Satisfaction is a slippery prize for us goal chasers. Accomplishments, however great, lose their luster as new expectations set in.
After improving my half marathon time by eight percent at the Seattle Rock ‘n Roll last June, I was on a high. The race had felt like flight, my legs like wheels, and the endorphin high that followed sent me bubbling into the sunny hours that followed–chatting and laughing and musing about future trail runs, workouts, and races.
The following week, giddy energy propelled me down trails and roads. But then I hiccupped on the excitement and…oops…I felt like a drunken fool. The revelry was over, and it was time to get back to work. Unfortunately, more hard workouts and high mileage training sounded about as fun as eating dirt.
I’ve been running through a bout of burnout ever since. The question–why run–pervades. The answer? I’m still working on finding something more satisfying than, well, it’s gotten me this far.
Wednesday was tough. I’d decided to do a hard workout the day after my long run, so my legs were pretty tired. In procrastination mode that morning, I took particular care in selecting my shirt, donning my socks, lacing my shoes, stepping outside, and locking the door, all the while holding the serious expression of someone heading off to war. “I don’t have to do this,” I thought. “Yes you do,” I responded.
I ran up and over the hill to Greenlake, bitter, imagining the other me–the one that works at a newspaper or some other appropriate, high-stress job–speeding to my coffee pot, then to my car, then to a desk at an office and sucking down my daily dose of news. I would have heard reports of Ted Kennedy, who had died the day before. Reporters were commemorating his aggressive speeches and adherence to personal ideals. Ah, to linger over news as I wake. Ah, my future life.
I hit the track and began the six 1200’s, hiting the first at an embarrassing thirty seconds slower than I had hoped. I wondered what the point was. To feel the ground? To find out? Because I’m an endorphin addict? But I did not feel like such an addict that day. I felt like that other self–the one that loves to wake up and read–and wondered if I had mistakenly come to think of myself as an athlete.
Then the two minutes of rest were up, and I began again, rounding the corners of the track, searching for that elusive sense of desire.
I began the second lap, blaming outside factors for my slowness–the tubes that took up the inside lane, the napping construction worker. All slowing signals, I thought. In a last ditch effort for some motivation, I conjured an image of my college coach, Ted Castaneda, who had managed to remain confident of my potential during those slow early-season workouts. “Times will come,” he’d always said.
Towards the end of the workout, I began to think about staying on my toes and keeping my eyes up, and I was able to improve my speed by ten seconds on a few, although that was still about 20 seconds off goal pace. It was disappointing, but I hadn’t quit, and sometimes that’s all a runner can do. The next day, I woke in chipper spirits to wind through the trails of Ravenna Park.
The daily rigor 