All does not seem well with the group on our warm-up run to Zilker. We are listless, dragging, in a fog. Hung over maybe? Or maybe the fact that it is the most uncomfortable 5:45am in Austin, Texas, since like 1925. After we arrive, we hover around the Accelerade, acting all passive aggressive about starting the pre-workout drills. Maybe Gilbert will just forget about them. Eventually, we own up to the chore and lope down the road sideways. I stop at about 10 yards, setting a provocatively low bar, but I’m soon overruled and openly mocked by the more committed in the group.
Gilbert approaches from his truck with . . . . is that . . . yes, I believe that is. . . it's a strut, he's got a strut going on . . . showing off his sleek and highly German Falke running wear. Work it, Coach. Gilbert acknowledges the insane humidity and, in pity, knocks off a repeat. He then tells us how to determine our goal pace through some kind of algebraic equation involving our 800m average, our tempo run split, our twelfth mile on our last long run, and how many times we’ve seen the Prefontaine movie, “Without Limit.” For me, that worked out to about 6:40.
As leaden as I felt, I still thought 6:40 would be easy, especially since I beat that pace through the 4 X 2000’s last week. Dan and I run pretty much together now, and we lead off the first group. What the dillio, Dan, why are we running so slow?
We round a corner.
Oh I see.
It’s all becoming clearer now. There are hills. There are hills on this course. I’m terrible on hills. The sense of doom looms large.
The biggest hill hits us first and we dig in to start the climb. Dan appears unphased, his pace constant. I’m sure everyone knows Dan Buie, so I won't go into detail about him, but I’ll just say that, uh, his core is better than mine. In fact, his core is better than that of most of the population. Of the world. COMBINED. (Don’t try to pass him, because his left oblique will jump out and wrestle you to the ground.) I immediately fall back a few yards and huff loudly and awkwardly. Successive smaller hills bring the same pattern, yet I always pull even shortly afterward. See, hills actually let me display what I am most proud of: my incredible strength running downhill. I am like lightning.
We put up our first repeat of 6:50. Forget about falling off the 6:40 wagon, we didn’t even get on it yet. We run a much more disciplined 2nd mile at 6:39. At this point I was planning on sticking to the 6:40 goal, but Dan rationalized a 6:30 for the 3rd to make up for our sorry 6:50. I did not approve of this idea. None of this “making it up” silliness, let's just move on with our lives. But, being all competitive, I went with it. We run our 3rd in the upper 6:20’s with Dan about three seconds ahead of me. Dan is incredibly punctual with the 2-minute rest period, but on the last one I buy some time, acting like there’s something in my shoe. Dan, you are too fast, give me half a break! We finally take off, and, knowing the drill, I use up everything I got. I stumble in on Dan’s heels at 6:19.
As terrible as that felt, that felt really good.
I look to Coach for approval.
His head is in his notebook. “That was too fast.”
!!!!!!
“What are you talking about, we were supposed to drop the bomb!”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“No way, man, you’re crazy.”
“The last repeat is always the bomb, that’s the pattern that has been established. Last repeat means bomb!”
“You weren’t supposed to dig deep this time. You needed to hold off a bit because next month you’re going to have to run five of these-- and five seconds faster.”
I am learning that Gilbert is the master of the mind game. Maybe it’s bomb time, maybe it’s not. Don’t assume!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
Fire the Glutes!
I now must confess a secret. It’s unpleasant. It’s dark. It’s not something I am proud of. Okay, here goes: My entire time with the Gazelles, I’ve been running on an injury. There, said it.
Back in April, about three weeks after my last marathon, I pulled/strained/pissed off my hamstring on my first seven-mile ease-back-into-it jog. Running on it was impossible. I banished myself to the cardio room at the Y for twelve days on an elliptical trainer. A trying time. Breaks like that make some runners seek counseling.
It went away for awhile, but then returned. This time less painful, and it seemed to move up and down the back of my leg. Through all the hard running of the first few weeks of the program, it loomed and irritated, and got worse. I needed Coach’s advice.
