Clockwork
First, slept in a bit this morning (intentionally) and did a 4-mile Franklin Field loop up to 49th St. It was a reconnaissance run to let me check out how my legs were doing (a little stiff but fine). Anson and the Rockets (featuring the late Sam Myers) on the iPod. 34:46.
The picture was taken before the run.
And I went out again at lunchtime. Mike knows me too well, and pointed out that I'd done two hard workouts in the last 48 hours, and he said go easy. But he also reminded me, unintentionally I think, that CIM was 6 weeks away. That gives me about 3 more quality training weeks. Eek. So Seebo followed the gravitational pull of the track.
Here Seebo was like an alcoholic going to a bar. First it was: I'll just poke my head inside, maybe take a few laps, but only to air it out a bit. Then it was: Let me try to get one 800 meter rep in under 2:35, see how that feels. Then one led to another and all of a sudden he had six 800's (w/ 400m recovery) under his belt. 2:34, 2:33, 2:34, 2:33, 2:34, 2:33. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. Set 'em up and slam 'em down. For each one of 'em, the 400m split was either 77 or 78. Although they (of course) got progressively harder, there was a feeling of complete control. And being unsure of how many reps he was going to do, Seebo had that "run each rep as though it were your last" approach.
And then I did a seventh rep and the magic seemed to be gone. My legs felt like they were breaking down and that I was slowing up. I was prepared to call off the chase after 400 but saw my split was, again, 78. Damn, I can do this. And with that I entered that zone, just over the edge of my abilities and into the unknown, that characterizes a good track workout. The last lap felt faster, but the watch said 2:36. An expletive reverberated throughout the empty Franklin Field. And then Steve, the bartender, stepped in and cut Seebo off. You've had enough for today, Buddy. Seebo whirled around and wanted one more crack, an even eight, but it wasn't going to happen. Then slowly he resigned himself to being done. Spent. Depleted.
These workouts are getting too intense. 8 more miles, giving me 12 for the day.
And as I fall apart, I learn to fly.
A dirty bird like me will learn to fly.
PS - Some person has a website with a bunch of Saratoga photos including an action shot of me when I still had a pretty good sized lead (before the hounds caught up to me at mile 1). You can check it (and alot of other pics) out here.
The picture was taken before the run.
And I went out again at lunchtime. Mike knows me too well, and pointed out that I'd done two hard workouts in the last 48 hours, and he said go easy. But he also reminded me, unintentionally I think, that CIM was 6 weeks away. That gives me about 3 more quality training weeks. Eek. So Seebo followed the gravitational pull of the track.
Here Seebo was like an alcoholic going to a bar. First it was: I'll just poke my head inside, maybe take a few laps, but only to air it out a bit. Then it was: Let me try to get one 800 meter rep in under 2:35, see how that feels. Then one led to another and all of a sudden he had six 800's (w/ 400m recovery) under his belt. 2:34, 2:33, 2:34, 2:33, 2:34, 2:33. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. Set 'em up and slam 'em down. For each one of 'em, the 400m split was either 77 or 78. Although they (of course) got progressively harder, there was a feeling of complete control. And being unsure of how many reps he was going to do, Seebo had that "run each rep as though it were your last" approach.
And then I did a seventh rep and the magic seemed to be gone. My legs felt like they were breaking down and that I was slowing up. I was prepared to call off the chase after 400 but saw my split was, again, 78. Damn, I can do this. And with that I entered that zone, just over the edge of my abilities and into the unknown, that characterizes a good track workout. The last lap felt faster, but the watch said 2:36. An expletive reverberated throughout the empty Franklin Field. And then Steve, the bartender, stepped in and cut Seebo off. You've had enough for today, Buddy. Seebo whirled around and wanted one more crack, an even eight, but it wasn't going to happen. Then slowly he resigned himself to being done. Spent. Depleted.
These workouts are getting too intense. 8 more miles, giving me 12 for the day.
And as I fall apart, I learn to fly.
A dirty bird like me will learn to fly.
PS - Some person has a website with a bunch of Saratoga photos including an action shot of me when I still had a pretty good sized lead (before the hounds caught up to me at mile 1). You can check it (and alot of other pics) out here.
posted by seebo | 2:45 PM
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