In the moment of the first real run

In the moment of the first real run

The power and the glory

The heart rate monitor beeped.  I could not get my rate down to the zone two I was supposed to be starting this workout in.

I thought I would feel some sort of euphoria, some sort of hidden spiritual power reawakened after six months of not running.  But I only could feel that my breathing was hard and my mechanics felt unnatural.

Like a classic car pulled from a barn after 40 years abandoned under chicken poop and hay my legs and system were not quite sure what to do with the road.

It was an unlikely February afternoon.  Partly cloudy.  Warm in the 40’s with a slight breeze that carried coldness like the suppressed memory of a winter’s day.  I had known that it would be warm and packed a light running kit for this first real workout.  Sometimes when I find what I have packed or not packed when sleepy and rushed in the morning before work I am surprised.

It appeared I had packed for June, not February. High cut shorts; black. A short sleeve tech shirt; black. My Diabetes Action Team hat from the Chicago Marathon; white and hopeful.  White gloves for the hands. It was a warm day, but not that warm.  So I threw on over this a Dickies vest, of a tough, thick, industrial material, also black that I got as a promotional item from work at some conference.  This late addition was fortuitous to block the wind and provide deep pockets.

Of course I accessorized nattily with some cheap sunglasses, that when paired with my beard, I imagine give me a mean, mysterious and grizzled look of fierceness and I quite like that idea.

I was clutching a small water bottle full of Gatorade I mixed up.  I was worried that not having carried anything for months I might get shoulder cramps, but I knew I’d want the fluids for this workout.  It was a perfect weather zone where you don’t sweat too much but you’re not cold either.  I thought I might want the sugar for this first hard work out and I mixed it on the strong side.

Brooks Launch.  Neutral, cushioned. Good for speed, but good for comfort too.  Shorty socks from the NewBalance store.  Well I guess I’m dressed like a runner anyhoo.  We’ll see if I can still run like one.

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I’m a connoisseur of roadside junk. Ketchup packets lay in the road amidst the winter grit.  My feet crunch on the edge of the gutter.  Small, ground up remnants of industry.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Rust never sleeps.  I check my form.  All good. Now I’m in zone three and it’s all good because zone three is my natural state.  The road crunches away under the pit-pat of my footfall.  No pain.  Good power.

I focus on keeping the horses reined in.  Keep it in low zone three because the real test is still to come.  We still needed to make that big assessment of whether the body can take it.  We need to see what part of the machine cracks and wobbles when we shift into race effort.  That is what today is about.  More importantly, like the black cloud of worry we need to see if the foot is still ok after, tonight, tomorrow, the day after.

Like a NASA launch sequence Coach and I ease the old machine into the telling workout.  20 minutes easy, zone two.  20 minutes average in zone three. Then 20 minutes hard in zone four. That’s the stinker.  Will my legs let me get into zone four and will my engine be able to keep me there?  Will we throw a pushrod through the cylinder wall when we get up to highway speed?

A gulp of Gatorade.  Check the effort.  Check the form. Check the watch. Check the traffic.  Breathe.

A False alarm at the turn around point 35 minutes in.  A secluded neighborhood with big, old trees close in to the road.  I erroneously pick up the effort and strain into zone four up the hill before I realize that I’m 5 minutes early and back it down.  Even in my recovery I try to jump the gun, to skip the process and go straight to the knife’s edge.

And then the time is right.

The engine shudders and complains as I slowly, gingerly depress the accelerator and ease into a zone four effort.  This is it. This is the make or break point of six months of healing.  Six months of exile from my natural state.

The Garmin numbers click up. 3.7, 3.8, 3.9, 4.1.  And I try to hold that effort without overshooting.  I have programmed the device to only show time and effort.  I don’t want to know what my pace is.  I don’t want the pressure and distraction of racing my own ghosts.  Ghosts of campaigns past and ghosts of youth.  You can’t win that race, but you feel compelled to try.

It’s a rolling downhill section with a New England tarmac sidewalk.  I forget to smile.  I’m like an accountant or an engineer.  There is no wild joy.  It is measurement and control systems.  I am a retired machine operator who has been recalled to service because no one else can remember how this thing works.

It becomes hard.  My legs are hurting but my lungs and heart are ok.  That’s what I would expect.  I focus into the hardness.  Pushing my hips forward and running tall from my core while maintaining the effort.  It hurts and I feel like I’m not keeping up.  I feel like my form is bad and I have no power, no strength and no natural rhythm.  It feels foreign.

13 minutes into the proscribed 20 minutes my quads are screaming and I take a little walk break to shake things out.  It’s ok.  One can expect to have some pushback from the legs.  Running is a very specific activity and cross training can only do so much.

I pick it up and finish the 20 minutes in zone 4 with conviction.  That conviction is that I can still do this thing.  All I really lack is the conditioning.  And the conditioning is the easiest thing to get.

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Back in the office I grab the mutated brick of frozen peas that I’ve been using on various aches and pains for over a year and nestle my heal into it.  It aches but it doesn’t hurt. Not like an injury, more like the memory of an injury.  The ghost of an injury.  I take 3 ibuprofen to keep the ghost in the closet.  It feels ok.

…

In the morning and the following day is the acid test for an injury like this.  As I put my feet on the floor and unwrap the Achilles splint there is no new pain.  The day progresses.  I massage it out and there is no new pain.

The first real workout sifts into the win column and there is no new pain.

Chris Russelllives and trains in suburban Massachusetts with his family and Border collie Buddy.  Chris is the author of “The Mid-Packer’s Lament”, and “The Mid-Packer’s Guide to the Galaxy”, short stories on running, racing, and the human comedy of the mid-pack.  Chris writes the Runnerati Blog at www.runnerati.com.  Chris’ Podcast, RunRunLive is available on iTunes and at www.runrunlive.com. Chris also writes for CoolRunning.com (Active.com) and is a member of the Squannacook River Runners and the Goon Squad.

Email me at cyktrussell at Gmail dot com

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