Trip to the Sunburnt Country

Here’s a forgotten workout, from way back in August. What a difference five weeks and 10 degrees makes.


---August 14th---

Work and personal beeswax keep me from the Wednesday morning class, so I salvage the week by hauling through rush hour to Thursday afternoon. I step under the RunTex Annex awning at 5:30 and into a strange and exotic world! It’s like I’ve entered the Australian Outback. Dudes and ladies in this class seem tougher, salty, leathery. I’m waiting for someone to pull out a can of Foster’s and a machete and brag, “Now, that’s a knife.” They aren’t stretching, they’re lounging, conserving energy, waiting until the very last moment when they have to dive into the oven that surrounds Town Lake.

It’s 101 and we will be doing eight 800’s at Austin High. Run with Joy!

I impress myself by making it all the way to the track. The trail exit opens to an expansive, shadeless plain. Dingoes wander the football field. I hear a faint didgeridoo. A breeze cools it down to about 99. Refreshing. Half-assing the warm-up drills while sucking in air from a hair dryer, I have to laugh at how insane this is. The only thing that could make this scene any more absurd would be if Gilbert forgot the Accelerade.

“Hey Coach, which one is the Accel . . . “ trailing off as I head for the coolers. “Hmmm,“ I start rocking them back and forth. “Maybe . . . it’s not mixed very well . . . or . . . (then, in slow motion) OOOOOH, NOOOOOOOO!”

I feverishly down as much water as I can while Gilbert gives the obligatory heat caution and divides us up. I’m nowhere near the front of the pack with these vets and I start in the 3rd or 4th group, pairing with Andre who seems to be a good sport about the fact that I am pacially challenged.

The first 800 yields a slowish 3:13 and a slightly disapproving stare from Coach. Hey, it’s a little toasty! Round two we speed it up to 3:10. Whew, six and a half minutes of running and I’m ready to call it a day. But, no! For the 3rd repeat it’s my turn to pace and I fumble. Rounding the last turn and looking at a 3:10, this fellow—this Mario character—pulls a Zola Budd and runs right next to me, uncomfortably close, matching my stride and staring at me. What the hell is he doing? Does he want to tell me something? Is there a booger in my nose, what? He speeds up and I, totally flustered and in some kind of must-not–lose-to-the-strange-guy reflex, chase him in to a 3:06.

I usually find a groove with repeats and the middle few end up the easiest. No groove today. Nada. Ixnay on the oovegray. Before each one I pour water over my head, pull my cap lower, and pray. Still, through the misery, Andre and I haul in 3:08’s and 3:09’s over the next four.

Gilbert floats the suggestion of dropping the bomb and a sub-3:00 final repeat but says I’m under no obligation, which of course makes me feel guilty for even considering not dropping the bomb, and so I decide to drop the bomb. Brilliant mind game, Coach! At 200 meters, Andre says to me, “No way I’m doing this under three,” and falls behind. But, little do I know, Andre is actually pulling the time-honored racing strategy known as “the fake out.” With half a lap left, Andre surges forward almost effortlessly and cruises in about five seconds ahead. Getting all Usain Bolt on me, he looks backward, pounds his chest and shouts “Jamaica RAAAARRR!” I stagger in to his taunts at 2:58.

And yet I thought it was all over. Oh how naive I can be.

Gilbert stops me on my way out the gate and hands me his video camera. “Robert, I videotaped you running. I want you to watch yourself so you can see your form.”

Are you kidding me?? That’s just what I want to see, video of me looking like I’m having a heart attack. I ruefully stare at the damage in the viewfinder.

“Oh my god!”

“See what I mean?” adds Gilbert.

“My butt is huge!”

“No, your form, look at your form!”

And there it is, my weird form, caught on video. I’m leaning to the side, my head bobbling sort of back and to the left and my arm slightly . . . sashaying, or whatever that is.

“Be right back. ” Coach G runs to his Tacoma and opens the cab door. Pulling out random items and rearranging them—including an African drum—he finally emerges with a three-foot-wide medicine ball. What else you got in there, Coach, a mariachi band?

I follow him past the track and into the endzone.

“We’re going to work your back and your glutes. Lie down.”

“Urr, all right.”

“Stick your legs up.”

Before I can even raise them, Gilbert throws the ball at me.

“What the . . . give me a sec!” I shout, deflecting with one leg.

He throws it again.

“Now kick it back.”

I oblige, but to his disapproval.

“Higher, kick it higher.”

“All right, you said it.”

On the next throw, I launch the ball well over Gilbert’s head. Surprised and pleased, he runs back to retrieve it calling over his shoulder, “Good!”

We continue this pattern for more than 10 minutes—Gilbert throwing, me kicking, Gilbert scrambling backward to pick it up and breaking into a sort of half-laugh in the process. This is so ridiculous. It’s like we’re five or something.

Eventually, the sun decides to spare us and set. The didgeridoo swells, the dingoes begin their howl, and I can’t think of a more hilarious end to a more uncomfortable day.

The Office

I amble into the breakroom of my office job and spot Bill digging through the non-dairy creamer options in the cupboard above the sink. We meet at the Senseo® machine.

“Hey, Bill.”

“Hey, Robert, how’s it going?”

“Not bad.”

Pause.

