Men, Middle Age and Mortality - cont.
Running is one thing, this pursuit of Boston is exacting a heavier toll than I had imagined it would. I have to be faster, but the speed is breaking down a body already on the verge of middle-age decrepitude. I am gingerly trying to find the delicate balance where hard training stresses induces improvement versus going out too hard too often results in injury and over-training. The cross-training, the running, the endless pushing of the edge of the envelope, all require a deftness of touch and reasoning that I probably lack. It is in my nature to push until something pushes back. Training to qualify for Boston is all about finesse. When your body pushes back, you have stepped too far over the line and one can only hope that the damage isn't irrevocable. At least for this marathon.
Turning 45 is a mere six weeks away, losing another fifteen pounds is imperative, if only to take the strain off of my old injuries, a host of broken bones, abused tendons, ruptured cartilage, shredded ligaments and the assorted scar tissues of my overly exuberant youth. Every hard work-out these days seems to rouse in my muscles the memory of some old indignity inflicted on them from previous decades, a high speed spill, a body check into the corner, an awkward tackle, a fall from a horse, the cars I never saw coming - it is a rather perverse scenario - a cellular review of Vince's "Greatest Hits".
And yet, and yet, it is not all bad news. One morning I can barely crawl out of the bed and then the next day, like last Tuesday night's tempo run, the running is not a procession of individual footsteps, but a physical expression that verges on poetry, my feet do not pound pavement but fly over it. I have no sensation of effort, the striding becomes gliding, and I steam forward as if riding the crest of a wave. And then it as if you are a child again, when seemingly effortless speed and play were the natural phyical expression of self. The ache then is not in your body but in your heart and soul. When you wish you could have had the wisdom in your youth to fully savour every moment of physical bliss but of course you couldn't, because you were sweetly ignorant of the knowledge that such things are fleeting. That the body, like the years, must pass through its seasons, that spring will give way to summer and fall and inevitably, to winter.
The truth is, I can see myself running many, many more marathons. I see marathons trailing off far into my future... But there is no denying that the leaves in my legs are turning colour. That the green of spring and summer is giving way to an autumnal palette.
The truth is also, I do not know how many more fast marathons I either can run or that I want to run - bearing in mind of course that my definition of a fast marathon is specific entirely to me. A marathon where I am faster than the one before, where my time is a new personal best. After a while, what point am I trying to make to myself?
Frankly, I wouldn't mind being a 4:00, 4:15 or 4:30 marthoner at all. What is the special allure of Boston? What is it about it's history and glitter and shine that makes me want to pick at it like a crow? What makes me want to have it? Ego? Id? Just because it's there?
Regardless, the cold hard facts show that a 3:30:59 is going to take a once-in-a-lifetime conjuction of the sun, the moon, and all the stars and planets. I must be close to 180. I must be fully recovered, rested and tapered. I must be fast. Otherwise, any attempt at a qualifying time in October will be fruitless. Not pointless. But fruitless. I want to play as far into late summer as I can. I want to ignore the shorter days and the longer nights, turn a blind eye to the falling leaves and the failing light, pretend I don't see the ice on the ponds and the birds flying south nor the wind from the north and the first killing frost. I want summer to last as long as possible. And I want to pick the last of the summer fruit.
Turning 45 is a mere six weeks away, losing another fifteen pounds is imperative, if only to take the strain off of my old injuries, a host of broken bones, abused tendons, ruptured cartilage, shredded ligaments and the assorted scar tissues of my overly exuberant youth. Every hard work-out these days seems to rouse in my muscles the memory of some old indignity inflicted on them from previous decades, a high speed spill, a body check into the corner, an awkward tackle, a fall from a horse, the cars I never saw coming - it is a rather perverse scenario - a cellular review of Vince's "Greatest Hits".
And yet, and yet, it is not all bad news. One morning I can barely crawl out of the bed and then the next day, like last Tuesday night's tempo run, the running is not a procession of individual footsteps, but a physical expression that verges on poetry, my feet do not pound pavement but fly over it. I have no sensation of effort, the striding becomes gliding, and I steam forward as if riding the crest of a wave. And then it as if you are a child again, when seemingly effortless speed and play were the natural phyical expression of self. The ache then is not in your body but in your heart and soul. When you wish you could have had the wisdom in your youth to fully savour every moment of physical bliss but of course you couldn't, because you were sweetly ignorant of the knowledge that such things are fleeting. That the body, like the years, must pass through its seasons, that spring will give way to summer and fall and inevitably, to winter.
The truth is, I can see myself running many, many more marathons. I see marathons trailing off far into my future... But there is no denying that the leaves in my legs are turning colour. That the green of spring and summer is giving way to an autumnal palette.
The truth is also, I do not know how many more fast marathons I either can run or that I want to run - bearing in mind of course that my definition of a fast marathon is specific entirely to me. A marathon where I am faster than the one before, where my time is a new personal best. After a while, what point am I trying to make to myself?
Frankly, I wouldn't mind being a 4:00, 4:15 or 4:30 marthoner at all. What is the special allure of Boston? What is it about it's history and glitter and shine that makes me want to pick at it like a crow? What makes me want to have it? Ego? Id? Just because it's there?
Regardless, the cold hard facts show that a 3:30:59 is going to take a once-in-a-lifetime conjuction of the sun, the moon, and all the stars and planets. I must be close to 180. I must be fully recovered, rested and tapered. I must be fast. Otherwise, any attempt at a qualifying time in October will be fruitless. Not pointless. But fruitless. I want to play as far into late summer as I can. I want to ignore the shorter days and the longer nights, turn a blind eye to the falling leaves and the failing light, pretend I don't see the ice on the ponds and the birds flying south nor the wind from the north and the first killing frost. I want summer to last as long as possible. And I want to pick the last of the summer fruit.
posted by Vince Hemingson at 7:47 AM
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