Today I did 5+ Ambassador Hill repeats. The “+” means that, at the top of each hill, I would turn the corner to the right and run tempo for about another 100 meters or so before slowing down. Then I would turn right again downhill and circle back around at the bottom. Then rinse and … you guessed the rest. Each hill was about 400m and the entire loop close to a mile.
I did 4.5 loops this way. The .5 was the last uphill, which I decided to just kill myself on. I don’t know why; I started the workout intending to take it easy because I was tired, but somehow I got all riled up during that fourth loop and thought I would just blow it out. I had been running the uphills at about 2:08-2:12. The last one was 1:57. YES! (That’s for you, Matt.)
On the way up the last hill, I found myself wishing, as I often do at moments where I need some intensity, that I were an angrier person. I felt like, if I were more filled with rage (even at some deep, subconscious level), then it could be an asset for me when I need to do something really tough. I often feel that my willingness to accept life as it comes allows me to be a little wussy when it comes to pushing through pain. I can talk myself out of nearly anything. I say things like, “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” or “Don’t worry. You tried your best.”
Having a perpetually positive attitude can kill you in a competition, despite what they say. I need to develop my negative ‘tude.
Last year, I saw this in action. When I fell apart in the last few miles of the Houston marathon, I kept urging myself, “Get mad!” It was my last ditch attempt to unearth some energy, some spark in my battered legs. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find much to be enraged about by then – other than the fact that I couldn’t get mad.
So today I put on Dr. Dre to get me in the mood on that last hill; I thought maybe I could latch onto some of his chauvinistic rage, but somehow, hearing about how many houses and vehicles he had just wasn’t lighting the spark in me.
So on the way up, I considered (thoughtfully, of course) what to be angry about. I thought that injustice in Africa was a good one (because I do believe that, more than anything else, that is what we should be railing against), so I worked on that. Unfortunately, I just couldn’t drum up the emotion. It didn't help that every Malawian around me was grinning and giving me thumbs-up as I panted by. Grrrrr!
But other traits seem to be bringing progress. I have been really committed to running lately – not obsessive, like I get sometimes (I think that is due to giving myself enough time to train). I should log just at about 50 miles this week, and I did 13 Sunday with more than half at marathon goal pace. 7.5 miles at MGP is not a stellar accomplishment – especially when I know I have to get up to more than 26. But I can benchmark it against my past training; last year, at 12 weeks out from the race, I still had a hard time running 5 at MGP. Right now I still have 19 weeks until Houston.
This time around with marathon training, I am upping everything. Just a little bit (another example of the peace-loving moderate in me). My time at Houston in 2006 was 3:32 – just a little bit slower than the 3:30 I was aiming for. So I figure that if I simply dial up the training time, the mileage, and the intensity, I will be ok.
Of course now I find out that Danny and Matt are running Bandera 100k the week before Houston – and there is a fantastic 50k there that I have been wanting another shot at. Maybe I can get my 3:30 at another race, I am already thinking.
I am such a sucker. And that makes me furious.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Trash Day
Today was trash day in Area 9. This morning when I went on my easy run, I saw about 15 different groups of guys – from old men to young boys – going through the garbage of the people who live in our neighborhood. They were all carrying bags that were spilling over with plastic bottles, plastic jumbos (grocery bags), and other things that could be either used or sold for pennies. I didn’t see any food, but I’m sure they were pulling that out too.
Last Thursday, I encountered a plastic-bottle man walking through one of the fancier neighborhoods in Lilongwe. The plastic-bottle man is literally covered with plastic bottles; he has them draped on ropes over his shoulders, arms and across his back. He spends his day walking the streets, and calling out in a sing-songy voice for people to bring their bottles out. Occasionally, he comes across some in the trash or gets lucky as someone brings them out from behind a gate. I don’t know what he can get for them, but it can’t be more than a dollar or two. This for a full day’s work.
