Serious runners are strange creatures. I cannot pass a digital bank clock without automatically thinking of some time it corresponds to in my running life. 3:02 isn’t 3:02 in the afternoon, but my goal time for 5 X 1,000m with 300 jog recovery (back when I was fast). A speed limit sign, like 25 mph, only triggers my crazy brain to think of 25 laps in a 10k. Speed limit 35? 35 seconds in repeat cruise 200’s. 40? Phone booths to Boston (Don Kardong’s book). Even some random number, say 4 ½, is meaningful to a racer – that is the point in a 10k when you enter the pain zone. Pick a number, any number, and I can’t NOT give you a running connection to it.
Calendars are no different than clocks for me. In my “elite” running days, every month signified a race or running event. December wasn’t the month of Christmas, but cross-country club nationals. The 4th of July wasn’t about barbeque and fireworks; it was the day I raced down Peachtree’s steamy street in Atlanta. March was indoor nationals or world cross, not green beer in an Irish Pub (well, maybe after the race!). June was US track nationals, August was Falmouth, September, October, and November were the months I put in the hills and miles and limited-recovery intervals. Those were my bread-and-butter months. January was for starting a new running log and setting new racing goals. I never even went to a New Year’s Eve party in all the years I was a serious athlete.
So, now, as I sit down to write in this month of valentines, I am no longer elite and I am pondering what February means. I used to be in a scratchy state of anxiety for much of the month. The world cross-country trials were in February; would I make the team, make the grade and be classified as “world class?” Or would I end up merely an “also ran” in the race results? Often this one race determined the status of your shoe contract and sponsorship deal. This one race either catapulted you into a spring season of smart training, fast times, and prize money finishes … or it sent you plummeting into an over-training hole because you were determined to prove you’re better than that bad race. February was a make or break month.. Back then.
What about now? In my new non-elite persona, February means my favorite trail race in the Uwharrie national forest. It means making home-made valentine’s day cards after school with my children. And it means I’ll check the cross-country trials race results on-line, with no anxiety whatsoever, to see who made the US team.
p.s. In case you’re worried about me living in an OCD nightmare, 3:02pm is now the time my Rosie gets off the bus and 4 ½ is how old Lizzie turned on December 26th. Heck, I may even go to a New Year’s Eve party this year!
Joan, you are the best writer in runnerland. I love every one of your articles, even when they are not about running, especially when you talk about family. I grew up in foster homes and never got to experience what you describe in your family.
Anyway, on to how life revolves around running. I had been running since the 70s and devoured every book or magazine I could get my hands on. It got to the point where I could look at a row of racers on the track, see only a leg of a particular runner and know who it is. Also, in many race results, they would print the first letter of the persons name and I would know the first name of most of the top runners. Once, I volunteered at a race where some young schoolkids were “volunteered” as well. I called to every runner in the first 50 or so by name. A young girl looked at me and asked “Do you know ALL the runners?”
Joan, thanks for all the wonderful songs of experience, and I look forward to reading and hearing more.
George