Spent a good portion of ages 11-17 in age group swimming, mostly distance free events by the end of it, and found that when I started running to train for a few local triathlons (ech!) that, lo and behold, I was a better runner than swimmer! Tri was just beginning to move to the draft-legal format for junior, U23 and elite racing series, and I semi-seriously messed around in the sport while working and studying part-time in college. PR's at the point where I decided to trade the narcissistic lifestyle of a wannabe fast triathlete for the equally narcissistic lifestyle of near full-time college-age partying (around age 21) were an 8:40 3k/15:23 5k (track), and 32:26 10k (road). Nothing stellar, but quick enough to win a few local road races. Incidentally, both the track times were set in the same training time trial, where I blew up in spectacular fashion about 3 laps from the line.
Fast forward through an undergraduate degree where I nearly drank myself out of an opportunity to redeem myself in a subsequent graduate degree, through grad school, a few cross-country moves, and one monumental long-term relationship implosion, to two years ago (age 29) when I finally began to "get my shit together".
Quitting drinking was the hardest part. The somewhat sudden realization and regret of having watched myself flush so many opportunities down the drain was humbling, and watching those studious types (whose habits I lamented while socializing my way through school) start building businesses, and homes, and families, while I struggled to get an entry level job ... so, yeah, humbling. Out with the binging and in with a more stable, less mercurial lifestyle. Lost touch with most of my friends as well during this process. That social split was the pits, while simultaneously revealing that I had far less friends and far more drinking partners than I had imagined.
With a little more stability in my day-to-day, I started going back to the gym to re-visit the strength and conditioning routines I dug out of old training logs, only to find that, aside from my well-developed ego, I was both weak and uncoordinated, and not even as lean as I had thought.
So I started running. And this is the part where I had hoped that all of those years of distance work - morning practices, morning runs, all-day mountain bike rides, etc. - would magically kick in, and I would settle into a fairly pedestrian but respectable pace in this new and fun chapter of running.
I ran 4 miles at an 11:20/mi pace, and it was hard. Slowly, very slowly, I added a few miles a week and very slowly it became a little less uncomfortable. It was a big day when I averaged under 10:00/mi for a 10k, and an even greater revelation that it didn't inadvertently turn out to be a threshold workout. I had never run this slow in my life for as long as I had actually known running was a sport. For anyone who has even imagined that they were, or are, speedy - even by their own, small-pond definition of the word - they will recognize that although improvement from 11:20 to 10:00 is substantial given the circumstances, it is in no way, shape, or form like running fast. For me, those beginning miles were plodding, they were ponderous, and I rolled down the road with the grace of a square tire. I learned during these early morning stomps to appreciate the effort as much as the sensation, because, quite honestly, it felt terrible, and any hints of beauty through movement, or freedoms or transcendental highs were quashed by a slow cadence and sore knees, every time.
The first year I spent re-learning how to live an active lifestyle, and just tried to be as consistent as possible with whatever activities I could fit into my day. Some snowshoeing and XC skiing in the winter, more gym work with the Olympic lifts and gymnastics (of a complexity that would be impressive if I were four and a half years old), all the while putting in aerobic work on the roads and trails. I didn't even do a stride until 6 months in.
Things began to click once I was able to string together consistent weeks of 5-6 running days, and a little less slowly the paces dropped as I started to push a few fartleks/tempos into the schedule. Continued slowly building with this for another 8 months and then, on a whim while visiting family out west this fall, I entered a road race. First one in almost ten years. Why hesitate, I thought, so I went for the 10k instead of 5. A cool, windless day and some good legs, and I ran a hard but controlled 32:12. Again, nothing stellar, but if you had told me two years ago that this was possible, I wouldn't have listened, because who the fcuk takes advice from someone they just met? To this point in my "comeback" I have not been on, or even near a track with the intention of running on it, and had just started to graze 70mpw before the weather turned crappy and I began splitting my time among other sports.
My take-home lessons from this too-long minuet: Thirty-one does not at all feel like nineteen years old, and that bulletproof sensation in running and elsewhere in life is, almost thankfully, gone. If you think you have trashed yourself too far beyond redemption, think again. The body is a remarkably adaptive piece of meat. Be smart about your re-entry to running, and be very disciplined about introducing higher efforts or increases in mileage. And if you ever thought that you would be better off if you spent a few more hours each week on a sport, or a little more time each day focusing on wellness, you are probably right. And if you ever have the opportunity to steer a young kid away from a seductive party scene, do it. You might even drum up a solid training partner.
End pear-shaped tome.