The trash guys and the plastic-bottle men are always friendly. They smile, and if their hands aren’t full, they give me a thumbs up when I run by. I thought one of them was going to join me today, but he thought better of it at the last minute. I must admit I was relieved. After all, how would I feel being beaten down the street by a man covered in plastic?
Also out in full force during my run this morning were the Learner (note the capital “L”) drivers. A driver’s license is a coveted, if rare, commodity in Malawi. Even though only the tiniest fraction of Malawians actually own cars, having a driver’s license can be the ticket to a wealthier future, especially for young men.
Transportation is a major industry in Malawi; with a driver’s license, you can be a driver for an organization (nearly every company, government agency or NGO has them), drive a minibus (little minivans, which are the way 99% of people get around), steer a truck or pilot a lorry. Malawi has an agriculture-based economy, so there is always something that needs hauling: corn, tobacco, vegetables, farming equipment, people.
Getting the money together to pay for driving lessons (about $200) is quite a feat in and of itself. Once you manage, you choose from a myriad of schools, where you must attend lessons for 40 days. That’s right: 40 days of driving lessons! And I swear that every school does half of its lessons in my neighborhood. Because it has paved roads and relatively light traffic, it is ideal for student driving. Which makes it not, of course, ideal for pedestrians.
Running while driving school happens around you feels uncomfortably like a game of Frogger where everyone is watching to see you go splat. At every corner, people in groups of about 10-12 are sitting and waiting for their turn at the wheel. To be more efficient -- and because most schools only have 1-2 cars, often beat-up pieces of crap -- the cars load up with pupils at the office, cramming as many as possible into the car. Once they get into the practice zone, they then drop most of them off, carrying only a comfortable number of students for each pass around the neighborhood. Today there must have been 10 schools going at one time.
During my entire route today, drunken-like cars were swerving to avoid bicycles, walkers, and each other. They would back up and forward in fits and starts. They’d barrel off the road and onto the dirt, spinning their wheels before lurching forward. Two of the companies, I have noted with trepidation, are named “Spot Success” and “Quick Pass.” I try to especially steer clear of them.
While running, I scurried by every car, giving each one as wide a berth as possible. Sometimes I found myself running in the middle of the road, between two passing cars. Once I nearly got mowed over by a truck that suddenly decided to practice driving backwards. A couple of times I got huge cheering sections when I ran by groups waiting for their turn to drive.
I ran for 45 minutes and barely even noticed.
***
The Sunday 2-hour long run felt sluggish again this weekend. It felt much longer than it was, and towards the end I complained to Jimmy that I didn’t know why I felt so bad. I thought, I said, that I had “gotten over the hump.”
He laughed. “What?” I demanded. “Janie,” he said, like he was addressing a small child who should definitely know better but still needs to be told: “There is no hump.”
Oh yeah.
But today, I thought again, I am over the hump. I measured out a mile in the neighborhood and thought I would clock myself running easily, just to see what kind of times I am running at a pace that feels very relaxed. Both ways, I hit sub-8:30 miles, which makes me think that either a) my car speedometer is calibrated incorrectly or b) I am in better shape than I thought I was, meaning 8-minute miles is a very realistic goal for me at the Houston marathon in January.
Either could be possible. One is more likely than the other. But for the sake of rounding things up, I’m going with the latter.
Last Thursday, I encountered a plastic-bottle man walking through one of the fancier neighborhoods in Lilongwe. The plastic-bottle man is literally covered with plastic bottles; he has them draped on ropes over his shoulders, arms and across his back. He spends his day walking the streets, and calling out in a sing-songy voice for people to bring their bottles out. Occasionally, he comes across some in the trash or gets lucky as someone brings them out from behind a gate. I don’t know what he can get for them, but it can’t be more than a dollar or two. This for a full day’s work.
The trash guys and the plastic-bottle men are always friendly. They smile, and if their hands aren’t full, they give me a thumbs up when I run by. I thought one of them was going to join me today, but he thought better of it at the last minute. I must admit I was relieved. After all, how would I feel being beaten down the street by a man covered in plastic?
