As we become more accomplished runners, we build up a repertoire of experiences. Typically, when we look back on our experiences and the training runs that got us to our new peak levels, it can become easy to gloss things over; sugar coat our past runs so that we remember them as painless and relatively easy paths to success. Perhaps this is because we simply become excited, so high from what we've done that we forget the pain, sweat and tears that we had to endure to achieve our goals.
I was out for a run about 6 weeks after my most recent marathon, and a thought came to me: why is it so hard right now to run such a mediocre pace? A few answers jumped out at me immediately, and I am quite thankful that I did not have to search the cosmos for those answers.
The first of these was quite evident. The faster you become, the harder you have to work at becoming faster (let alone to maintain what you already have). This is an absolute for all things when one is attempting to raise the bar and up the standards. To become more satisfied, you must elevate the level of your challenges.
Second, and perhaps most importantly, don't get lost in the idea that your past training sessions were part of some blissful fantasy. Your past runs were always a challenge, and that is a fact. We tend to forget the pain, or perhaps the pain feels somehow numbed in our minds. It is important that you don't misunderstand me here, as our hardest and biggest runs do tend to be the most fantastic and inspiring.
During your difficult runs, especially if you are feeling at your lowest point, you may have this idea in your head: "I don't remember my training runs feeling this tough before." Perhaps that is because you are in the moment, the pain is present and real, and you may be recalling all of your training and racing in the past only as magical moments. No doubt those past runs were imbued with magic. But that magic is always impregnated with pain. Love the pain! This was a constant reminder I would give my teammates when I captained my high-school X-C team. It is still a constant reminder of the day. Your memory can become sugar coated and you may recall only the best moments of your training. This is an easy trap to fall into. It is vital to recall every aspect, especially the pain (physical and mental) that you had to endure for your greater goals as a distance runner.
In conclusion to this abridged version of a very deep subject, I am simply saying DO NOT compare your comfort levels of your current runs with how you think you remember the comfort levels of your past runs. It will always be hard, and you must remember that anything worth trying to achieve will test your character. Remember to keep some separation between your running nostalgia and your running reality. Your nostalgia is one of your best tools, but remember to use it wisely.
Always searching for the next Key Experience,
-J. Brewer
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
In Pursuit of 26.2: A Trek Along the Blue Ridge Parkway Part I
I have had a few adventures on the great Blue Ridge Parkway in North Carolina, and even though this read is published "Part I", the event mentioned here does not fall in chronological order with my other BRP adventures. The following is about a training run that has been consistently recalled to my mind in the past few weeks; a run that, alone, helped me to capture my most recent personal record for 26.2.
It was late October of 2011, and I was counting down the days until Charlotte's Thunder Road 26.2. I had been planning a trip to Western North Carolina for quite some time, and this is something I try to do at least once prior to any race. As it neared late October, my window of opportunity was getting more and more narrow - I knew I'd need time to taper my training on the week before the race and November 12 was the day of the race. So on Saturday, October 29 I awoke early, packed my things and began to drive the highways north and west in order to escape the low-country's beautiful but zero sea level conditions.
I arrived outside of Asheville in the afternoon and found my first hotel just a stones throw from I-26, and thankfully only a few miles from The North Carolina Arboretum, which hosts one of my favorite short-mid range trails: Hardtimes. This trail is an all-around perfect loop, loaded with a healthy dose of inclines, down-hills and flats, and all of this is cradled in the beauty of the Pisgah National Forest. When I arrived at the trailhead it was a chilly 42 degrees, and the fall foliage was in it's prime at this elevation. I put in a brisk and demanding 6 miles, then headed for a hot shower and an eggplant dinner at one of my favorite local bistros. Back at my room, I fell asleep at around 8 o'clock, knowing that the following day would be one to remember for years to come.
