I am no Quentin Cassidy

"The trials of miles; miles of trials"

Fictional miler Quentin Cassidy's oft-quoted mantra is frequently invoked in the running community, and it certainly was on my mind today during my 15+ mile long run. Sure, trials of miles, I thought to myself, but what does Cassidy know about the trials of freezing cold runs and icy sidewalks? The central Floridian, for all of his grueling workouts, probably logged most of his miles in thin shorts and no shirt. Meanwhile today, I prepared for my battle with the road by donning wool socks, fleece-lined tights, four layers on top including two wind-blocking jackets, a gaiter and a hat.

Quentin Cassidy, we can presume, also had the mentality of a grinder. He was a workhorse, potentially past the point of reason--for those who've read Once a Runner. The trials were mental. His mind was in the game just as much as his legs and his lungs.

 I am no Quentin Cassidy. Currently nine weeks into training for the Boston Marathon, and with just over two months left before the culminating day, I still don't believe that I'm fit. If we exclude this literally mind-numbingly cold weekend, this winter's weather conditions have been much more favorable than last winter's. I've gone through marathon training once before and there are many fewer surprises this time around. And yet training for this marathon has been much more of a struggle so far. My physical therapist says he's never seen my calves in such bad shape, I'm constantly exhausted and have postponed or skipped runs more than I'm willing to admit. I have had almost no training weeks go completely according to plan. With all this stopping and starting, physical and mental fatigue, and the constant rush of life, I don't feel like I'm really in this. In my heart of hearts, I know that one missed run here or one slower-than-scheduled run there will not make or break my marathon in April. But I also know that I want, and need, to be prepared in order to be happy with the outcome of my race, and choosing naps (and cheesecake) over runs will not get me there. I've told people that I will likely not race another marathon for a while after Boston, and I've considered amending my goals to reflect my tumultuous mental state. Running is a priority for me, but I cannot dedicate the amount of time I want to this portion of my life without another aspect giving way.

I won't move to a cabin in the woods, but I'm still lacing up my shoes and getting out the door. Every time my feet hit the pavement I feel vindicated and reassured. In the speed sessions that I have done, the long runs I've either sped or slogged through, and the post-run stretching and strength work I am able to fit in, I am redefining what Quentin Cassidy's famed saying means for my own running.

Probably cold until April,
Rachel "I'm still here" Runner

Inch by Inch

Some runners cross the finish line and swing a fist in the air. Though you often can’t hear them, you imagine a loud and breathy ‘YEAH’ exploding from their lungs. A rush of triumph. A big ole in-your-face to the non-believers. A fleeting glance atop Mount Victory.

I had one of those this week. Sure, I have good days now and then and finish my run with a smile and an elated mood, but rarely do I – call me cautious – celebrate so audaciously. But Tuesday night, whew, I had a doozy. Picture this: dressed in all black except for my flashy flats and a neon headband, it is February after all, I toss a water and pink sticky note with the workout written on it onto the ground. Gradually the track clears of lingering students and the pleasant 50 degrees drop to 40 while I warm up. Then, 10x400m silhouetted against a quickly vanishing sun, followed by 4x200 on tired legs. Soon enough, I’m three miles into what was designed to be a brutal mid-season workout. The kind of workout that makes you long for the camaraderie of teammates because the lone dogwalker in the nearby playground is woefully unaware of the task at hand.

I crouch down before my last 200m trying in vain to ease the tightness out of my right calf. I take my gloved hands and rub the muscle for warmth before shaking my legs nervously, cracking my back one last time, and jogging to the start line. Whoosh! I pounce off the line in utter silence and feel like I’m absolutely flying around the curve. If I’d been a cartoon, my head would’ve taken a few seconds to catch up to my surprisingly springy legs. Before my brain can register the burning in my calves and core muscles the 200m line appears from the darkness and I flail a wild right arm across my body to hit the split. One second faster than pace. 

FIST PUMP.

There it was. I reflexively fist-pumped in triumph over a 37 second 200m interval. In that moment it didn’t matter that I used to run 400’s faster than that pace or that it’s a full 5 seconds slower than I used to run 200’s or even that it’s slower than my PR 800 pace. For a flash I was transported back to a time with less self-doubt. A time when working harder made me faster. A time when I believed deeply and without apology. As I jogged my cooldown back to campus and the lab I thought to myself: This can happen. Inch by inch.

Sincerely,

Robyn “inches of progress” Runner