Also out in full force during my run this morning were the Learner (note the capital “L”) drivers. A driver’s license is a coveted, if rare, commodity in Malawi. Even though only the tiniest fraction of Malawians actually own cars, having a driver’s license can be the ticket to a wealthier future, especially for young men.
Transportation is a major industry in Malawi; with a driver’s license, you can be a driver for an organization (nearly every company, government agency or NGO has them), drive a minibus (little minivans, which are the way 99% of people get around), steer a truck or pilot a lorry. Malawi has an agriculture-based economy, so there is always something that needs hauling: corn, tobacco, vegetables, farming equipment, people.
Getting the money together to pay for driving lessons (about $200) is quite a feat in and of itself. Once you manage, you choose from a myriad of schools, where you must attend lessons for 40 days. That’s right: 40 days of driving lessons! And I swear that every school does half of its lessons in my neighborhood. Because it has paved roads and relatively light traffic, it is ideal for student driving. Which makes it not, of course, ideal for pedestrians.
Running while driving school happens around you feels uncomfortably like a game of Frogger where everyone is watching to see you go splat. At every corner, people in groups of about 10-12 are sitting and waiting for their turn at the wheel. To be more efficient -- and because most schools only have 1-2 cars, often beat-up pieces of crap -- the cars load up with pupils at the office, cramming as many as possible into the car. Once they get into the practice zone, they then drop most of them off, carrying only a comfortable number of students for each pass around the neighborhood. Today there must have been 10 schools going at one time.
During my entire route today, drunken-like cars were swerving to avoid bicycles, walkers, and each other. They would back up and forward in fits and starts. They’d barrel off the road and onto the dirt, spinning their wheels before lurching forward. Two of the companies, I have noted with trepidation, are named “Spot Success” and “Quick Pass.” I try to especially steer clear of them.
While running, I scurried by every car, giving each one as wide a berth as possible. Sometimes I found myself running in the middle of the road, between two passing cars. Once I nearly got mowed over by a truck that suddenly decided to practice driving backwards. A couple of times I got huge cheering sections when I ran by groups waiting for their turn to drive.
I ran for 45 minutes and barely even noticed.
***
The Sunday 2-hour long run felt sluggish again this weekend. It felt much longer than it was, and towards the end I complained to Jimmy that I didn’t know why I felt so bad. I thought, I said, that I had “gotten over the hump.”
He laughed. “What?” I demanded. “Janie,” he said, like he was addressing a small child who should definitely know better but still needs to be told: “There is no hump.”
Oh yeah.
But today, I thought again, I am over the hump. I measured out a mile in the neighborhood and thought I would clock myself running easily, just to see what kind of times I am running at a pace that feels very relaxed. Both ways, I hit sub-8:30 miles, which makes me think that either a) my car speedometer is calibrated incorrectly or b) I am in better shape than I thought I was, meaning 8-minute miles is a very realistic goal for me at the Houston marathon in January.
Either could be possible. One is more likely than the other. But for the sake of rounding things up, I’m going with the latter.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Five Ambassador's Hill Repeats
I am finally reaching a point where running is feeling more a comfortable part of the rhythm of life. It has taken about 6 weeks, but my legs are feeling less like squeaky wheels and more like…well, I can’t take that metaphor to its logical conclusion, as the correct term is nothing close to “well oiled machines.” But I can say that daily running is feeling more like a given, as opposed to a daily slog I have to wring out of a lethargic soul. When I get moving, it takes less time for me to get into the running mindset than it did even a month ago, and I am actually enjoying the running part more and more – instead of just anxiously awaiting its end.
Yesterday as I was running I was thinking about how lucky I am to be aware of the phases my body and mind have to progress through in order to get to this point. If I didn’t, I would certainly capitulate after the first few painful runs. I totally understand how beginning runners try and quit; I simply count myself lucky that I was stupid enough to refuse to give up running despite the loneliness and misery during those first months of my first marathon training in 1995.