I awoke to find ice on my car as the temperature had dropped to 28 degrees the night before. An ill omen for a runner who'd be tackling altitude near 6,000 feet later that day. Even though it was cloudless (an aid to the chilly temp.), and bound to warm up, a blustery mountain run in the shadows of a westering sun would challenge any runner, even one in cold-weather gear. I knew I'd be running Brewer fassion: shirtless and shaved. With some food in my core and a vision to focus on, I did some morning relaxing at a few of my favorite Asheville area Starbucks. Eggs, Belgium waffles and tea digesting, I also continued my hydrating trend. I was not sure yet which route I would be attempting, or what kind of mileage I'd be tackling. I knew it'd be on the BRP and that it would not be shy of 20 miles.
For some reason, Craggy Gardens had been on my mind. In fact I had been thinking about it for months. This section of the parkway begins at around 4,500 feet and is an area of balds, or flats, that plays host to Rhododendron and Mountain Loral and very little other vegetation other than rogue firs and lichen. Rather then head to the Grove Park Inn and check-in prior to my run as I had planned, I began the drive up the parkway to the Craggy Garden Welcome Center. I had made up my mind.
When I arrived at the welcome center, the wind was whipping and the air was considerably thinner. The temperature had dropped a good 10 - 15 degrees as well, and was reading 45 during the "heat" of the day. I wasted no time in stretching intensively, messaging my muscles to keep them warm. I'd be shedding my warm-up's soon. The windchill must have been in the 30's at warmest, and the sun was at a point where it would only go down from here on out. Night shadows arrive early in the mountains and I had to keep this in mind. Warmed up, limber and focused, I shed my "skin" and began the immediate accent up the Parkway.
Already, some of the tourists at the welcome center were looking at me, pointing (don't they know it's rude to point?) and commenting aloud about my attire. They'd say, "Look at that guy! He's only wearing those tiny shorts!", or something to that effect. I must add that all of the tourists were dressed as if they were on an Arctic trek. Up the first hill (it'd all be hills) and through a short, dark ice-filled tunnel the wind cut like blades. I could already feel my skin tightening and cracking. Dry wind on the tip of Winter's tongue. I must say, the first few miles were difficult. I am not talking about the weather or the actual miles, but more about the way that I felt: strong, but a little jammed up in the gearbox. So I kept it in low gear, which was what I needed to do anyway. I think that this slight pace-bind (it at least felt like a pace-bind) in the beginning was my bodies way of reminding me of how I need to pace with patience for my marathons. But my mile times were in the upper 7'00"s and I began to realize that my pace was not slow, but I in fact simply felt inhibited by the hight altitude (which was quickly approaching 5 Grand) and the change in the air's consistency and temperature.
The Rhododendron shimmered like a sea of diamonds, each tip and leaf coated in a thick crystal casing of ice, the sun making the mountain tops into kaleidoscopes of pink-white-silver. It was as if the Pink Beds (a spring blossoming event) were happening all over again in the late Autumn. Snow was hiding in the shadows of every turn that gave the mountain side relief from the pale but bright winter like sky. Rolling hills greeted me followed by a steady long down-hill, and then, after mile 5 or so, a steady incline began. The plant-life began to thicken, becoming Alpine-like: tall fir's and a few random deciduous stragglers. The only life other than plant and passing motorist were the wide variety of birds, squibbing and chattering among the icy forest floors and in the frosted tree tops. At this stage, I began to find some higher gears - I knew I'd need to intensify my momentum on the daunting up-hills and keep my body heat as high as I was able to by increasing my blood flow. Keeping my mind awake was vital as well. On runs like this you cannot afford to lose your focus. Once you do, a downward spiral is likely.
I plowed through miles 6-9 with what felt like relative ease, and at a few points on the road, I could see across the ravines back to the peak where I had started. It was an amazing and motivating perspective: to be able to see the ground you had already covered and to know you'd be returning on that same route. It was truly breathtaking. Down hill for miles 8-9: that was a savior of sorts, for I was starting to think too much about the run ahead and was nearing the point where I'd have to call upon my mind to focus on the "here and now" of the run. In short, I realized that if I did 20+ miles on this run, the 6-9 mile down-hill section would soon become miles 12-15 on the up-hill. Around the close of mile number 9, I reached Black Mountain Gap and was in the 6,000ft range: I had reached the final turn-off that lead up road 128 toward the Mt. Mitchell summit. All up-hill from here on until I rounded for my return.
