I hate the long run

John Boy wrote:

Make the shorter runs harder.

I run everything with a 15lb weight vest on.

Shorter runs I also have 2x 5lbs arm weights.

When I run without, I can just cruise along for miles.

Why not just run faster? Then you're running like you'll actually race, don't have to spend money on a weight vest, are done quicker, and don't look ridiculous.

Cavorty wrote:

They are a vital part of training, but for me they are just like the bad tasting medicine. On the other hand, I love track reps. So it's different strokes for different folks I guess..

They are not vital

Cavorty wrote:

I've been a competitive runner for more than 40 years (now 58), and ran 17:32 for 5k in my mid-50s, and even had a state age record for 10k, but I absolutely loath the long run. The build-up to 90 min+ usually involves several death marches. I can eventually get to the point where I can do a decent long run, but even then I'm bored rigid after about 20 mins.

They are a vital part of training, but for me they are just like the bad tasting medicine. On the other hand, I love track reps. So it's different strokes for different folks I guess..

I think it's also a matter of WHERE you run. If you have quiet dirt roads to run on, around a small town, as I did while growing up in rural Utah, a long run is very pleasant once you build up your fitness to accomplish it. On the other hand, I'm sure I would NOT enjoy running 20 miles in a big city or heavily populated area where it's all pavement, cars, etc. If that were the case, I can see how someone might actually prefer running on a track or even a treadmill.

drink good whiskey wrote:

How in the name of all that is holy do I ever get to where anything over 8 miles is not just pure misery?

Solution 1 - do long runs with at least one other person. Having company makes them easier to manage.

Solution 2 - do long runs on an out-and-back route. On a 10-miler it's a mental boost to be heading home after 5 miles.

Solution 3 - if you run greenspace trails and paths, a long run tends to feel more like play.

I'm older than Shawn and was not as good a runner, but at whatever competitive level, his comments here sound about right and very helpful to the OP.

I might add one thing to the thread I have not seen to this point: the importance of good training partners. Few things strengthen the bonds of friendship like a 20 mile training run. Nothing but the shared effort and time to talk, and the miles pass far more easily. to this day, my best friends are guys I did long runs with twenty or thirty years ago. Good luck.

John ODonnell wrote:

I'm older than Shawn and was not as good a runner, but at whatever competitive level, his comments here sound about right and very helpful to the OP.

I might add one thing to the thread I have not seen to this point: the importance of good training partners. Few things strengthen the bonds of friendship like a 20 mile training run. Nothing but the shared effort and time to talk, and the miles pass far more easily. to this day, my best friends are guys I did long runs with twenty or thirty years ago. Good luck.

I agree that sometimes a good training partner can make a long run more tolerable, as long as it doesn't turn into an unintended race. However, I really enjoyed long runs by myself, too. One more idea: if you have a good dog that is capable, try running with him or her. Along that line, I want to share an essay I wrote regarding one of my favorite long runs with a dog that wasn't even mine. I'm not suggesting you EVER take your pet on a 20-mile run--it's too far for an animal that can only cool itself by panting, but in this case the dog insisted, and he hung around a lot longer than I expected:

Dog Days: Furry Friend

Summer. Three miles into a twenty-mile run. It's early morning, just getting light. When you plan to run for two hours in a desert environment, taking no water along, you'd better start early while it's cool. I'm just getting warmed up and into a groove when I hear a sound that snaps me out of my early morning reverie: the unmistakable jingle of a dog collar. Filled with sudden adrenaline, I move out away from the curb and look around for the source of the sound. It's coming from behind. I whip around and jog backwards to assess the situation.

What I see is a large yellow dog, a Labrador Retriever, trotting on the road behind me, tongue lolling, tail wagging, collar jingling—no barking, no growling, no stiff hackles. Friendly, I think. I come to a stop, and the dog pulls up beside me. Carefully, I squat down and reach out a hand, palm up, watching the dog's face and speaking in a low, friendly voice: "Come here, boy. It's okay, boy." The dog comes closer, nosing my hand, tail still wagging. "Sit, boy, sit."

As the dog sits down on its haunches, I see that I've made a good guess: he's a male. "Good boy," I tell him. "Good boy. Where's your home, boy?" I gently take hold of his collar and try to look at his dog tags. He immediately nips at my hand and pulls away—he doesn't know me well enough to let me grab his collar. "It's okay, boy," I reassure him.

I stand up, and the dog licks my legs and tries to sniff my crotch. I take his big, fuzzy muzzle gently in my hands and lift his face toward mine. "I've gotta run now, boy. See ya later, okay?" He cocks his head to one side and gives me a puzzled look. I laugh, recalling one of Gary Larson's Far Side cartoons my sister once showed me, about what we say to dogs and what they hear, often referred to on the internet as simply the “Ginger Cartoon.”

I turn, glancing over my shoulder, watching the dog's reaction. I ease slowly into a jog. But rather than sit there, he matches my move, easing into a trot behind me. He obviously wants to run. Poor boy—maybe he escaped his kennel and wants to make the most of his new-found freedom.

I wouldn't mind letting this furry friend run with me, but I'm running long today. His home must be somewhere nearby, and I don't want him to get lost. I look around, but all the houses are quiet with people still asleep. "No, boy, stay here," I tell the friendly pooch. “No," I repeat firmly, holding my hands out in a "halt" position. He responds with the same puzzled look as before, and then nuzzles close, licking my legs and hands.

"No, boy, you have to stay here, okay?" I turn and ease back into a slow jog.

He follows me.

Now I make my voice stern and serious: "NO! Stay here, boy. Stay HERE!" His big brown eyes look a bit hurt now, and I can't resist petting him when he noses my legs again.

I try another tactic. Jogging a few yards with the big dog following closely behind, I suddenly begin sprinting, hoping he'll see I'm not out for an easy jog and decide not to run with me. But it's no use: he matches my speed easily, never breaking into a full run himself. I give up. I can't stand around waiting for him to leave, and I can't force myself to be cruel to him. Let him run if he insists.

And run he does. Rather than break off and return home, he stays with me, mile after mile, trotting along easily, collar jingling, big paws softly padding the road, nails lightly clicking on the pavement. For more than ten miles, he stays right by my side, smartly avoiding traffic and ignoring the barking of other dogs whose yards we pass along the way. However, during that tenth mile, I notice he's dropping off the pace once in a while, letting me get fifty yards ahead before running me down from behind. His tongue is hanging out now, and whenever we pass water sprinklers he stops for a moment to lap water from puddles on the road or sidewalk. Once, as we pass the creek running through town, I stop and lead him down to the water's edge. He gratefully drinks the cold running water for more than a minute, then looks up at me, water dribbling from his chops as if to say he's ready to run again.

So we run on for a couple of miles. But then, just as I begin retracing part of my course, at a point not far from where I first saw him, he suddenly stops and begins sniffing a tuft of weed grass by the side of the road. When I jog backwards to look at him, he urinates on the weed grass and looks back at me as if to say, "Well, it's been fun, buddy, but this is where I get off."

For just a moment I consider trying to take this wonderful dog home with me. But then I think about the dog collar and about what my parents would say. We already have three dogs. Hoping he's close to home now, I reluctantly wave goodbye: "See ya later, boy.”

I finish the last five miles alone, missing my furry friend. But I'm not really sad. It was a great run while it lasted.

Have a good life, boy.

I had a run like that when a dog folowed me! He was a Boxer. What an enjoyable run. He was such a character.