Another week of scanty running, but hey, it's the holidays. Driving, family get-togethers, delicious varieties cheese-foods, and reflection on another year past.
"I'll start training after New Year's. It's not a resolution though, because it just happens that I'll have about 16 weeks to train and taper for this ultra that I'm doing in April. That's a good training block"
I thought I was being original. I pulled the same shit on myself last year with Umstead. Zane Grey shows quite a bit more promise of being a fun challenge. 8 loops on a flat gravel road was about as fun as counting to 48,000 while taking sandpaper to my forehead: Certainly tough, but not necessarily fun. "The toughest 50 miler in the US" has a little bit better ring to it. Mountains, technicality, beauty, and a new place to check out is an exciting idea. Now, how do I get my ass up and training?
After yet another transfer of colleges, and a move back to my Alma-mater in Kalamazoo, I'm hoping for a bit of a rhythm as I try(again) to start preparation. Daily runs, if not doubles, should build the legs back up to some sort of fighting shape, even if I'm far from any substantial climbs needed for a mountain race. My home environment, even if it was extremely comfortable, lends itself better to eating and laying about than it does running. I seem to be the only one affected by this, as my parents are both busy, productive members of society. I'm still optimistic that I'm a work in progress in that regard.
This mentality, this pattern that I have, frustrates me sometimes. I realize I'm likely to be a victim of my own lack of motivation, and also my impulsiveness. Is an admission of this a sign of humility or the creation of a self-fulfilling prophecy? I wonder how likely am I to be right if I valiantly stand up and shout, "this is my year!" Is it unwavering confidence that helps us transcend our own mediocrity, or is it being aware of how likely we are to fail?
For this answer, I can pull a memory from my childhood. Growing up riding things with wheels and engines made me familiar with broken bones(9 if you don't count fingers), bruises, and scars. The fun things, like riding a motorcycle over a log that spans a ravine or skipping a snowmobile across a pond, are often the things with the smallest margin of error. I remember one time in particular with my dad on our motocross bikes. He had been riding for years before I was born, and rediscovered the sport when I was old enough to get a full-sized bike(almost- I had to use a box, stump, or log to actually mount it). The only way across a creek was a handmade wooden bridge that had to have been less than a foot wide. I shut my bike off and yelled back, "It's too narrow!" My dad replied, "How wide are your tires? How much room do you need? An inch is as good as a mile." After enough time, I realized that worrying about the possibility of failure is only useful in that it helps us appreciate our accomplishments(and the accomplishments of those we care about).
I'll never forget that because it's true whether I need to hit a goal or avoid a misstep. An inch is as good as a mile. Look forward and accomplish. Stop too often to look down, and end up in a cold, muddy creek with a 250cc Suzuki on top of you. The risk of failure makes the payoff greater, and the fall never hurts as badly as you think it will.
That little rant came out of nowhere.
This week, I shit you not, I didn't run a step until Thursday. Kelsey came up North to visit and we trudged around in the snow on the trails and nearby dunes for about an hour.
Friday was kind of a half-assed hill repeat session in Kalamazoo alone in the dark. Short bursts of high intensity, ten repeats, very short rest interval
Saturday consisted of a bright and sunny change of pace. The cold weather broke and we enjoyed some warmth and traction. 4 miles.
Christ. I spend more time writing about training than actually training. I've got "management material" written all over me.