It was at this point that my first feelings of worry came upon me. Mind you, I was not scared, but merely feeling an inkling of caution for the sudden change in conditions: I was now in full hiding of the already failing sunlight. I did not get a temperature reading, but I have no doubt that it had dropped into the the low 30's and I was already approaching my 10th mile. My body's core temperature was at risk of a rapid plummet and it took everything that I had (mind and body) to maintain what warmth I could. I wanted (and had planned) to reach the Mt. Mitchell Restaurant, but was forced to make take my turn-around for the homeward journey only about a mile after my accent up Mitchell's final steppes. I had reached a critical point in this session: turn around now, despite my determination to continue, or suffer the consequence of possible hypothermia (the temperature now threatening to plummet rapidly) and the possibility of my muscles refusing to keep up the fight in these demanding an unfamiliar conditions. I chose to surrender to the mountain. I now turned my attention toward the homeward journey which promised to test me.
I was literally feeling frozen as I descended mile 11. Thankfully, only 1 - 1.5 miles later, I rounded the bend which put me back on the BRP and I was hit by rays of warm life and hope giving sunlight. Unfortunately, this came with the price of miles 12-15 on the incline, and these miles turned into monsters rearing their both ugly and beautiful heads. I remember yelling out loud with a battle cry of sorts, challenging these ominous miles, this seemingly evil mountain road that hid its deadly weapons under the facade of immeasurable beauty. I reeled inside, yelling again and calling-out the mountain. It was here, getting up and over this section, that led my eye back across the miles I had already travelled to the finish in distance, the same view I had seen miles earlier, that view which had inspired and moved me so deeply. I could literally see the road-way snaking in and out of view as it darted in and out of view from ridge to ridge. The next 3 miles gave way to down-hills and I took full advantage. I had crossed over the "hurtle" that I had been expecting to meet and expecting to beat. My legs were really cooking now and my body temperature had been maintained. Life does not get better! I was looking at my last 5 or so miles and eager to defeat this run.
Ahead, as I rounded a hair-pin turn with the ice and snow crunching deliciously under my trainers, I caught a glimpse of what would be 3-4 miles of up-hill course. Rally the Battle Cry! I did. I charged. Oh my All Things Holy! this was going to test my character. "Mother Mary, full of grace, help me win this stock-car race." Legs in full cycle, arms in rhythmic motion, breathing in-and-out with a mantra-like pattern, I charged the "hill". It was another monster. I was plunged once again into shadow and bitter cold. The wind (ever-present all throughout this session) whipped my exposed flesh, and my quads seemed to be taking the worst of it - how they burned with the chill! With a mile to go and the top of the most prominent of the Craggy Balds in sight, I unloaded all of my aggression. I knew that on the last half-mile I'd have a down-hill kick available to me if I wanted it. A few more turns and a tunnel to go. I passed the half-mile to go mark and was in full-throttle. I felt like I was outrunning the winter-wind as I exploded into the Craggy Garden Welcome Center car-park.
Here's the funny thing: I did not feel winded when I eased out of my mode of traumatic psychological stress-induction. In fact, I did not even feel beat-up. I realized that I have had short-distance runs that have been more testing than this had been. This realization led me to re-enforce my belief and conviction that running is a battle of the mind and spirit, first and foremost. PERIOD. If a person does not have his mind and spirit in the right place; if he does not have his "armor" on - his full and untainted character - all the training in the world is useless.
I finished off that evening with a few ice-cold local beers at the bar in the Grove Park Inn's Great Hall, the company of a roaring fire in the hearth and a much needed and long overdue phone conversation with Daniel Eggars. We talked about old times, the do's and don'ts of training and the motivational experiences we had both had over the past many years. We talked about the upcoming marathon we'd both be sharing with one another, our first race together since more than 10 years prior. What I have been learning (all over again it seems) and remembering is that running has always consistently provided me with the most magical of days and the most awe-inspiring moments of my life. Running has always brought me back to square-one with God and myself: back to simply believing.