The running journey – mind, body, soul – is so enigmatic and difficult to explain to others. During coaching for the Austin marathon, I remember begging my first-time marathoners who were threatening mutiny after 3 weeks into the program: “Give it 8 weeks. Please!” Why, they would ask. Will the pain go away? I would always feel at a loss for words, and stumble out with something true but hardly comforting: “No. But you know all those things that feel terrible and painful now? You’ll be happy about them then!” Eyebrows raised, more than a few were known to back away, as you would in the presence of a crazy person, and never return.
And rightly so. It is kind of crazy, this evolution that happens when running regularly becomes -- well, regular again. Somehow, I start associating morning soreness with a positive feeling about myself. I relate constant hunger to an active physical engine. Oddly enough, even not-so-healthy sensations – getting lightheaded when I get out of a chair too fast in the afternoon after a hard morning run, for instance – reminds me that I am pushing myself past what is comfortable.
And strangely enough, that feels normal.
I was thinking about all this yesterday as I ran 5 repeats of the Ambassador’s hill, which I have christened such because its last 10 meters pass the house of the American Ambassador to Malawi.
You might think that, being in the 11th poorest country in the world, the American Ambassador’s house in Malawi would be a bit understated. This, however, does not seem to be the case, unless you consider 1970s cheesy architecture to be inconspicuous. The house is a one-story lodge-type building, with some palm trees and tennis courts out back. About 5 SUVs hulk in the driveway. The best way to share the image with you is to hearken back to the 2005-2006 season of “24.” Remember President Logan’s pad: The sprawling one with lots of rooms? The one with wood paneling on the ceilings and walls that seemed to be there simply to muffle the conspiracies? Not that I really have any idea, since my encounters have only occurred when I am about 100 meters away and in a hypoxic state.
But anyway, all that is to say that there is a killer hill just outside his house. I am now reinstating a mid-week medium-long run with some hard running in the middle – hill repeats now, and probably progressive pace or speedwork later on. So yesterday, I sandwiched the hill repeats between two segments of easy running.
I made it back to my car after an hour and twenty minutes. When I got there, my legs were tired and twitchy, the bottom of my face was covered -- beard like -- in dirt, my eyes were stingy from sweat, and I was dehydrated.
The dominant thought in my mind as I stood by the car, tying to catch my breath? How nice to feel normal again.
Yesterday as I was running I was thinking about how lucky I am to be aware of the phases my body and mind have to progress through in order to get to this point. If I didn’t, I would certainly capitulate after the first few painful runs. I totally understand how beginning runners try and quit; I simply count myself lucky that I was stupid enough to refuse to give up running despite the loneliness and misery during those first months of my first marathon training in 1995.
The running journey – mind, body, soul – is so enigmatic and difficult to explain to others. During coaching for the Austin marathon, I remember begging my first-time marathoners who were threatening mutiny after 3 weeks into the program: “Give it 8 weeks. Please!” Why, they would ask. Will the pain go away? I would always feel at a loss for words, and stumble out with something true but hardly comforting: “No. But you know all those things that feel terrible and painful now? You’ll be happy about them then!” Eyebrows raised, more than a few were known to back away, as you would in the presence of a crazy person, and never return.
And rightly so. It is kind of crazy, this evolution that happens when running regularly becomes -- well, regular again. Somehow, I start associating morning soreness with a positive feeling about myself. I relate constant hunger to an active physical engine. Oddly enough, even not-so-healthy sensations – getting lightheaded when I get out of a chair too fast in the afternoon after a hard morning run, for instance – reminds me that I am pushing myself past what is comfortable.
And strangely enough, that feels normal.
I was thinking about all this yesterday as I ran 5 repeats of the Ambassador’s hill, which I have christened such because its last 10 meters pass the house of the American Ambassador to Malawi.