“Bill, can you grab me a Hazelnut Waltz?”

“Whoa, that’s a good one. Here you go.”

“Thanks. What are you drinking?”

“Boca Sunrise.”

“Nice.”

Pause

“Hey, Bill, could I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“I mean, I really need you to be honest.”

“No problem, Rob.”

I look around, lean in and speak in a hushed tone, almost a whisper.

“Does my butt look big to you?”

Pause

Bill fidgets, starts rearranging the sweetener options. “Aw, no, not at all! No. You look . . . fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really, I wouldn’t lie.”

“See, I’m doing these exercises and I’m worried about . . . the overall size.”

“No, man, you’re cool. I haven’t noticed a thing.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

Pause

Bill opens two packets of Splenda. Picks up a coffee stirrer. Takes a quick glance my way.

Pause

“I thought those black chinos the other day really worked for you. Maybe if you wore those more often.”

“Okay, that’s a good idea.”

Pause

“Have you tried pleats?”

“What would that do?”

“I don’t know. Pleats are kind of poofy. That might . . . . give you more room.”

Long pause

We stare at each other.

Something in the Air

Lordy! Two weeks in Wyoming and I have made it home safely, with Wind River granite in my shoes, a ton of blisters and a very strange tan. I AM A MOUNTAIN MAN. Not once did I hook myself in the back of the head with a fly or have to cut myself out from under a boulder with my Swiss Army Knife. I did, however, contract some kind of terrible Rocky Mountain-strength flu on my backpacking trip, which sent me to the trailhead two days early. Thinking I might be completely over it, but maybe not, I pulled up to RunTex on Monday for my first Gazelle-day back with trepidation.

I jump in with the usual suspects for the 10-mile pace run—first three easy and seven at MGP. We stumble into the darkness, following our best guess at the trail. We chat, catch up, talk about Mediterranean food. Then, gradually, it starts to hit people, their voices rising from the group.

“I feel something strange. It’s cold.”

“I feel it too. It’s dry.”

“That’s the wind. It’s coming from the North,” I explain.

“Hey guys, I’m sweating, but . . . it’s evaporating?!”

“I have . . . . more energy!”

“What is happening?!”

I try to quell the furor. “Guys, I believe this is called a cold front.”

“A . . . cold front? What is that?”

“It’s a weather pattern defined by cooler, drier air. We had one in Austin a few years ago.“

“What do we do?!”

“I'm . . . scared.”

“Robert, hold me.”

“Don’t panic, dudes, we’re fine," I assure in low, hushed tones. "People outside of Texas actually run in these conditions. We should see an improvement in our times. “

“Cool . . . and dry. . . so weird!”

We approach the end of our slow three and rev ourselves up for the pace run proper. I’m totally confused about how to do this. Since my GPS broke (I’m talking to you, Garmin), I’ve had a terrible time running precisely at different paces. I’ve tried to use the 1/4 mile markers on the trail, but in the dark I tend to get them confused with, I don’t know, rocks. On top of that, we’ve all formulated incredibly specific MGP’s. “Who’s running a 7:24?” I ask to silence. Dan and Yetik decide on 7:38. So my plan—to get about 50 yards further ahead of them for every mile they run. Running ahead of them, in the dark. Of course that will work.

We get to the foot of Longhorn Dam and start kicking. A hill in the first five yards, nice. It is obvious that I don’t have enough of my faculties at 6am to navigate the Holly St. Power Plant and at one point begin running down Canterbury. Yetik, saving me repeatedly, calls ahead, “Make a left. Now right. What are you doing??”

Along Fiesta Gardens I surge and begin my 50 yards per mile plan. Except I don’t know where one mile is. And I can’t see Dan and Yetik behind me in the dark. Brilliant.

Not able to find the water Gilbert left for us under I-35 (or did he? maybe this was a test!), I panic and keep going. Abandoning my ridiculous attempt to hone in on 7:24, I adopt the time-honored strategy of “running really fast.” Things are working out surprisingly well, I’m strong and in control with no sign of the others. At the MoPac Bridge I head for the water station but then GO CRAZY and think, it’s just two more miles, screw the water, I’m bringing this baby home! I charge across the bridge with mad defiance and a Tony Robbins glow of self-empowerment. Soon, I become delusional and start thinking I’m running the fastest I have ever run in my life. This is incredible, I am REDEFINING THE PACE RUN. Then some Gazelle vets on their “easy run” pass me. Thanks for raining on my parade you . . . . people who are faster than me.

Still, I stay strong and controlled, on the edge of a tempo run but not, and cross the 0 mile marker, the only one I can ever find ever, with gallons, GALLONS in the tank. The simple math in my head adds up a 7:11 pace. Dude. Threw DOWN. But before I could even reset my watch, Dan and Yetik go scorching by, coating all in their midst with a layer of dust and smoke.

“Wow, dudes, what was that for you?” I ask Dan.

“7:16 mile” Dan replies, doing sit-ups on the rock wall.

“Man, we blew through this pace run. We should go tell Gilbert,” I say as I start the walk to RunTex.

Yetik calls after me, “No don’t worry about it. He knows.”

We all look at each other.

Then we look around the trail, Auditorium Shores, the parking lot.

“Yeah, he knows.”

We all nod.

“He KNOWS.”