Always searching for the next Key Experience,
J. Brewer
It was late October of 2011, and I was counting down the days until Charlotte's Thunder Road 26.2. I had been planning a trip to Western North Carolina for quite some time, and this is something I try to do at least once prior to any race. As it neared late October, my window of opportunity was getting more and more narrow - I knew I'd need time to taper my training on the week before the race and November 12 was the day of the race. So on Saturday, October 29 I awoke early, packed my things and began to drive the highways north and west in order to escape the low-country's beautiful but zero sea level conditions.
I arrived outside of Asheville in the afternoon and found my first hotel just a stones throw from I-26, and thankfully only a few miles from The North Carolina Arboretum, which hosts one of my favorite short-mid range trails: Hardtimes. This trail is an all-around perfect loop, loaded with a healthy dose of inclines, down-hills and flats, and all of this is cradled in the beauty of the Pisgah National Forest. When I arrived at the trailhead it was a chilly 42 degrees, and the fall foliage was in it's prime at this elevation. I put in a brisk and demanding 6 miles, then headed for a hot shower and an eggplant dinner at one of my favorite local bistros. Back at my room, I fell asleep at around 8 o'clock, knowing that the following day would be one to remember for years to come.
I awoke to find ice on my car as the temperature had dropped to 28 degrees the night before. An ill omen for a runner who'd be tackling altitude near 6,000 feet later that day. Even though it was cloudless (an aid to the chilly temp.), and bound to warm up, a blustery mountain run in the shadows of a westering sun would challenge any runner, even one in cold-weather gear. I knew I'd be running Brewer fassion: shirtless and shaved. With some food in my core and a vision to focus on, I did some morning relaxing at a few of my favorite Asheville area Starbucks. Eggs, Belgium waffles and tea digesting, I also continued my hydrating trend. I was not sure yet which route I would be attempting, or what kind of mileage I'd be tackling. I knew it'd be on the BRP and that it would not be shy of 20 miles.
For some reason, Craggy Gardens had been on my mind. In fact I had been thinking about it for months. This section of the parkway begins at around 4,500 feet and is an area of balds, or flats, that plays host to Rhododendron and Mountain Loral and very little other vegetation other than rogue firs and lichen. Rather then head to the Grove Park Inn and check-in prior to my run as I had planned, I began the drive up the parkway to the Craggy Garden Welcome Center. I had made up my mind.
When I arrived at the welcome center, the wind was whipping and the air was considerably thinner. The temperature had dropped a good 10 - 15 degrees as well, and was reading 45 during the "heat" of the day. I wasted no time in stretching intensively, messaging my muscles to keep them warm. I'd be shedding my warm-up's soon. The windchill must have been in the 30's at warmest, and the sun was at a point where it would only go down from here on out. Night shadows arrive early in the mountains and I had to keep this in mind. Warmed up, limber and focused, I shed my "skin" and began the immediate accent up the Parkway.
Already, some of the tourists at the welcome center were looking at me, pointing (don't they know it's rude to point?) and commenting aloud about my attire. They'd say, "Look at that guy! He's only wearing those tiny shorts!", or something to that effect. I must add that all of the tourists were dressed as if they were on an Arctic trek. Up the first hill (it'd all be hills) and through a short, dark ice-filled tunnel the wind cut like blades. I could already feel my skin tightening and cracking. Dry wind on the tip of Winter's tongue. I must say, the first few miles were difficult. I am not talking about the weather or the actual miles, but more about the way that I felt: strong, but a little jammed up in the gearbox. So I kept it in low gear, which was what I needed to do anyway. I think that this slight pace-bind (it at least felt like a pace-bind) in the beginning was my bodies way of reminding me of how I need to pace with patience for my marathons. But my mile times were in the upper 7'00"s and I began to realize that my pace was not slow, but I in fact simply felt inhibited by the hight altitude (which was quickly approaching 5 Grand) and the change in the air's consistency and temperature.
