Your Own Pace

I was wandering back to my friend Alec's cavern loft, overall having a good day, and talked to myself about workouts. I was planning on running early this morning, and answered to my audience that I would replicate some of the old workouts that I used to love in high school. No, currently love. I'd run some laps Fort Greene Park, which Alec lives next to, and increase the speed every now and then, a regular fartlek workout. No, no, I admitted to my audience, I'm not as fast as I used to be, but that was laright because I could go at my own pace.

It struck me for the first time how revolutionary that mentality is. I could run slower, but that was okay, because I was giving it my all. Everyone on my old cross country team could run at their own rate, challenging themselves in increments and it was all valued. That back-of-the-pack girl Khang liked or that sweaty guy Hania liked, they all could run and not worry about interpersonal comparisons. We trained on the notion of personal records (PRs), self-mythology. You ran your heart out and you knew it, and you were recognized for your effort.

As a stark opposite, one of our rivals, Central Catholic high school (about as bland of a name as you can get, barring something named after an aluminum company...) was an athletic juggernaut with the ability to send only the minimum number of runners to races, while the more elite competitors ran with the gods, or Galen Rupp or whoever. Their coach(es) strategically placed runners exactly where they were needed for the team to win each race, usually with great success. I only saw a handful of red (Central's colors) in each race, because the whole team was not necessary, just the tops. They were the anointed ones.

We ran our hearts out, all of us, and were still trounced by the hierarchical, the efficient Central Catholic Rams, most of the time. It was a given that we would place second or third, but where was the Central team? Where was the spirit of togetherness, of intersubjective support? It was absent, and I'll go as far to say the Central team didn't exist. They may have looked like they ran together, all huddled in obligatory prayer before each race, but when it came to the field, they all ran alone, burdened like Atlases.

Maybe our top runners felt this way, but most of them were all smiles after the race because someone out there with a green, damp jersey gave it there all, and that mattered as much if not more than the PR. And I swear this wasn't just me. This isn't hagiographical delusion. We were radical, we were together.

And I'm trying to get back into running now. Reintegrate those old habits, snot rockets and wearing tennis shoes like they made my outfit, running on empty stomachs, running through pain. I haven't reintroduced my bandanas, but they're still around, in a drawer somewhere in East Portland. I'll run tomorrow, groggy in the cold March morning, but I won't run alone, and even if I did, I'll PR for sure, and I'll come back to Alec's cavern, sweaty, but grinning, because I heard the team fanfare on the way back from the park.

It's not just a runner's high, it's recreated recreation. I've still got the raider spirit.