I attempt to meet Gilbert in his office to discuss my situation. I get there two minutes early, but he’s not there. I comb the hallway of the building. Nope. I walk over to the Annex where his red Tacoma is parked, only to find the building locked. I sweep the entire RunTex compound. The mystery deepens. I return to his office and he’s sitting there on his phone again.
“Where were you?” I ask, baffled.
“I was here.”
It remains unexplained how Gilbert and I did not run into each other. I consider this proof that Gilbert has the ability to “materialize.”
I begin listing my symptoms. “So the pain kind of roams around, but it’s generally really high up on my hamstring and—“
“Fire the Glutes!”
Pause
“What?”
“Your glutes, man, your glutes!”
Pause.
“I don’t understand what you just said. ”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, your G-L-U-T-E-S.”
Pause.
Another pause. A long one.
“You’re referring to my butt?”
“Of course, your butt. All your power comes from your butt. You need to learn to run with it. The pain isn’t from your hamstring. It’s a nerve. You have adverse neural tension. “
Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.
“Go see Pieter at Sports Performance International. Tell him I sent you. He will take care of it.”
In Dr. Ted Spears’ office at SPI the next day, I begin my story: “Hi Dr. Spears, I’m Robert, nice to meet you. So, I injured my hamstring and it got better, but then it came back and—“
“You have adverse neural tension.”
“Okay, that’s good enough for me.”
Factoring in the time writing the check toward my deductible, I’m out of the office in about three minutes. And I’ve got my hands on a script for physical therapy with Pieter Kroon, famed healer of lame Gazelles. Surely his hands can rid me of this demon nerve pain.
(Pt. 2 of the story about my butt will continue in a later post.)
Back in April, about three weeks after my last marathon, I pulled/strained/pissed off my hamstring on my first seven-mile ease-back-into-it jog. Running on it was impossible. I banished myself to the cardio room at the Y for twelve days on an elliptical trainer. A trying time. Breaks like that make some runners seek counseling.
It went away for awhile, but then returned. This time less painful, and it seemed to move up and down the back of my leg. Through all the hard running of the first few weeks of the program, it loomed and irritated, and got worse. I needed Coach’s advice.
I attempt to meet Gilbert in his office to discuss my situation. I get there two minutes early, but he’s not there. I comb the hallway of the building. Nope. I walk over to the Annex where his red Tacoma is parked, only to find the building locked. I sweep the entire RunTex compound. The mystery deepens. I return to his office and he’s sitting there on his phone again.
“Where were you?” I ask, baffled.
“I was here.”
It remains unexplained how Gilbert and I did not run into each other. I consider this proof that Gilbert has the ability to “materialize.”
I begin listing my symptoms. “So the pain kind of roams around, but it’s generally really high up on my hamstring and—“
“Fire the Glutes!”
Pause
“What?”
“Your glutes, man, your glutes!”
Pause.
“I don’t understand what you just said. ”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, your G-L-U-T-E-S.”
Pause.
Another pause. A long one.
“You’re referring to my butt?”
“Of course, your butt. All your power comes from your butt. You need to learn to run with it. The pain isn’t from your hamstring. It’s a nerve. You have adverse neural tension. “
Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.
“Go see Pieter at Sports Performance International. Tell him I sent you. He will take care of it.”
In Dr. Ted Spears’ office at SPI the next day, I begin my story: “Hi Dr. Spears, I’m Robert, nice to meet you. So, I injured my hamstring and it got better, but then it came back and—“
“You have adverse neural tension.”
“Okay, that’s good enough for me.”
Factoring in the time writing the check toward my deductible, I’m out of the office in about three minutes. And I’ve got my hands on a script for physical therapy with Pieter Kroon, famed healer of lame Gazelles. Surely his hands can rid me of this demon nerve pain.
(Pt. 2 of the story about my butt will continue in a later post.)
