A tempo run in the roaring rain, could there be anything more romantic?
The idea is to bang out two 1.5 mile intervals at a 'comfortably hard' half-marathon kind of pace. I have no fucking clue what my half-marathon kind of pace is, not having run one in five years, but I decide that 6'40 minute miles are doable and close enough to my goal pace for the next race to be acceptable.
Forced into a 7.30am drop off at a southside garage by the National Cunt Test, it seems logical to Jesus Killer it up to the UCD track and set to work there. Given the torrential downpour, it seems even more logical to crawl under a bush and have a little sleep. But fuck it, I think, it's in the diary, it's gotta be done. Next week I'm going to write 'be from Glenageary and win the lotto'.
I am very, very wet and pretty fucking cold by the time I arrive. Bastard buses, cunting cars. I peel off the jeans, pull on the shorts. Start the slow jogging, two laps. Move up to a run, four laps. I don't time them, just try to take it easy. Not so easy though that I am not hyper aware of hungry headwind on the back straight eating the legs off me, even at the easy pace. But I'm warm now, and ready to go. 6 x 1'40 laps. 2 minuntes recovery. Repeat.
I like this terror as I set off at what I can only guess is the right pace. It's the legs, the lungs, muttering, 'You think you can hold this? You cannot hold this. Not without hurt, you cannot hold this.' First lap down, a glance at the clock tells of 1'30. Fuck. It's good news but it's bad news. I try to ease back, but to keep it tough. I think I almost remember how to do this. Next lap, slower, but still a little quick. Maybe I can just keep this pace. I'm confused. I couldn't be this strong already. I go, and so it goes. 9'23. Take the break. Go again. Again I start with the 1'30 lap. Focus keeps slipping, always on that galling back straight. I run a hideous fifth lap, kick it right up for the last and still only come out with 9'36. Only. The target was 10'00. I am a happily panting little runner.
Allowing for the not quite mileness of four laps, my pace works out at 6'18 and 6'27. I have to run 6'23 to get what I want in the May 17 five miler. I suddenly believe that I can do it. And I dare to dream that I might, in six months say, be as quick as I ever was.
The idea is to bang out two 1.5 mile intervals at a 'comfortably hard' half-marathon kind of pace. I have no fucking clue what my half-marathon kind of pace is, not having run one in five years, but I decide that 6'40 minute miles are doable and close enough to my goal pace for the next race to be acceptable.
Forced into a 7.30am drop off at a southside garage by the National Cunt Test, it seems logical to Jesus Killer it up to the UCD track and set to work there. Given the torrential downpour, it seems even more logical to crawl under a bush and have a little sleep. But fuck it, I think, it's in the diary, it's gotta be done. Next week I'm going to write 'be from Glenageary and win the lotto'.
I am very, very wet and pretty fucking cold by the time I arrive. Bastard buses, cunting cars. I peel off the jeans, pull on the shorts. Start the slow jogging, two laps. Move up to a run, four laps. I don't time them, just try to take it easy. Not so easy though that I am not hyper aware of hungry headwind on the back straight eating the legs off me, even at the easy pace. But I'm warm now, and ready to go. 6 x 1'40 laps. 2 minuntes recovery. Repeat.
I like this terror as I set off at what I can only guess is the right pace. It's the legs, the lungs, muttering, 'You think you can hold this? You cannot hold this. Not without hurt, you cannot hold this.' First lap down, a glance at the clock tells of 1'30. Fuck. It's good news but it's bad news. I try to ease back, but to keep it tough. I think I almost remember how to do this. Next lap, slower, but still a little quick. Maybe I can just keep this pace. I'm confused. I couldn't be this strong already. I go, and so it goes. 9'23. Take the break. Go again. Again I start with the 1'30 lap. Focus keeps slipping, always on that galling back straight. I run a hideous fifth lap, kick it right up for the last and still only come out with 9'36. Only. The target was 10'00. I am a happily panting little runner.
Allowing for the not quite mileness of four laps, my pace works out at 6'18 and 6'27. I have to run 6'23 to get what I want in the May 17 five miler. I suddenly believe that I can do it. And I dare to dream that I might, in six months say, be as quick as I ever was.
3 comments:
great session Mr G, had me gasping.
Fuckin' wind heh.
2 x 2 miles next week, same pace. I'm bringing a brolly.
Brolly will work, only with tail wind though.
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