"...keep on going. Don't slow down. If you're scared, don't show it. You might get out before the Devil even knows you're there."
Welcome fans, stalkers, and accidental clickers. A few stats for you:
1:53.x
1:54.71
1:55.75
1:54.2 HT
Those numbers are, respectively, my best 800m split in a relay, my indoor 800m PB, my outdoor 800m PB, and my best 800m split in practice. I tell you these numbers to put this number in perspective:
1:54.81.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the time that I ran for 800 meters recently at the MSU Spartan Invitational. A time that ranks right up there with my best times ever. A time, that, quite frankly, I was not expecting.
You may have noticed that it has been a while since my last blog post. This is not because I've been super busy (well, I have had some work stuff come up as of late, but not anything super crazy), or because I've lost interest in telling you about my life (my ego is still well intact, thank-you-very-much). Rather, its because I didn't feel like writing about how crappy my running has been going. When last you left me, I sounded like I had it all figured out, that I had just turned a corner and was about to really turn it on. However, since then, my running has been at best, stagnant. I've missed a few days due to work and injury, have had to call it quits during workouts, and have felt less than ecstatic about my everyday runs (to be fair, I have no idea how fast I am running them, and only a slightly better idea of how far I am going when I go on them). You can see then, why this last weekend came as a surprise to me.
I entered the meet with a 1:56.8 (my high school PR), an entry time that I honestly felt was a bit of a stretch. In all actuality, a 1:59 seemed like a much more realistic goal, and I was going to walk away from the meet satisfied if I could slip under the 2 min barrier. Nervous could not begin to describe what I was feeling that afternoon. The fantasy that I could actual PR did not actually cross my mind.
My confidence began to build slightly when I saw my training partner, Jake Crowe, throw down a 3:50 in the 1500 meters. This confidence stemmed from the fact that, for the faster stuff we had been doing during workouts, I had been able to keep up and even surpass Jake (the longer stuff is a way different story). I did not think that Jake was ready to run that fast, given what we had been doing, but sure enough, on a day with perfect conditions, things just fell into place, and Jake opened up his outdoor season with his fastest 1500m to date.
The time had come for my race. I was in the last of three heats (the faster seeded heats being run first). The officials lined us up. A strange, foreign feeling gripped me as I waited on the line for the starters command. A feeling of confidence. My nerves did not go away. But this feeling, a feeling I have NEVER felt before, told me that I was fast. Faster than the people in my heats. That I had the speed to not just compete, but actually win.
The starter called us to the line. We advanced to the lines, assumed our starting positions, and waited. And then waited some more. Leaning forward anxiously, I began to lose my balance as I waited for a gun that should have already sounded. Finally, he fired the gun. My balance was off, and my first step was more sideways than forward as I had to adjust to keep my balance. We were off.
Instantly, my confidence melted away. Losing a step did not help, but what really struck me was how fast everyone was moving. A hundred meters into the race and I was clearly in last place. Still, I didn't feel like I was over-extending my self, and I did have contact with the back of the pack. We sailed along, the pack pulling me through 200 meters. As I rounded the corner to finish up the first lap, the pack eased in to a somewhat more settled pace. The confidence resurfaced, albeit weaker than before, and in that moment I knew that I was not out of my league.
Just prior to completing the final lap, I made move out into lane two and went around some my competitors. This put me in about mid-pack. Jim, my coach, informed me that the first lap was a 56 (meaning it was probably a high 56-low 57). Relieved that I did not feel like I was over-exerting myself, I ran the penultimate curve, biding my time before continuing my assault on the straightaway. It was here, on the backstretch, that I started to feel the acid building up in my legs, the pain that is all-to-familiar to 800 meter runners. I ignored my body's plea to let off the pace, knowing that this was the point in which a race was made. Continuing my move, I used the backstretch to move me into 3rd, trailing only a couple of SVSU guys. I moved up onto their shoulder. The first one was tying up badly, and I knew that I should go around him on the curve. I moved, placing myself into second. And then a fear, begotten of memories of races too many to count. Races where it felt as though my blood consisted of not plasma, but rather pure acid. Where runners passed me, moving around me at a disheartening pace in numbers that, in my hypoxia-induced delirious state, my brain interpreted as infinite, and faded into the distance to a finish line that seemed to get farther away with each step.
Too my surprise, my fear was never realized. I tied up ever-so-slightly, and the runner in front of me inched away. His superior finish was probably as much due to my fear-induced relegation to an inferior finish as to his superior closing speed. But a great mass of runners never passed me in this closing stretch, and my finishing kick, although still wanting, was not completely shameful.
And that, my faithful readers, is how I ran one of my fastest, and easily one of my more memorable, 800s of my life. I guess the lesson to be learned here is that although you may be going through a rough stretch, if you push on through, good things can happen. Moreover, I hope this is indicative of more great racing to come.
Blaze on friends!
Instantly, my confidence melted away. Losing a step did not help, but what really struck me was how fast everyone was moving. A hundred meters into the race and I was clearly in last place. Still, I didn't feel like I was over-extending my self, and I did have contact with the back of the pack. We sailed along, the pack pulling me through 200 meters. As I rounded the corner to finish up the first lap, the pack eased in to a somewhat more settled pace. The confidence resurfaced, albeit weaker than before, and in that moment I knew that I was not out of my league.
Just prior to completing the final lap, I made move out into lane two and went around some my competitors. This put me in about mid-pack. Jim, my coach, informed me that the first lap was a 56 (meaning it was probably a high 56-low 57). Relieved that I did not feel like I was over-exerting myself, I ran the penultimate curve, biding my time before continuing my assault on the straightaway. It was here, on the backstretch, that I started to feel the acid building up in my legs, the pain that is all-to-familiar to 800 meter runners. I ignored my body's plea to let off the pace, knowing that this was the point in which a race was made. Continuing my move, I used the backstretch to move me into 3rd, trailing only a couple of SVSU guys. I moved up onto their shoulder. The first one was tying up badly, and I knew that I should go around him on the curve. I moved, placing myself into second. And then a fear, begotten of memories of races too many to count. Races where it felt as though my blood consisted of not plasma, but rather pure acid. Where runners passed me, moving around me at a disheartening pace in numbers that, in my hypoxia-induced delirious state, my brain interpreted as infinite, and faded into the distance to a finish line that seemed to get farther away with each step.
Too my surprise, my fear was never realized. I tied up ever-so-slightly, and the runner in front of me inched away. His superior finish was probably as much due to my fear-induced relegation to an inferior finish as to his superior closing speed. But a great mass of runners never passed me in this closing stretch, and my finishing kick, although still wanting, was not completely shameful.
And that, my faithful readers, is how I ran one of my fastest, and easily one of my more memorable, 800s of my life. I guess the lesson to be learned here is that although you may be going through a rough stretch, if you push on through, good things can happen. Moreover, I hope this is indicative of more great racing to come.
Blaze on friends!