The Rhododendron shimmered like a sea of diamonds, each tip and leaf coated in a thick crystal casing of ice, the sun making the mountain tops into kaleidoscopes of pink-white-silver. It was as if the Pink Beds (a spring blossoming event) were happening all over again in the late Autumn. Snow was hiding in the shadows of every turn that gave the mountain side relief from the pale but bright winter like sky. Rolling hills greeted me followed by a steady long down-hill, and then, after mile 5 or so, a steady incline began. The plant-life began to thicken, becoming Alpine-like: tall fir's and a few random deciduous stragglers. The only life other than plant and passing motorist were the wide variety of birds, squibbing and chattering among the icy forest floors and in the frosted tree tops. At this stage, I began to find some higher gears - I knew I'd need to intensify my momentum on the daunting up-hills and keep my body heat as high as I was able to by increasing my blood flow. Keeping my mind awake was vital as well. On runs like this you cannot afford to lose your focus. Once you do, a downward spiral is likely.
I plowed through miles 6-9 with what felt like relative ease, and at a few points on the road, I could see across the ravines back to the peak where I had started. It was an amazing and motivating perspective: to be able to see the ground you had already covered and to know you'd be returning on that same route. It was truly breathtaking. Down hill for miles 8-9: that was a savior of sorts, for I was starting to think too much about the run ahead and was nearing the point where I'd have to call upon my mind to focus on the "here and now" of the run. In short, I realized that if I did 20+ miles on this run, the 6-9 mile down-hill section would soon become miles 12-15 on the up-hill. Around the close of mile number 9, I reached Black Mountain Gap and was in the 6,000ft range: I had reached the final turn-off that lead up road 128 toward the Mt. Mitchell summit. All up-hill from here on until I rounded for my return.
It was at this point that my first feelings of worry came upon me. Mind you, I was not scared, but merely feeling an inkling of caution for the sudden change in conditions: I was now in full hiding of the already failing sunlight. I did not get a temperature reading, but I have no doubt that it had dropped into the the low 30's and I was already approaching my 10th mile. My body's core temperature was at risk of a rapid plummet and it took everything that I had (mind and body) to maintain what warmth I could. I wanted (and had planned) to reach the Mt. Mitchell Restaurant, but was forced to make take my turn-around for the homeward journey only about a mile after my accent up Mitchell's final steppes. I had reached a critical point in this session: turn around now, despite my determination to continue, or suffer the consequence of possible hypothermia (the temperature now threatening to plummet rapidly) and the possibility of my muscles refusing to keep up the fight in these demanding an unfamiliar conditions. I chose to surrender to the mountain. I now turned my attention toward the homeward journey which promised to test me.
I was literally feeling frozen as I descended mile 11. Thankfully, only 1 - 1.5 miles later, I rounded the bend which put me back on the BRP and I was hit by rays of warm life and hope giving sunlight. Unfortunately, this came with the price of miles 12-15 on the incline, and these miles turned into monsters rearing their both ugly and beautiful heads. I remember yelling out loud with a battle cry of sorts, challenging these ominous miles, this seemingly evil mountain road that hid its deadly weapons under the facade of immeasurable beauty. I reeled inside, yelling again and calling-out the mountain. It was here, getting up and over this section, that led my eye back across the miles I had already travelled to the finish in distance, the same view I had seen miles earlier, that view which had inspired and moved me so deeply. I could literally see the road-way snaking in and out of view as it darted in and out of view from ridge to ridge. The next 3 miles gave way to down-hills and I took full advantage. I had crossed over the "hurtle" that I had been expecting to meet and expecting to beat. My legs were really cooking now and my body temperature had been maintained. Life does not get better! I was looking at my last 5 or so miles and eager to defeat this run.
