T minus Tempo

That's how I felt all day. The day started with me counting down the hours until my tempo run...it slowly dwindled down to mere minutes and I knew it was time to face my torturous hour head on.

Let me back track a bit. I'm not the greatest runner who ever lived, shit, I'm barely in the running for my age group as it is, BUT I still think of myself as a fairly good accomplished runner. I've run fast 5k & 10k's. I've run a marathon (nearly two in fact). I've trained myself into injury as well as many a PR. You wouldn't think that years into this journey of putting one foot in front of the other I'd still get freaked out at the thought of certain training runs...but I do. To me, tempo runs are like the evil stepchild in an otherwise beautiful functioning family. They need attention, they need constant reassurance, they need every ounce of my focus for an extended period of time and I'm really starting to resent it. Long slow runs can actually be interspersed with enjoyment-the scenery, the conversational pace etc.,etc. And speedwork has a certain je ne sais quoi as well...definite start/stop times which push you hard enough but only for short bursts of hell on earth with an ever loving recovery following each of those-see THAT I can handle. Give me small sips of the poison and I can somehow immunize myself to it. It's really quite a shame that Lucifer himself has somehow managed to get his hands around the marionette strings of my tempo runs. I'm well aware that I'm supposed to be uncomfortable during them but you see, that's the problem. I'm not out of control uncomfortable so I'm with it enough to be my own worst critic during these said times. I'm acutely aware of how much I'm hating it, how much I'm sucking at it, how much I cannot do it. I'm probably not explaining it right-I'm at as much a loss for words with this part of training as I am desire.

Anyway, it was supposed to go down like this: 1 mile warm up, 5 miles at tempo pace, 1 mile cool down (all on the treadmill so as to be able to be anal about getting the precise split times). I ran my first warm up mile and didn't feel that great but pressed on to start the increased pace. Then after that I stopped. I gave in to the voice in my head that said "there's no fucking way you can sustain this for another 4 miles". I layed down on the treadmill...I waited to cave to my inferior feelings. Then I got pissed-pissed at myself for giving up so easily and pissed at the treadmill since it was OBVIOUSLY the real reason for my woes. So I figured that if I had already done 1 mile at tempo that I could just go to the park and run like hell and finish out my other 4 tempo miles. Surely the park is where I would catch my groove. So off I went, juiced up on anger and intimidation-great combo, very soothing to soul, I tell ya. I got to the one mile mark and wanted to quit. I rationalized that I could just do three miles in addition to the two I did at home and count it as my easy run for the week. I huffed and puffed and thought of a myriad of reasons for my failure and an equal number of reasons to just give up and put off the inevitable until my next day of running. I reached my car and looked at my watch-well whatya know, my splits were about what I needed my tempo pace to be. So that means the 1 mile warm up + the 1 tempo mile I did at home + the 3 I just did at the park meant I had a measly 1 mile left of that horrific pace left to do and my 1 mile of cool down. I hopped in the car and sped home, hoping that nothing happened upon my peripheral of delayed dedication. Once I got home, I ran down to the basement, put my CD player on shuffle and dialed the volumed up to 10. I shit you not, as I started the treadmill, "Push the Tempo" by FatboySlim blared out in retaliation of my dreadful, nearly concluded workout. I can't believe I almost let it beat me.