Monday, July 21, 2008
Weeks 3-4: Cue the montage where the dude gets stronger
The next two weeks feel sort of like a movie to me—the part where, to a rousing score performed either by one of those 80’s bands like Europe or Asia or Sylvester Stallone’s brother (seriously, look it up), the protagonist attacks his weaknesses on all fronts and slowly but steadily improves.
Cut to me in the gym as Gilbert shows us the hip flexor machine. I drape the wrong leg over the bar, it lurches upward, and I’m awkwardly splayed against the device. Gilbert and onlooking Gazelles, frightened, jump to my aid—“Hey, dudes, it’s all good!” I confidently assure them.
Cut to my second long run where, in my supreme confidence that I can modify the course and run fewer hills, I turn onto a street called “Hillview.”
Cut to Gilbert at a chalkboard, drawing 1000 meters on a track for me. “Robert, you start on this side of the track, but you end up on the OTHER side . . . “
Back to the gym and Coach is explaining the hamstring curl machine. I lie down and complete a few reps. “No, Robert, this one is for your legs.” “Aah,” as I get up and turn around, “Yeah, this feels better.”
Fade up on the 4-mile tempo run. Once again, my plan is to follow the first few runners and see what happens. When he tells us to take off, everyone bolts. Whoa, this is like a real race. I fall in behind Dan, whom I know at this point is faster than me, but I just want him to pull me a little quicker than my regular pace. Little by little he’s putting on distance, but, hey, at least I’m running slightly slower consistently. Somehow that's kind of good. I guess. Drops of water are hitting me in the face, but rather than falling from above, they are materializing in the air in front of me. It's like a cloud forest has formed around Town Lake. Only grosser and without parrots. At about three and a half, with Dan's shirtless back disappearing in the distance, I ease up a bit. One, because I am about to puke, and two, because I want to save up for the big finish. So I pick it up and give it everything, although the effect is far less dramatic than I had envisioned. I cross the zero mile marker as Frank Stallone’s “Far From Over” swells. Gilbert glances at his watch and stares out across the lake, steely, contemplative: “He’s getting stronger . . . ”
Fade out.
I run 27:36, which I think is okay in terms of my progress in this hot groady weather. Coach tells me I looked like I had gas in my tank. I didn’t really, but I’m glad to know my acting training has been put to good use. I do think that the circuit work and the 3 X/week gym work on my core and legs have been helping. And when I operate the machines correctly, that’s when I really start to notice a difference.
Cut to me in the gym as Gilbert shows us the hip flexor machine. I drape the wrong leg over the bar, it lurches upward, and I’m awkwardly splayed against the device. Gilbert and onlooking Gazelles, frightened, jump to my aid—“Hey, dudes, it’s all good!” I confidently assure them.
Cut to my second long run where, in my supreme confidence that I can modify the course and run fewer hills, I turn onto a street called “Hillview.”
Cut to Gilbert at a chalkboard, drawing 1000 meters on a track for me. “Robert, you start on this side of the track, but you end up on the OTHER side . . . “
Back to the gym and Coach is explaining the hamstring curl machine. I lie down and complete a few reps. “No, Robert, this one is for your legs.” “Aah,” as I get up and turn around, “Yeah, this feels better.”
Fade up on the 4-mile tempo run. Once again, my plan is to follow the first few runners and see what happens. When he tells us to take off, everyone bolts. Whoa, this is like a real race. I fall in behind Dan, whom I know at this point is faster than me, but I just want him to pull me a little quicker than my regular pace. Little by little he’s putting on distance, but, hey, at least I’m running slightly slower consistently. Somehow that's kind of good. I guess. Drops of water are hitting me in the face, but rather than falling from above, they are materializing in the air in front of me. It's like a cloud forest has formed around Town Lake. Only grosser and without parrots. At about three and a half, with Dan's shirtless back disappearing in the distance, I ease up a bit. One, because I am about to puke, and two, because I want to save up for the big finish. So I pick it up and give it everything, although the effect is far less dramatic than I had envisioned. I cross the zero mile marker as Frank Stallone’s “Far From Over” swells. Gilbert glances at his watch and stares out across the lake, steely, contemplative: “He’s getting stronger . . . ”
Fade out.