Ahead, as I rounded a hair-pin turn with the ice and snow crunching deliciously under my trainers, I caught a glimpse of what would be 3-4 miles of up-hill course. Rally the Battle Cry! I did. I charged. Oh my All Things Holy! this was going to test my character. "Mother Mary, full of grace, help me win this stock-car race." Legs in full cycle, arms in rhythmic motion, breathing in-and-out with a mantra-like pattern, I charged the "hill". It was another monster. I was plunged once again into shadow and bitter cold. The wind (ever-present all throughout this session) whipped my exposed flesh, and my quads seemed to be taking the worst of it - how they burned with the chill! With a mile to go and the top of the most prominent of the Craggy Balds in sight, I unloaded all of my aggression. I knew that on the last half-mile I'd have a down-hill kick available to me if I wanted it. A few more turns and a tunnel to go. I passed the half-mile to go mark and was in full-throttle. I felt like I was outrunning the winter-wind as I exploded into the Craggy Garden Welcome Center car-park.
Here's the funny thing: I did not feel winded when I eased out of my mode of traumatic psychological stress-induction. In fact, I did not even feel beat-up. I realized that I have had short-distance runs that have been more testing than this had been. This realization led me to re-enforce my belief and conviction that running is a battle of the mind and spirit, first and foremost. PERIOD. If a person does not have his mind and spirit in the right place; if he does not have his "armor" on - his full and untainted character - all the training in the world is useless.
I finished off that evening with a few ice-cold local beers at the bar in the Grove Park Inn's Great Hall, the company of a roaring fire in the hearth and a much needed and long overdue phone conversation with Daniel Eggars. We talked about old times, the do's and don'ts of training and the motivational experiences we had both had over the past many years. We talked about the upcoming marathon we'd both be sharing with one another, our first race together since more than 10 years prior. What I have been learning (all over again it seems) and remembering is that running has always consistently provided me with the most magical of days and the most awe-inspiring moments of my life. Running has always brought me back to square-one with God and myself: back to simply believing.
Always searching for the next Key Experience,
J. Brewer
Monday, December 5, 2011
Time Capsules: Their Changing Nature
Every competitive runner has his window of opportunity, his limited amount of time to make his maximum impact; his time capsule. This time capsule changes for runners as they age and enter new arenas of competition.
When we were young, we had goals that were undoubtedly unique to youth (namely high-school athletes) and were one-shot kind of situations. For the high-school runner, it was the State Meet, and more specifically their Senior State Meet. States is the time to put forward the culmination of all of your races and all of your training. The average high-school runner has roughly four years to prepare for this climax, and really only a handful of months in a single season. For the rest of the year, it is up to the individual to make the choices necessary during off-season training to achieve maximum success. This becomes hard for the easily distracted adolescent. Thus, this is why un-detered focus is vital. Put away your Nintendo, avoid those parties, and nourish that body because you only have one shot at this before you feel the toll of age and enter a bigger world.
When you go to University, there is a whole new TC (let's use TC as short for Time Capsule). Some young men and women choose to take there distance running to the collegiate level, and some don't. So here is where the first big transition takes place for most of us. To compete or not to compete, that is the question. The important thing is this: now it is more acceptable to say "no" to competing. In high-school, you really had no choice because of the time limitation and the need to make your mark at a young age.
Now, as an aging man or woman, the avenues of running become more broad. For me, backing off of the competitive approach after a one season at the college level allowed me to have a "breather" and allowed me to see things from a different perspective. I was able to let my body and mind rest (although I could have done with a few less beers). Some people burn themselves out. The thing is, we all "burn" at some point, but it is a matter of how we "burn" ourselves and how we manage and maintain our minds and bodies.
You do not have to experience a burn out and that is the bottom line. This is critical to understand. I say this because now you can realize that your TC is actually the rest of your life. The only limiter becomes the toll that time and age take on the body, and thus it becomes crucial to strictly monitor your health and training habits. It's okay to take time off, just like you did between seasons in high-school, even though you still trained at some level during the off-season. The only difference is that during that off-period, you approach the training with less intensity and demand. Now that you are an older, more experienced and independent runner, the climax in your training is up to you and not dictated by the prescribed season and a coach's program.
