Quick reminders

This week marks the beginning of interval repeats, which is probably my least favourite part of marathon training (tied with hill repeats, that is). I’m not very good at running quickly, and I feel awkward when even attempting a sprint. My body type surely is not cut out for fast-twitch muscle action. And intervals tend to just leave my legs and lungs burning without, it seems, having much impact on my overall performance. I don’t feel that I get much faster throughout the six weeks of interval training, and I certainly don’t improve very much from year to year. What, then, is the point?

Yesterday I received awful news about the health of someone I know quite well and like very much. It’s heart-wrenching news, really -- the kind that makes you shake your head and wonder about the unfairness of life, and why bad things seem to happen to good people. It’s the kind of news that makes you pause to think about how short and fragile life really is, and how we should all count our blessings on a daily basis. It’s the kind of news that makes you feel like any complaint or gripe you might have is undoubtedly minor and almost embarrassing to mention.

Heading home from work yesterday evening, I felt tired and sluggish. I wasn’t feeling particularly excited about running, let alone about the prospect of running 1200 m repeats. But any hesitation I had quickly gave way to the realization that I should just be thankful that I can run, and I should remember how good it feels to work my body hard. I feel wobbly but strangely refreshed after a hard workout. I enjoy my dinner and a glass of wine that much more. I sleep like a log. I know that I’ve done something good for my health and my body and my state of mind. I feel proud of my effort.

It is no lie that, as I ran back on forth on the relatively flat stretch of East Drive last night, I thought several times about how lucky I am to be running. The news I received yesterday provided ample motivation for me to keep going. To be sure, I wasn’t running for anybody or in tribute to anyone -- it doesn’t even make sense to me how my act of running could possibly be for anyone else. I recognize that running back and forth as quickly as I can (which is not very quickly) is a selfish (and some might say, pointless) activity. But I know that someday -- hopefully later rather than sooner -- I won’t be able to run. Maybe I’ll get injured or sick for an extended period of time. Maybe the other demands in my life won’t allow time for such a self-indulgent activity. Maybe I’ll eventually get old and running will hurt too much to be worth the effort. I’m not sure what will spell the end of my running days, but I know that it will come.

And so last night, in spite of the fact that I’m not very good at running intervals, I tried to enjoy the burning sensation in my legs and the labored breathing in my lungs, and all that they represent. It may be hard to believe, but I know that, someday, I’ll miss it.