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