So in the end, I am saying that it is alright to breath easy as your windows of opportunity become less constricted by the demands of a teenage sporting life and a rigid competitive field. Even though time seems to move so much faster as we get older, we still have the power to shape our own TC's based on the relativity of our own individual lives. For me, it's one Marathon at a time, with my own needs being met on the training grounds, governed by my body's needs and my heart's desires, knowing that I am inevitably aging and still have a restricted window of opportunity for certain achievements. What those achievements are is up to you as a constant runner.
Always searching for the next Key Experience,
- J. Brewer
When we were young, we had goals that were undoubtedly unique to youth (namely high-school athletes) and were one-shot kind of situations. For the high-school runner, it was the State Meet, and more specifically their Senior State Meet. States is the time to put forward the culmination of all of your races and all of your training. The average high-school runner has roughly four years to prepare for this climax, and really only a handful of months in a single season. For the rest of the year, it is up to the individual to make the choices necessary during off-season training to achieve maximum success. This becomes hard for the easily distracted adolescent. Thus, this is why un-detered focus is vital. Put away your Nintendo, avoid those parties, and nourish that body because you only have one shot at this before you feel the toll of age and enter a bigger world.
When you go to University, there is a whole new TC (let's use TC as short for Time Capsule). Some young men and women choose to take there distance running to the collegiate level, and some don't. So here is where the first big transition takes place for most of us. To compete or not to compete, that is the question. The important thing is this: now it is more acceptable to say "no" to competing. In high-school, you really had no choice because of the time limitation and the need to make your mark at a young age.
Now, as an aging man or woman, the avenues of running become more broad. For me, backing off of the competitive approach after a one season at the college level allowed me to have a "breather" and allowed me to see things from a different perspective. I was able to let my body and mind rest (although I could have done with a few less beers). Some people burn themselves out. The thing is, we all "burn" at some point, but it is a matter of how we "burn" ourselves and how we manage and maintain our minds and bodies.
You do not have to experience a burn out and that is the bottom line. This is critical to understand. I say this because now you can realize that your TC is actually the rest of your life. The only limiter becomes the toll that time and age take on the body, and thus it becomes crucial to strictly monitor your health and training habits. It's okay to take time off, just like you did between seasons in high-school, even though you still trained at some level during the off-season. The only difference is that during that off-period, you approach the training with less intensity and demand. Now that you are an older, more experienced and independent runner, the climax in your training is up to you and not dictated by the prescribed season and a coach's program.
So in the end, I am saying that it is alright to breath easy as your windows of opportunity become less constricted by the demands of a teenage sporting life and a rigid competitive field. Even though time seems to move so much faster as we get older, we still have the power to shape our own TC's based on the relativity of our own individual lives. For me, it's one Marathon at a time, with my own needs being met on the training grounds, governed by my body's needs and my heart's desires, knowing that I am inevitably aging and still have a restricted window of opportunity for certain achievements. What those achievements are is up to you as a constant runner.
Always searching for the next Key Experience,
- J. Brewer
Friday, December 2, 2011
The Art of Zen Running: Part One
I'm probably going to be trying to perfect this for the rest of my life: what I call the art of Zen Running. In truth, I did not fully grasp this method of running until quite recently (and still am so far from mastering it). When I run, I have always allowed myself to find what I call the empty zone, but I never understood why it was an important practice: to quiet my mind and still the continuous flow of thoughts in my head. I'll try and put into words what I attempt to experience when the miles get thick. This will by no means do justice to the practice of this method, so you'll have to settle for my attempt at an explanation.
I think that the more a person understands, befriends and accepts their pain, the better chance he/she has of making that pain benign. Let me explain. If you can allow yourself to mentally "slip away" from the very idea of running long distance whilst doing it, you will cease to do what some call "suffer". I prefer to not think of it as suffering, but simply "what we experience". I do not mean that you should avoid thinking about the long distance of a run, but rather change the way you perceive it. If you can "slip away", you cease to be anywhere other than where you are; in the middle of what you are doing (in this case, in the middle of the very stride you are taking). Your focus is no longer on the hard road ahead, and you begin to no longer view the way forward as difficult.
