The Blame Game

I could point a lot of fingers when it comes to figuring out why my speed workout today was so abominable (and in the interest of schadenfreude, I'll detail that workout for you in a moment): it was hot, it was sunny, it was early, I just ran a marathon, I ate pizza for dinner.

None of those are the reasons why I sucked this morning, though. The blame for this one rests squarely on my shoulders; I was prideful and greedy, and those two charming traits lead me to make a series of rookie mistakes and pay dearly for it.

(That sounds very dramatic reading it back, like I might have lost my legs during my track workout. I didn't).

Let me lay the scene for you: the alarm went off at 4:55am this morning (I know!) and I got dressed and began my somewhat tedious journey to the track: train to Chelsea, walk to the gym in Gramercy, warm up with a 2 mile jog down the East River to the track.

The scheduled workout was: 2 mile warm up; 4x1600 with 4x400 recovery; 2 mile cool down.

This was my first track workout in 5 months, having focused on hill work (and drinking beer) instead of speed work in the run up to San Francisco. It had been so long, in fact, since I'd done my last session of mile repeats that I had to check back through my training logs to find out what pace I'd last run them in. 6 weeks out from Boston, I ran this same workout. My mile splits were: 6:48, 6:43, 6:48, 6:48. Like a metronome! A really fast, cute, thin metronome.

Anyway, I knew that I should be fairly conservative this morning, but was pretty (brazenly) confident in my ability to knock these out. I decided I should aim for 6:55-7:00.

Okay, but then I secretly decided I should aim for 6:50, which is 2 seconds per mile slower than the mode (oooh, high school math term) from my February repeats. When I was in great shape and about to PR at Boston. 2 seconds slower. Conservative, my foot. And amateur mistake numero uno: goal-setting not based in reality.

I ran the first 400 of the first repeat and looked at Carl, who told me on his digital face that I was running a 6:42 pace.

Are you paying attention? Because here is the most crucial of the amateur-hour aspects that was my undoing:

Instead of saying, "Whoa Clairence! Take it easy. You've got 15 laps to go here. No need to come out guns blazing," I said "See, I'm still in Boston shape." I got greedy and tried to take those extra seconds to which I was not entitled. Or deserving.

I am not still in Boston shape.

I finished the first repeat in 6:43 - the same split as my fastest pre-Boston repeat - and knew I'd never be able to hold on.

So for round two, I told myself "Drop down to your original goal. 7:00 is respectable. You can do 7:00."

I ran number 2 in 6:57, finishing doubled over and gasping for air. Even though I was 14 seconds slower, I'd used up so much energy on the first one, I felt even worse by the end of the second. And I knew I was further going downhill.

At this point, I considered throwing in the towel, since I obviously wasn't going to get out of this workout what I should. You're meant to finish interval work feeling like you could do one more. I felt like I couldn't do any more, and I still had 2 to go. But I realized this was my own doing, and if I needed proof that no one has ever found success in going out too fast, this was going to be it.

Number 3 went down in 7:09.

Number 4: 7:13.

By the time I finished, I almost couldn't hear Carl beep off the last mile because my breathing wheezing was so loud. I felt like shit, but worse, I was so embarrassed. I was out there alone; no one else on the track knew what workout I was doing or what pace I was supposed to be hitting. But I was ashamed that I made a mistake I know better than to make: I went out too fast.

In a most ironic twist, the average of those 4 splits is about a 7:01 - right about where I should have been aiming from the get go.

So, my children, let this be a cautionary tale to you: we're all human. No matter how great or fast or smart a runner you may be, sometimes you'll do idiotic shit in the name of your ego. It's a bitter pill to swallow, but once you do, you'll remember for the next time.

At least I hope so, because that really, seriously sucked.