Flashes of Panic

I took a long time to get going, in the pool this morning. I’d say I was close to halfway done with the set before I began to hit on all cylinders; I was so far off, I did a few open turns (as opposed to flipping them.) I had to be a little more mindful of relaxing and reaching out in front of me to get a full stroke.

I was thinking to myself, “This ‘getting in shape’ business is hard work.” And I realized, as I thought about it, how much I choose not to remember about being in shape when I was running.

It’s easy to remember the fun stuff. The long runs where I was floating past the scenery and felt like I could go for days; the races where I stretched myself from the start and knew I was going to finish well if I could just hang on; the times I got antsy holding back behind another runner and seemed to be able to put him well behind me just by thinking about running free for a few minutes.

What I haven’t been thinking about was the dues paid to get there. Prying myself out of bed before the sun through the winter and watching my step for black ice. Clueless dog owners. The track workouts where the start of every repeat was an exercise in self-delusion. (You can’t look at the whole workout; you just put the repeats on the plate one at a time.) The weird chemical smell of sweat when I’m really, really depleted on a long run.

I’d tell you that this is all worth it, but the funny part is that I probably wasn’t thinking so at the time. Even in [the race I won][1] I don’t remember allowing myself much jubilation.

I can’t find the poem I’m thinking of online, but I believe it’s by Donald Finkel: “Interview with a Winner.” It’s in The Runner’s Literary Companion, and it ends something like this:

What did you win?
a chance

What’s next for you?
next week’s race

that wasn’t it either

Maybe I just want to be back in the game, entropy be damned.

Now playing: 3 Strange Days from School Of Fish by School Of Fish