply thinking, “God, this sucks.”

Other runners claim to harbor only positive thoughts while racing. They are liars.

But really, isn’t a cross country meet just one big lie-fest? Do you really believe your mom when she yells, “Keep it up honey, you look great!” when you are 100 percent positive that you not only do not look great, but are in fact foaming at the mouth like some kind of rabid freak?

Unabashed lying isn’t reserved only for spectators.

Cross country runners almost have to be dirty, rotten liars to keep internal complaints (i.e. “I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than continue to subject myself to this agonizing physical and emotional torture”) from affecting external performance (i.e. stopping).

There are many methods of mid-race self-deceit. One of my go-to approaches is the comparison argument. It involves conning yourself into believing that the pain you feel is not nearly as bad as _______ (fill in the blank with the most terrible, awful experience you can think of).

Some runners opt to employ a hypothetical version of the comparison argument—that is, they choose situations that, though obviously painful, they have not actually experienced for themselves. Common themes for hypothetical comparisons include childbirth, crucifixion, shark bites and, due to the recent popularity of the film 127 Hours, amputating one’s own arm.

I prefer to imagine things I have actually survived. It gives the comparison more depth, as I can recall real feelings and images from the selected incident.

For example: “The burning pain in my lungs isn’t nearly as bad as the explosive diarrhea I got after eating Applebee’s seafood.” Or: “If I could live through a night at the Newark Airport HoJo, I will live to see the finish line of this race.”

Once I’ve exhausted my arsenal of comparisons, I usually resort to making promises that I have no intention of fulfilling. Like: “OK, if I keep my average pace under 5:45, I will reward myself with _________ (insert guilty pleasure of choice, i.e. an Egg McMuffin, a Taylor Swift CD, an episode of Kate Plus 8).

By the time I’ve written myself mental IOUs for two dozen Krispy Kremes and a puppy, the finish line is usually within sight, and the only motivation I need to keep myself going is the knowledge that I am within seconds of being done.

After catching my breath, gulping down several cups of watered-down Powerade and pouring cold water over my head, I punctuate the lie cycle with one last fib to ease the anxiety of toeing the line again in the future: Well, that wasn’t so bad.

I wanna go fast!

When I stepped outside the other day, I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with chilly spring air. It smelled like rain and mist and soggy dead grass. And that’s when I knew, without a doubt, that track season was upon us.

These kinds of days—the ones with still, foggy air and puddle-dotted sidewalks—were always my favorite for track workouts. I found the damp, cool air soothing to my throat, lungs and muscles.

When I set out on my run, I immediately felt a familiar spring in my step. At that point, I was no longer in control of my route. My legs took over, knowing exactly where they wanted to go.

I arrived at the high school track feeling fresh and ready to, in the words of Ricky Bobby, go fast. Without even thinking, I rolled into my pre-workout warm-up routine. It had been months since I’d last done my usual series of kicks, skips and leg-swings, but I was surprised at how easily it all came back.

I felt great. I knew it was going to be a banner day. I almost wished I had a coach or a friend or even a live studio audience to witness what was about to go down. I did a quick survey of the track facility and its immediate surroundings. There were a couple of groundskeepers working about 600 yards away from the stadium. I figured that since I could see them, they could probably see me. I decided that counted as an audience.

After doing a couple of strides, I made my way to the starting line. I was smiling, and I even thought about whistling the chorus melody from “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” Then I remembered that I never learned how to whistle, and I made a mental note to search for an instructional video on YouTube later that day.

I still hadn’t gotten a new watch, and I had a feeling the oral counting method would prove ineffective in a track interval scenario. But I didn’t care—I was doing this work out, with or without a working timepiece.

I slowly approached the line, shaking out my arms and legs to rid them of any lingering kinks. I leaned forward into the starting position, and boom! I launched into a full-on sprint, marveling at the quickness of my feet and the power of my stride. The first 200-meter interval was smooth and almost effortless. I actually felt like an 800 runner again—I wondered whether my training hiatus had affected my speed at all. Perhaps I was just some sort of athletic super human.

Then I tried to do another one. This 200, though, was not so smooth, not so effortless. This 200 hurt—bad. From the twinge in my calf to the tightness in my lungs, my body screamed at me, as if to say, “What the crap? I thought we were done with running fast. You are a liar and a scoundrel!”

I was just about to protest about the scoundrel part when I felt a sharp pain slightly above the back of my knee. I slowed to a more manageable pace. Suddenly, my brain was inundated with hypothetical crisis scenarios.

I imagined limping into the high school and asking various teenagers with bewildered looks on their faces for directions to the school nurse’s office. I saw myself hobble into her little examination room, where she gasped and exclaimed, in a thick Minnesota accent, “Omigash! Did you just come from Coach Brown’s P.E. class? I thought you guys were just learning how to juggle beanbags this week.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head, expelling from my mind all images of myself as an injured, pathetic failure. No, I would not give up. I was going to finish this thing.

During my last few intervals, I was glad the guys on the mini tractors were too caught up in their work to notice me. I was also glad I had no way of knowing just how slow I was running—thank goodness for Wal-Mart and its cheap, unreliable merchandise. The feeling of invincibility I’d started out with had long since faded into stubborn determination. The last few hundred meters were anything but pretty, but I finished them.

As I jogged home, the intensity of my spontaneous little trip down memory lane started to settle on my bones. I noticed pain in places that hadn’t felt it in awhile—shins, arches, hamstrings. I felt like a true has-been, risking my health to prove to myself—and anyone else who happened to be hanging around (i.e. totally uninterested park maintenance personnel)—that I’ve still got it.

Then I realized that wasn’t the case at all. I had nothing to prove. I just missed the feeling that I had briefly experienced during my first interval—that inimitable sensation of quickness, weightlessness and power. I knew that sooner or later, I’d be back at the track for more.

Well, maybe after a few hot baths and a trip to the chiropractor.