The Library

It occurred to me the other day that many (most) of the current team members only have a vague idea about my running. Most probably (and accurately) envision me as a recreational jogger who rarely, if ever, races.

The chasm between my running (jogging, really) and their running and racing has never been wider. And that's not necessarily a bad thing. It's probably a good thing, in many ways. My focus as their coach should be on their running, first and foremost. Never should my "training" get in the way with those duties.

All that jibberish aside, the stark reality of my running is that it has, by and large, been relegated to jogging. It has been a slow and steady transition (pun intended), one that I neither lament nor get nostalgic about. It's like I'm witnessing my slow-running demise as an outside party, in the third person.

Which is fine, really. There are so many more important things in my life to focus on and get my blood pumping. I recently ran a marathon. Upon returning home and telling my oldest son my time, he excitedly reported to me that it was a PW. PW? What's that, I asked? Personal Worst, he exclaimed with glee.

Thanks, buddy. Thanks A LOT.

Sure. There are many more important things I'm focused on these days, that occupy my hours.

And yet. And yet, I get out there, every morning, without fail, for my jogging. A regular reader of this blog is probably saying out loud, right now, that there is no reason for me to be a washed-up jogger, slogging through many miles at double-digit-per-mile pace in the pre-dawn darkness. All I've got to do is get out there and run faster. I know, Bob. You are right. But as he accurately pointed out, years ago, there is no limit to how slowly I can run. Bottom line: I don't have the discipline to push the pace on my own. Especially in the pre-dawn darkness.

And so I slog on, and get slower. It is what it is.

But wait! Before I become the personification of the title of that famous cult novel "Once A Runner," maybe there is still a wee bit of running left in these old legs. For a few minutes, twice per week, somehow the recessed runner inside me gets rekindled.

A local runner, Tony, started hooking up with Artie (my jogging partner) and I a few months ago. This represented a major step back for Tony, who is among the area's best age-group runners and hovers around the 3-hour marathon mark in his late 40s. But alas, he works from home now and misses the camaraderie of many faster running partners, which he had on a daily basis during his corporate lunchtime runs of the past.

So he started spicing up our morning jogs with a faster pace, for us anyway. And then Artie broke his leg playing soccer a few weeks ago (LET THAT BE A LESSON TO ALL OF YOU!!! LEAVE THE REAL SPORTS TO ACTUAL ATHLETES!) So now it's Tony and me, twice a week. A funny thing has happened on these runs. We RUN. At -- for me, anyway -- a pretty decent clip.

This, of course, represents jogging for him. For me, it's tempo. And Tony likes his hills, so we find the hilliest runs in town. I complain, of course, but I do it. Tony likes to talk on these runs, but it's hard for me. I do my best, but the words come out in staccato bursts as I struggle to maintain his jogging pace (my tempo pace). He's cool about it, but I know he won't tolerate double-digit-per-mile pace, that's for sure. So I gotta get a move on.

The first time we hit the big hill from the Hudson River at Bard Rock (Vanderbilt) and started climbing, Tony was chatting away. I could not respond. I could not talk. Breathing was in deep gasps now as we climbed. When it became clear I wasn't talking, Tony said he understood. "I call this The Library," he said. "We're going into The Library. No talking."

I like it. The Library. Had this been 10, 15 years ago, climbing this hill at this pace, it would have been laughable. Jogging. Now, as my lungs burn and my legs churn, I peel off the layers of rust and I feel like a runner again. If only for a few minutes every week. In The Library.