This Eye of the Tiger Has Cataracts
In movies about aging athletes making a comeback, things don’t begin smoothly. There are numerous defeats before the moment the stars miraculously align, the penultimate punch unfolds in slo-mo and the background music builds to a crescendo.
My return to “competitive” running on Saturday is going to resemble one of the later Rocky movies, specifically the part where the boxer gets his first serious ass-whooping. This became clear to me during the third of four 1600s at 10k pace during Tuesday night’s workout. For those unfamiliar with the track, 1600 equals 1 mile. You run four laps fast and then jog another before starting again. Those racing this weekend got a free pass and didn’t have to do the full six-mile set.
I’d done something beforehand to get me fired up. I went to my old track club’s web site and looked up recent results, searching for women I remember racing more than a decade ago. I was amazed at how many names I recognized and even more awed that they still clocked sub-23-minute 5ks and under 45-minute 10ks. [For the record, I never came that close.] Then I looked at the race photos and saw they had remained lithe and muscular and in good form, while I’d let myself go, go, go, oh-oh-oh....
So as I moved through each turn and straightaway on Tuesday, I imagined me without the extra 20 pounds and with much better leg turnover. And I reminded myself as each split got slower, that I am starting over, not picking up where I left off last June. It always took Rocky Balboa a good 2-1/2 hours of compressed time to go from the bottom to the top. I guess I can give myself a little longer to do the same.
My return to “competitive” running on Saturday is going to resemble one of the later Rocky movies, specifically the part where the boxer gets his first serious ass-whooping. This became clear to me during the third of four 1600s at 10k pace during Tuesday night’s workout. For those unfamiliar with the track, 1600 equals 1 mile. You run four laps fast and then jog another before starting again. Those racing this weekend got a free pass and didn’t have to do the full six-mile set.
I’d done something beforehand to get me fired up. I went to my old track club’s web site and looked up recent results, searching for women I remember racing more than a decade ago. I was amazed at how many names I recognized and even more awed that they still clocked sub-23-minute 5ks and under 45-minute 10ks. [For the record, I never came that close.] Then I looked at the race photos and saw they had remained lithe and muscular and in good form, while I’d let myself go, go, go, oh-oh-oh....
So as I moved through each turn and straightaway on Tuesday, I imagined me without the extra 20 pounds and with much better leg turnover. And I reminded myself as each split got slower, that I am starting over, not picking up where I left off last June. It always took Rocky Balboa a good 2-1/2 hours of compressed time to go from the bottom to the top. I guess I can give myself a little longer to do the same.