I run 27:36, which I think is okay in terms of my progress in this hot groady weather. Coach tells me I looked like I had gas in my tank. I didn’t really, but I’m glad to know my acting training has been put to good use. I do think that the circuit work and the 3 X/week gym work on my core and legs have been helping. And when I operate the machines correctly, that’s when I really start to notice a difference.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
6 X 1000 = OMG
For all the marathon training I’ve endured, I’ve never included speedwork in my program. In fact, other than just running a whole lot every week, I haven’t included much of anything. I started training from a Xeroxed copy of a mileage chart from Jeff Galloway’s book, Marathon: You Can Do It! The chart fell under the heading, “Running a Marathon: To Finish.” After finishing ten marathons, I think it’s time for a new chart.
So we all gathered at the Austin High track and Gilbert sorted us into groups. Gilbert put me in the first group and dutily informed me we’d be running six 1000’s. As he shoved us off, Gilbert decreed a 7:00/mi. I had no idea what that meant over six 1000’s. Would that be tough or what? I just followed the group and hoped everything would work out. Other than initially blanking on how many laps 1000 meters is (400m is one lap, so that’s what, like three laps?!), the first interval went smoothly. I could do this six times.
Right??
Two and three go by and, while it’s getting tougher, I still feel in control. After the fourth, I’m spending my cool down period hogging the Accelerade, blocking people from actually getting to it. I am sweating an ungodly amount. I hold on through the fifth, staying in the middle of the pack and thinking I have just enough to squeak out a 7:00/mi. for a sixth time. As we lumber back onto the track and get in our now half-assed starting positions, Gilbert announces, “Okay, guys, for this last one, you are going to DROP THE BOMB!”
What?
Qu’est que c’est, “Le Bomb?”
I ask a fellow Gazelle what that means.
”It’s when you run really fast, much faster than your previous pace.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I hadn’t planned for that. Had I received some notice . . . “
And the group has left me.
I instinctively lurch forward and begin the catch-up game. Man, this sucks. I gradually move about halfway through the pack. I did not leave enough in the tank for this. My form is ridiculously bad, I am flailing my arms, and my head is bouncing around like one of those bobblehead things. The people in front of me begin to RUN FASTER. WTF, dudes! I make it into a line of about seven runners by the end of the second lap. As we round the final turn, Gilbert calls out TO ME and ME ALONE, “Robert, watch your form! You are leaning to the side!” Tell me about it. At this point though it’s hard for me to do that and breathe at the same time. On the final straightaway, the first three runners air it out and I, attempting to stay with them, feel my breakfast make a move upward. I put on the brakes and one or two people pass me as I reach 1000.
That. Was. Tough.
I walk around the track toward Gilbert to give him my times, self-consciously maintaining perfect form. (I can at least walk right, can’t I? Can’t I??) First five were in the 4:20-4:10 range, and the sixth came in at 3:39. I earn a sincere “Good job” from Coach, which gives me a nice lift. I stumble onto the trail for the two-mile lug back to RunTex, and reflect on how running with the Gazelles makes my mornings feel so productive. I get all excited pondering lunch options. Then I realize it’s 7:00am.
So we all gathered at the Austin High track and Gilbert sorted us into groups. Gilbert put me in the first group and dutily informed me we’d be running six 1000’s. As he shoved us off, Gilbert decreed a 7:00/mi. I had no idea what that meant over six 1000’s. Would that be tough or what? I just followed the group and hoped everything would work out. Other than initially blanking on how many laps 1000 meters is (400m is one lap, so that’s what, like three laps?!), the first interval went smoothly. I could do this six times.
Right??
Two and three go by and, while it’s getting tougher, I still feel in control. After the fourth, I’m spending my cool down period hogging the Accelerade, blocking people from actually getting to it. I am sweating an ungodly amount. I hold on through the fifth, staying in the middle of the pack and thinking I have just enough to squeak out a 7:00/mi. for a sixth time. As we lumber back onto the track and get in our now half-assed starting positions, Gilbert announces, “Okay, guys, for this last one, you are going to DROP THE BOMB!”
