The Puke Threshold

The Puke Threshold is a place every runner knows but seldom goes.  If you've ever raced a 5k full out, you've probably been there.  (I myself get there racing the 10k, but that's because I have a profound inability to adequately pace myself for distances less than 13.1 miles).  Sure, sometimes as runners, we need to push ourselves beyond the confines of our comfort zones; that's why we do things like hill repeats and speed work.  But there's a big difference between going outside of our comfort zone and going to the Puke Threshold.

Comfortably hard is sustainable.  Uncomfortably hard is less so, but if you know, for example, you have four 800s left, that there is a definitive end point to the misery, you can keep at it.  But when you reach the Puke Threshold, you must either a) ease up immediately, or b) vomit.  Fielder's choice, but as someone who recently endured food poisoning and therefor threw up while sober, I strongly suggest you choose A. If you have four 800s left and are already at the Puke Threshold, you have zero 800s left.  You aren't getting them done without a period of recovery first.  Or without vomit on your Kinvaras. 

This brings us to this morning's workout.  Today was actually the first workout in my ultra training plan.  Just looking at it in my living room (slash kitchen slash foyer... NYC apartments are special like that) this morning made me want to vomit, as it's quite intimidating.  

That's only the first 7 weeks. There are 9 more, and they are scarier.

This is actually a 50-mile training plan, despite the fact that Connemara is a 39.3 mile race.  I picked this for a few reasons: 1) 39.3 mile training plans don't exist, 2) I don't trust the metric system, which is how the course will be measured given that it's in Ireland, so better safe than sorry, and 3) The intro paragraph printed before the above chart cited a 3:30 marathoner as its example, which I have proven to be even on bad training, so I feel confident that I can actually follow this.  Famous last words.

Oh sorry, one more caveat: there are a couple acronyms in the above chart.  TMP = Ten Mile Pace, HMP = Half Marathon Pace, MP = Marathon Pace.  It would have done me some good to put actual thought into what these standards should be for me before I was a half mile in my first workout, but I didn't.  So I somewhat arbitrarily decided on the following:

TMP = 7:30/mi
HMP = 7:45/mi
MP = 8:00/mi

Based on the 3:30 marathoner example, an MP at 8:00/mi is spot on.  I can also pretty reliably run a 1:41 half marathon, which is 7:45/mi.  I haven't raced a 10 miler in years, but 7:30 seems like a reasonable pace. 

Anyway, back to today's workout, which was 6-10 miles with 4x1 @ TMP.  Now first of all, when given the choice of "6-10 miles," who picks 10?  Enthusiastic newbie runners, that's who.  I am not that.  I am old and jaded and watched a girl poop her pants in a marathon last weekend.  I settled on 8.5ish, because it would be a loop of Central Park, plus the distance to and from my apartment.

With no instruction as to where these 4x1 @ TMP miles should be, I decided to go by feel.  And by that I mean, I looked at my watch during the first mile, up Park Avenue to Central Park, and realized I was running around a 7:40 and decided that would be the first of the four miles.

Mile 1: 7:59.  Wrong.  Though in my defense, I got stopped by a truck unloading Christmas trees.

I entered the Park at 72nd Street feeling comfortable and glanced down to see 7:35.  I tried to pick up the pace a bit, and almost immediately was upon Cat Hill.  

Mile 2: 7:54.  Wrong.  

The next stretch of the Park (running counterclockwise from the top of Cat Hill, for those playing along at home) is flat.  Here's my chance to get it right, I thought.

Mile 3: 7:23.  Too much.  But I'm me, so even though this was still wrong, I was secretly psyched.  And I felt good.  

For my last mile (I was committed to attempting 4, regardless of whether or not all were successful - it's day 1, I'm not going crazy), I was facing a flat stretch, then a pretty steep downhill, and unfortunately, at least a portion up Harlem Hill.  A "portion" turned into "half a mile."  I hit Harlem Hill and figured I'd banked some time on the downhill, but really wanted to keep pushing, considering it was my last of the 4 miles.  

I was about a quarter of the way up when it started: the mouth watering.

I opened wide and took big breaths.

Oh my God, do I smell dog poop?  

I was gulping air.

How many people around me are going to see this?  How many are going to get splashed?

I looked at my watch. 3.75 miles.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I eased up a hair.  Instead of immediate relief, I felt imminent vomit.  I eased up more, still pressing up Harlem Hill as I turned the corner around that big boulder outcropping that tricks you into think you're at the top, only you turn and you're still going up.  

I was gulping so loudly, I prayed the man I was approaching was wearing headphones. And possibly waterproof pants.  I can't vomit, I thought; I'm 4.5 miles from home.  I eased up again.

Finally, my Garmin beeped.  7:20.

I survived the Puke Threshold.