You might think that, being in the 11th poorest country in the world, the American Ambassador’s house in Malawi would be a bit understated. This, however, does not seem to be the case, unless you consider 1970s cheesy architecture to be inconspicuous. The house is a one-story lodge-type building, with some palm trees and tennis courts out back. About 5 SUVs hulk in the driveway. The best way to share the image with you is to hearken back to the 2005-2006 season of “24.” Remember President Logan’s pad: The sprawling one with lots of rooms? The one with wood paneling on the ceilings and walls that seemed to be there simply to muffle the conspiracies? Not that I really have any idea, since my encounters have only occurred when I am about 100 meters away and in a hypoxic state.
But anyway, all that is to say that there is a killer hill just outside his house. I am now reinstating a mid-week medium-long run with some hard running in the middle – hill repeats now, and probably progressive pace or speedwork later on. So yesterday, I sandwiched the hill repeats between two segments of easy running.
I made it back to my car after an hour and twenty minutes. When I got there, my legs were tired and twitchy, the bottom of my face was covered -- beard like -- in dirt, my eyes were stingy from sweat, and I was dehydrated.
The dominant thought in my mind as I stood by the car, tying to catch my breath? How nice to feel normal again.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Bless Those Hashers!
I ran with the Lilongwe Hash House Harriers last night. The HHH are a worldwide club – “Drinkers with a running problem” – and a nice point of familiarity that you can find in almost nearly city around the world. Most weekly runs consist of a track that has been laid with flour earlier in the day, with various checkpoints and dead-ends along the way. At the end there are silly songs, mockeries of various people for no good reason, and – of course – plenty of beer.
Last night there was a big group of about 40 people. The run started off in spurts; for the first few checkpoints we would run for 3 minutes and then wait around to regroup for another 5. But eventually we got into a good running rhythm. Jimmy was running in the front pack with some guys who were showing off for each other, while I was stuck somewhere behind in no-man’s land. Eventually I decided to try to bridge the gap (I won’t deny simulating Paul and Phil Tour de France commentary as I did so) and caught them. The last 15 minutes felt like a hard tempo run with other people around to push you. Which was, fantastically, exactly what it was.
Another thing I like about hash runs is the people you meet. Last night during the run I met a guy who had just spent 14 months in Iraq working on a democracy project; he was vacationing in Malawi and on his way to Nigeria. (“Yep,” he joked, “Democracy in Iraq, check. Now it’s time to move on to Nigeria.”) He told me about running in Baghdad around Sadaam Hussein’s palace with an armored tank and four guards. “Sure beats the treadmill,” he said.
I also met the veterinarian who lives down the street from us. I had seen the sign outside her clinic but, because of the big walls with barbed wire that we live behind, had never seen past her gate. She is British but has been in Malawi for 12 years. She told me that there is a group that does long runs every Saturday morning – “with a big breakfast afterwards.”
If I can’t have Magnolia Café, maybe it’s the next best thing!
Last night there was a big group of about 40 people. The run started off in spurts; for the first few checkpoints we would run for 3 minutes and then wait around to regroup for another 5. But eventually we got into a good running rhythm. Jimmy was running in the front pack with some guys who were showing off for each other, while I was stuck somewhere behind in no-man’s land. Eventually I decided to try to bridge the gap (I won’t deny simulating Paul and Phil Tour de France commentary as I did so) and caught them. The last 15 minutes felt like a hard tempo run with other people around to push you. Which was, fantastically, exactly what it was.
Another thing I like about hash runs is the people you meet. Last night during the run I met a guy who had just spent 14 months in Iraq working on a democracy project; he was vacationing in Malawi and on his way to Nigeria. (“Yep,” he joked, “Democracy in Iraq, check. Now it’s time to move on to Nigeria.”) He told me about running in Baghdad around Sadaam Hussein’s palace with an armored tank and four guards. “Sure beats the treadmill,” he said.
I also met the veterinarian who lives down the street from us. I had seen the sign outside her clinic but, because of the big walls with barbed wire that we live behind, had never seen past her gate. She is British but has been in Malawi for 12 years. She told me that there is a group that does long runs every Saturday morning – “with a big breakfast afterwards.”