Look at it in the way of time. Say that the future does not exist. If it did, you'd be able to see it, be able to interact with it. If you focus on the future, you may find yourself beginning to fear the upcoming miles. This can lead you to mental, and eventual physical defeat.
In "reality", you can only see now. You can only do now. There is a reason you say "I am running. " That is what you are doing. You will never be doing "will-be-running". Make sense? Good! What is - that's what matters. I am not negating the fact that you will and must plan for the future with your choices. I am stating that, as a runner who is absorbing the very essence of his endurance, the future does not matter. Your only focus becomes the very moment.
Looking at it from the other direction: the past does not exist in any form other than in your memory. Draw from your experiences. Your experiences exist in your mind as tools to propel you mentally and emotionally. As runners, we convert those mental and emotional drives into physical drive. The past itself has nothing to do with propelling you in any way other than psychologically, emotionally, spiritually. Thus your will and mind propel you forward physically. This is just as the wake of a ship or the jet stream of a plane do not propel the vessel forward. The visions and actions of the pilot/navigator of the boat or plane propel it, not it's physical trail/past. Your only view point should be that of the here and now. Your feelings and drives, your visions and actions come out of the now, albeit inspired by your past. If your focus is the here and now, the miles will slip by in a sort of euphoric haze. Pure bliss.
This takes a lot of work and focus. No getting around that. This is purely a state of mind I find best to be in when the miles deepen and the challenges become greater. It's a form of meditation. I am not wanting to get too deep into philosophy and spirituality. We'll leave that for another time when I am in the mood and/or under the influence of some magical substance, like oxygen. Keep training consistently and constantly.
Always searching for a new Key Experience,
-J. Brewer
I think that the more a person understands, befriends and accepts their pain, the better chance he/she has of making that pain benign. Let me explain. If you can allow yourself to mentally "slip away" from the very idea of running long distance whilst doing it, you will cease to do what some call "suffer". I prefer to not think of it as suffering, but simply "what we experience". I do not mean that you should avoid thinking about the long distance of a run, but rather change the way you perceive it. If you can "slip away", you cease to be anywhere other than where you are; in the middle of what you are doing (in this case, in the middle of the very stride you are taking). Your focus is no longer on the hard road ahead, and you begin to no longer view the way forward as difficult.
Look at it in the way of time. Say that the future does not exist. If it did, you'd be able to see it, be able to interact with it. If you focus on the future, you may find yourself beginning to fear the upcoming miles. This can lead you to mental, and eventual physical defeat.
In "reality", you can only see now. You can only do now. There is a reason you say "I am running. " That is what you are doing. You will never be doing "will-be-running". Make sense? Good! What is - that's what matters. I am not negating the fact that you will and must plan for the future with your choices. I am stating that, as a runner who is absorbing the very essence of his endurance, the future does not matter. Your only focus becomes the very moment.
Looking at it from the other direction: the past does not exist in any form other than in your memory. Draw from your experiences. Your experiences exist in your mind as tools to propel you mentally and emotionally. As runners, we convert those mental and emotional drives into physical drive. The past itself has nothing to do with propelling you in any way other than psychologically, emotionally, spiritually. Thus your will and mind propel you forward physically. This is just as the wake of a ship or the jet stream of a plane do not propel the vessel forward. The visions and actions of the pilot/navigator of the boat or plane propel it, not it's physical trail/past. Your only view point should be that of the here and now. Your feelings and drives, your visions and actions come out of the now, albeit inspired by your past. If your focus is the here and now, the miles will slip by in a sort of euphoric haze. Pure bliss.
This takes a lot of work and focus. No getting around that. This is purely a state of mind I find best to be in when the miles deepen and the challenges become greater. It's a form of meditation. I am not wanting to get too deep into philosophy and spirituality. We'll leave that for another time when I am in the mood and/or under the influence of some magical substance, like oxygen. Keep training consistently and constantly.
Always searching for a new Key Experience,
-J. Brewer
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