I settle into my car on Wednesday morning this week, wishing that my commute would last longer than it will. I delay drinking coffee until I take the left-hand turn that positions me on the vertical thoroughfare of my little town. I tell myself it is because driving becomes less complicated – and safer – when I head onto the straightaway but in truth it is simply because that is my habit.
I relish the residential street for its quiet suburban dignity nested in the early dawn light. I travel as slowly as I can without irritating the driver behind me. I consider the ways that I could cause the perception of the drive to lengthen. I wonder if a mindfulness habit would help.
I am not going to work; I am driving to the local middle school, and I arrive all too soon. I sigh with resignation and submit myself to the activity that lies ahead – running quarter mile loops around the track. I fantasize, for just a moment, about buying a fancy coffee drink and strolling through a park, instead. Then I remind myself of a prophetic social media post I saw on Instagram this morning. A woman, who if asked, would probably say she wanted to lose 60 or 80 pounds is running around a track. Her mantra is, “suck it up so that someday I do not have to suck it in.” I mentally bow down to her toughness and tell myself to suck it up, as well.
The first quarter run is uncomfortable, as my body resents moving with so much effort, muscles grumbling disagreeably. The walkers using the inside lane bother me, too, as I move around them. It is not their physical space that annoys me; it is their companionable discourse and their luxurious strides unfettered by obligation. Worse still is the bicyclist leisurely pedaling around the track. He is biking clockwise, unlike the rest of us, so I am forced to see his approach repeatedly. Who rides a bike on a track anyhow?
At the end of the first quarter, my relief is so palpable that I am filled with gratitude. I reduce my movement to a sluggish jog for the next eighth of a mile. Jogging is an exaggeration; a jogger would blow past me like a world class sprinter.
The next few quarters are easier. My body has adjusted to the level of effort. The first third of each split I feel a youthful joy, my legs hitting the synthetic rubber surface like petite, quick - twitch piledrivers. At least that is my fantasy. During the second third, I try to maintain the rhythm of the start. I approach the last third of each circumference with grim determination akin to soldiering my way through the final minutes of an unpleasant dental procedure.
I keep track of the number of laps I have taken by holding fingers down against my palm so that distraction, effort, or compulsion do not cause me to question how many times I have circled the track. I love the fourth rotation as it means I am at the half-way point. The four fingers pressed into my sweaty palm of my left hand signal a hearty thumbs up. During lap five, my hand is clenched into the form of a fist bump – the modern-day, pandemic figurative high five.
The final couple of quarters are unpleasant, which is a charitable way of saying they suck. I try to separate myself from exertion by assigning a pain factor on a scale of one to ten. The formula is always the same: a few spritely yards at a level one, followed by levels two through four around the first and second turns, then the drudgery of five through sevens until the final straightaway. At that point, the mental effort of maintaining my form is almost as challenging as the physical exercise. Everything hurts – from my calves and thighs to my core. Even my triceps hurt for reasons I cannot fathom. I approach the finish line of my miniature race like I do a real race: just leave it all out there.
Intellectually I know that speedwork is good race preparation as it builds strength and increases oxygen uptake. And I know that it will make my upcoming half marathon somewhat less dreadful. But it will not make it comfortable; it is comparable to removing a pebble from a pair of too-small, spike high heels and trudging through a parking garage looking for your car.
At the end of the eighth lap, I am blissfully happy. I amble back to my car, nodding agreeably to the folks that irritated me just thirty minutes before.
The drive back home with fresh air brushing my forearms and the anticipation of a hot shower takes forever – much to my joy.