What?
Qu’est que c’est, “Le Bomb?”
I ask a fellow Gazelle what that means.
”It’s when you run really fast, much faster than your previous pace.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I hadn’t planned for that. Had I received some notice . . . “
And the group has left me.
I instinctively lurch forward and begin the catch-up game. Man, this sucks. I gradually move about halfway through the pack. I did not leave enough in the tank for this. My form is ridiculously bad, I am flailing my arms, and my head is bouncing around like one of those bobblehead things. The people in front of me begin to RUN FASTER. WTF, dudes! I make it into a line of about seven runners by the end of the second lap. As we round the final turn, Gilbert calls out TO ME and ME ALONE, “Robert, watch your form! You are leaning to the side!” Tell me about it. At this point though it’s hard for me to do that and breathe at the same time. On the final straightaway, the first three runners air it out and I, attempting to stay with them, feel my breakfast make a move upward. I put on the brakes and one or two people pass me as I reach 1000.
That. Was. Tough.
I walk around the track toward Gilbert to give him my times, self-consciously maintaining perfect form. (I can at least walk right, can’t I? Can’t I??) First five were in the 4:20-4:10 range, and the sixth came in at 3:39. I earn a sincere “Good job” from Coach, which gives me a nice lift. I stumble onto the trail for the two-mile lug back to RunTex, and reflect on how running with the Gazelles makes my mornings feel so productive. I get all excited pondering lunch options. Then I realize it’s 7:00am.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
If I Only Had a Core
For my third Gazelles workout, Gilbert mandated circuit training. I haven’t done anything like this since junior high soccer practice. We start with a 400m lap, and follow with a sequence of step ups, push ups, crunches, these things called ‘Superman . . .' things or whatever they are, squats while leaning against a fence and lunges. Then it’s back on the track and repeat four times. I find this surprisingly demanding. It’s like digging deep into your closet and pulling out shoes you haven’t worn in five years, but they’re your muscles. It’s like, oh yeah, I have those. But you need them to run better, stronger and faster, so this is all part of my awakening to actual proper running.
When we’re done we gather inside the track for the real fun and games. We hop around on both feet, then one at a time. Then we perform something called ’15-45-90,’ which, in terms of general discomfort, I think ranks just below waterboarding. We lie on our backs and raise our legs together, first at a 15-degree angle for 15 seconds. Then, it’s 45 degrees for 45 seconds. And, finally, 90 degrees, 90 seconds. Oh my sweet Jesus. It was clear who the yoga and pilates practitioners in the group were, because they all passed with flying colors. I, however, did not. At 45 degrees my legs bended and drooped, and my 90 morphed into a 70. I ended the exercise in a crumpled distorted heap, my arms stretching up into the sky grasping for something, anything, that could pull me from this hell. Where did my core go? Do I even have a core? I seem to be core-less. Note to self: Find your core. Get to know it. Work on it.
Finally, Gilbert leads us in a call and response exercise type deal where we pound furiously on the ground with our feet while he sings “Iyo Ngwe” and we repeat back to him. In Kirundi I believe it literally means “Hey, there’s a lion,” or “A lion lies in wait.” But what it really means is “If you don’t have a core, you’re screwed.” I wanted to modify the exchange to say, “Robert’s lying on the ground,” but I didn’t get much support.
Still, this is the best medicine for me. My form is terrible, and if I want to stop flapping my left arm around and leaning to the side—as Gilbert is always eager to point out— I need to strengthen and engage my core muscles. If there was just a way to do that without those pesky 15, 45 and 90 second Guantanamo-style leg lifts, I’d be a much happier camper.