If I can’t have Magnolia Café, maybe it’s the next best thing!
Long Run, But Short on Patience
Jimmy and I spent this weekend at Senga Bay, a fishing and tourist village about halfway up the coast of Lake Malawi. Lake Malawi sits in a depression in the African Rift Valley, and people call it the Calendar Lake because they say it is 365 miles long and 52 miles wide. (Personally, I think this assertion is crap, but what am I going to do – Go out and measure it myself?) What I do know to be true is that there are many and good-tasting fish in that lake, so going for the weekend is a chance to eat well and local.
Saturday morning we headed out for a 2-hour run, the first of my new training cycle. I have to admit that I wasn't feeling particularly peppy. I am not one of those people for whom running is pure bliss -- who finds a lesson, if not an epiphany, in every run. I am still not sure about the whole "runner's high" thing, and my runs tend to be determined by similar criteria to the rest of my daily activities: my mood, whether I am tired, where I am on the lazy-meter.
Saturday morning, I was enjoying reading and sitting around, slightly hung over -- I had put down two gin and tonics in short order the night before while chatting with some Dutch medical students volunteering in Malawi. But after a couple of cups of coffee, Jimmy and I realized that despite the fact that all science would point to the fact that it is winter here, it's starting to feel an awful like what I know as summer.
There was no real route planned, but we headed across the sand of the village and up on to the main road, which, while not particularly scenic, at least promised sure footing. Or so I thought. Within 10 minutes, though, I was face down on the ground, bleeding from my elbows and my knee.
Which just managed to further foul my mood. Falling on my face while running, unfortunately, is a pretty regular occurrence, but it does nothing to part a dark cloud. Men rode by on bicycles, little girls carrying baby brothers and sisters on their backs, women pumped water at boreholes. I cursed at all of them in my head.
We shuffled along in silence, at least verbally (I was busy complaining to myself inside my head). Soon afterwards, we turned down a dirt road and were promptly joined by about 5 little girls in dresses. All of them were covered in dirt, but they were screaming and singing and laughing as they ran as a group, right on our heels. At one point, Jimmy said, “Do you think they need a surprise?” He counted to three and we both turned around and charged towards them like big white lumbering bulls with tennis shoes.
Of course, they were terrified and ran screaming the other way as fast as they could. Some hid behind trees, others laid down on the ground. But when they got over being afraid, we could hear them giggling behind us. Sure enough, soon they had regrouped and were back on our heels.
The rest of the run proceeded this way. We stop and bought cold cokes in bottles at a tiny roadside vendor while a crowd gathered to watch us drink. We turned down another dirt road and suddenly “Hellos” were coming from everywhere and little Malawian heads appeared like Jack in the Boxes: in the corn fields, from behind a mud hut, in the window of an unfinished brick building. Close to the end of the run I caught myself laughing each time a head would pop out suddenly in front of us – “Hello! Hello!” – and realized that despite myself, the persistence of strangers had changed my whole attitude towards the run.
We completed it tired, dehydrated, and slow – but finished. I am not sure what to expect from my training in terms of fitness, but I have a feeling that I will have more fans to cheer me on than I could have ever expected – or deserved.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Let the Blogging Begin!
I have started running again, and with that comes new things. Cramping legs in the middle of the night, perpetual hunger, getting antsy with one day off of running. And, for me this go-round, a blog.
I honestly don’t know why I feel the need to chronicle this extracurricular aspect of my life. Maybe to hold myself to some kind of external accountability. Maybe because I find running in Africa to be pretty interesting. Could be that it’s nice to have someone to talk to about running, and with the options limited in Malawi, the computer screen seems like the next best thing.
Maybe it’s because my moment-to-moment thoughts reach me in the format of a constant narrative that spools through my head every second I am awake. And when I am running is the time that I pay most attention.
