Tempo Run: A Love Story
My sweet little tempo run.
You lure me in with the warm up, soft and slow. The sun feels good, I have a couple of miles to stretch this pace out and you say take your time. We're going to have fun.
Then we dial it up, my legs a little slow to respond, my heartbeat rising, arms pumping. What is this pace, I ask? Sssshhh, you reply, it's a "one word" conversational pace. I can't sustain this. You insist I can. One mile repeats - stay with it, let the fact that you're doing it sink in and acknowledge that yes, you can. You are.
One mile, two; five down - the pace does stay with me. Or I with it. I feel light, nimble, Olympian - a real runner. I feel fast. I am fast! I'm breathing hard, fatigue starting to show, but ever committed to the pace, to you, my tempo run. I am Chariots of Fire running on the beach with the waves crashing down, Rocky Balboa going the distance with Apollo Creed.
I am sweat and determination, lungs heaving, pushing for the summit. I am passed by another runner. He of steady gait and measured breaths. Light, nimble. Beautiful day, isn't it, he asks? Wha...? That's not "one word" conversational pace. How can I be light and nimble and breathing so hard and...get passed so easily? As if an afterthought? My Rudy-esque, never quit, fight for the dream tempo pace is....his warm up?
I am humbled, tempo run. I can only grin and dial back from my now comparatively pedestrian pace as you steer me into the cool down.
The lovely cool down, that breathless exhilaration that comes with the knowledge that we're heading home. Me having given everything you asked for; you protecting me from the reality of my pace, advising me the push would be short and outside of my comfort zone. Reminding me that without sacrifice there is no gain. Without pain there is no progress. Without humility there is no respect.
You quite captivate me, tempo run.
You lure me in with the warm up, soft and slow. The sun feels good, I have a couple of miles to stretch this pace out and you say take your time. We're going to have fun.
Then we dial it up, my legs a little slow to respond, my heartbeat rising, arms pumping. What is this pace, I ask? Sssshhh, you reply, it's a "one word" conversational pace. I can't sustain this. You insist I can. One mile repeats - stay with it, let the fact that you're doing it sink in and acknowledge that yes, you can. You are.
One mile, two; five down - the pace does stay with me. Or I with it. I feel light, nimble, Olympian - a real runner. I feel fast. I am fast! I'm breathing hard, fatigue starting to show, but ever committed to the pace, to you, my tempo run. I am Chariots of Fire running on the beach with the waves crashing down, Rocky Balboa going the distance with Apollo Creed.
I am sweat and determination, lungs heaving, pushing for the summit. I am passed by another runner. He of steady gait and measured breaths. Light, nimble. Beautiful day, isn't it, he asks? Wha...? That's not "one word" conversational pace. How can I be light and nimble and breathing so hard and...get passed so easily? As if an afterthought? My Rudy-esque, never quit, fight for the dream tempo pace is....his warm up?I am humbled, tempo run. I can only grin and dial back from my now comparatively pedestrian pace as you steer me into the cool down.
The lovely cool down, that breathless exhilaration that comes with the knowledge that we're heading home. Me having given everything you asked for; you protecting me from the reality of my pace, advising me the push would be short and outside of my comfort zone. Reminding me that without sacrifice there is no gain. Without pain there is no progress. Without humility there is no respect.
You quite captivate me, tempo run.
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