When we’re done we gather inside the track for the real fun and games. We hop around on both feet, then one at a time. Then we perform something called ’15-45-90,’ which, in terms of general discomfort, I think ranks just below waterboarding. We lie on our backs and raise our legs together, first at a 15-degree angle for 15 seconds. Then, it’s 45 degrees for 45 seconds. And, finally, 90 degrees, 90 seconds. Oh my sweet Jesus. It was clear who the yoga and pilates practitioners in the group were, because they all passed with flying colors. I, however, did not. At 45 degrees my legs bended and drooped, and my 90 morphed into a 70. I ended the exercise in a crumpled distorted heap, my arms stretching up into the sky grasping for something, anything, that could pull me from this hell. Where did my core go? Do I even have a core? I seem to be core-less. Note to self: Find your core. Get to know it. Work on it.
Finally, Gilbert leads us in a call and response exercise type deal where we pound furiously on the ground with our feet while he sings “Iyo Ngwe” and we repeat back to him. In Kirundi I believe it literally means “Hey, there’s a lion,” or “A lion lies in wait.” But what it really means is “If you don’t have a core, you’re screwed.” I wanted to modify the exchange to say, “Robert’s lying on the ground,” but I didn’t get much support.
Still, this is the best medicine for me. My form is terrible, and if I want to stop flapping my left arm around and leaning to the side—as Gilbert is always eager to point out— I need to strengthen and engage my core muscles. If there was just a way to do that without those pesky 15, 45 and 90 second Guantanamo-style leg lifts, I’d be a much happier camper.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Gazelle newbie: Week one
So I make it through my first two Gazelle sessions without serious injury or embarrassment. Emphasis on ‘serious.’ In the first one, Gilbert told me to run a 5-mile fartlek and I was so proud of the fact that I broke from the group about a third of the way through and fartlek’d on my own. I show up at RunTex acting all cool, like, “Hey Gilbert, what do you think of that? Can I go straight to the pace run now or what?” Gilbert instructs me to do strides at Auditorium Shores with the faster runners who ran seven. Ooh, ouch. In my face.
Saturday morning marked not only my first long run with the Gazelles, but the first time I have ever been awake at 5:45am on a Saturday. Clearly I do not understand the concept of warming up, as I start out ahead of the entire group for about two miles. The faster ones creep up on me and before I know it I’m hanging out in the second or third group. I start chatting with Margaret, who’s also running New York, and preoccupied with our conversation, we fall in with the wrong crowd—runners of questionable character and judgment whose names I won’t reveal here. Okay, Fletcher and Jorge. I thought they said they were taking the Scenic route—as in Scenic Drive-- but what they meant was the “scenic” route up to 45th and east, then north through UT campus and back to RunTex. As we venture forth on the revised course, Gilbert drives by in his Tacoma and yells, “Robert, turn back. Do not run with them.” Thanks, Gilbert, that was embarrassing. What is the big deal? Oh, Fletcher runs like a 2:45 marathon. And uh, I don’t. Oops! My 10-mile run ends up being about thirteen, and Margaret and I pull up to Auditorium Shores a few minutes behind the crazy fast people.
Saturday morning marked not only my first long run with the Gazelles, but the first time I have ever been awake at 5:45am on a Saturday. Clearly I do not understand the concept of warming up, as I start out ahead of the entire group for about two miles. The faster ones creep up on me and before I know it I’m hanging out in the second or third group. I start chatting with Margaret, who’s also running New York, and preoccupied with our conversation, we fall in with the wrong crowd—runners of questionable character and judgment whose names I won’t reveal here. Okay, Fletcher and Jorge. I thought they said they were taking the Scenic route—as in Scenic Drive-- but what they meant was the “scenic” route up to 45th and east, then north through UT campus and back to RunTex. As we venture forth on the revised course, Gilbert drives by in his Tacoma and yells, “Robert, turn back. Do not run with them.” Thanks, Gilbert, that was embarrassing. What is the big deal? Oh, Fletcher runs like a 2:45 marathon. And uh, I don’t. Oops! My 10-mile run ends up being about thirteen, and Margaret and I pull up to Auditorium Shores a few minutes behind the crazy fast people.
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