But there are more tangible reasons too. My current plan is to run a marathon in Texas in early 2008, and I want to break the 3:30 barrier that has been eluding me. In January 2006, 2 months before we came to Malawi, I ran a 3:32. My training had been well structured (thanks, Steve Sisson) but too short; at 11 weeks, I felt like I had to push too hard too fast to get to the fitness level I needed to go sub-3:30.
So I am trying again. But with a very different set of circumstances. Since we came to Africa about a year and a half ago, I have made fits and starts at getting back into a regular running routine. It feels like mostly fits, but I guess there have been starts: Jimmy and I even went so far as to run the Two Oceans marathon (actually 35 miles) back in April.
However, training has been kind of a drag and, without a longer-term goal, not much more than going through the motions of the long run that had to be done each weekend. I also am without running partners, except for Jimmy. (Jimmy is a great partner for a lot of things but right now already has to wear multiple hats of husband, best friend, wailing wall, and all-purpose familiar figure -- so he is a little overstretched). I don’t have a coach, or even really a schedule, but I think that’s ok for now.
I do have a tentative plan: Ramp up mileage to the point where I feel comfortable at about 45 miles/week (try to stay within the 10% rule to reduce injury risk). Hill repeats at least once a week, and a hilly long run if possible. Possibly adding one tempo-ish run, depending on how it affects my ability to recover, which I think is crucial right now.
This will be my first week at about 40 miles. I can’t really track mileage, so I am going on time instead. Today I did hill repeats on the hill known as “Korea Garden Lodge,” about an 800-meter hill that doesn’t look super steep but kicks up nastily enough times to get your really winded by the top.
I was supposed to do 65 minutes today. Even though I finished in 63, my log reads 65. Hence the impetus of this blog’s name. You guessed it, I’m a sucker for rounding it up.
I honestly don’t know why I feel the need to chronicle this extracurricular aspect of my life. Maybe to hold myself to some kind of external accountability. Maybe because I find running in Africa to be pretty interesting. Could be that it’s nice to have someone to talk to about running, and with the options limited in Malawi, the computer screen seems like the next best thing.
Maybe it’s because my moment-to-moment thoughts reach me in the format of a constant narrative that spools through my head every second I am awake. And when I am running is the time that I pay most attention.
But there are more tangible reasons too. My current plan is to run a marathon in Texas in early 2008, and I want to break the 3:30 barrier that has been eluding me. In January 2006, 2 months before we came to Malawi, I ran a 3:32. My training had been well structured (thanks, Steve Sisson) but too short; at 11 weeks, I felt like I had to push too hard too fast to get to the fitness level I needed to go sub-3:30.
So I am trying again. But with a very different set of circumstances. Since we came to Africa about a year and a half ago, I have made fits and starts at getting back into a regular running routine. It feels like mostly fits, but I guess there have been starts: Jimmy and I even went so far as to run the Two Oceans marathon (actually 35 miles) back in April.
However, training has been kind of a drag and, without a longer-term goal, not much more than going through the motions of the long run that had to be done each weekend. I also am without running partners, except for Jimmy. (Jimmy is a great partner for a lot of things but right now already has to wear multiple hats of husband, best friend, wailing wall, and all-purpose familiar figure -- so he is a little overstretched). I don’t have a coach, or even really a schedule, but I think that’s ok for now.
I do have a tentative plan: Ramp up mileage to the point where I feel comfortable at about 45 miles/week (try to stay within the 10% rule to reduce injury risk). Hill repeats at least once a week, and a hilly long run if possible. Possibly adding one tempo-ish run, depending on how it affects my ability to recover, which I think is crucial right now.
This will be my first week at about 40 miles. I can’t really track mileage, so I am going on time instead. Today I did hill repeats on the hill known as “Korea Garden Lodge,” about an 800-meter hill that doesn’t look super steep but kicks up nastily enough times to get your really winded by the top.
I was supposed to do 65 minutes today. Even though I finished in 63, my log reads 65. Hence the impetus of this blog’s name. You guessed it, I’m a sucker for rounding it up.
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