City Coach | Green Light's Blog

Consistency

Way back in 2004 when I was busy injuring and reinjuring myself, someone very wise told me that consistency would help my training most.  I tried it.  I didn't skip days if I was feeling like a weenie, or had a miscellaneous ache.  I didn't "make up" runs when life got in the way.  I built mileage slowly, was conservative but consistent, and it worked.  It wasn't fast, but consistency got me to new PRs and a successful season.  And since then I've keept that in mind for all my many "comebacks". 

When I launched this whole "I'm going to run the Philly marathon" plan, I kept that in mind.  I am impatient to return to the Green Light of 2008, lean and kind of speedy.  But rushing into hard workouts is not the way to get back into it.  Miles, consistent, plodding miles, that's my recipe.  Coach approved. And it's working.

Oh, I've still got a long, long way to go.  But today, six weeks into consistent, 4-days-per-week training, I ran the Battle of Brooklyn 10-miler, 3 loops of Prospect Park.  A bit of a cutback in long run mileage, but still a training run.  And it was great.  I was not racing -- I haven't been doing any speedwork, I don't even remember what it's like to run at that level of exertion -- but I did have a plan, to go easy the first two loops and then speed up if I felt good.  And I did, so I did, and I met my goals (don't get lapped, break 90 minutes, negative split), even if they were just by a hair.

Hello, my name is Green Light and I'm a whiner

For the record.

I am a whiner. I am a whiner and a weenie.

You will not find me on the home page during this Citycoach rally to the foolhardy -- I mean brave and intrepid. You will find me in the following places:

a) inside on a computrainer all winter long, because no WAY am I going to try to ride outside if the windchill I create is going to make snot freeze to my face. But don't mistake me for one of those people who sits on her trainer for hours sweating until the floorboards warp. I can make it about an hour or so (unless bike class is involved). I can't deal with the boredom.

b) inside on a treadmill when it is hot and humid. In fact, isn't that why I really made the switch to triathlon? I was supposedly training to run the marathon in 2005, and it was one of those classic NYC disgusting humid, stinky August days and I was supposed to be running long. I was in the middle of the first loop around Prospect Park and thought to myself "I could be biking right now and it wouldn't feel too bad. I could be swimming and it would actually be kind of refreshing. But instead I'm doing the one thing that it is absolutely miserable to do in heat and humidity?" And with that, I stopped, walked across the park, took the subway home, and said goodby to the marathon (well, for five years anyway).

And every time it rains, snows, the wind blows, I have a tummy-ache, or any other of the many gripes that come around, you'll find me desperately fighting my inner couch potato, summoning the booming voice of Coach Cane into my head: "you're not made of sugar" or "the competition is training" or "the date of the race isn't going anywhere...". One of those is usually applicable, and does the trick. Then, and only then, do I sigh, put on my big girl panties, and get out the door.

Figs

It’s fig season. As the little mister and I were doing our post-run walking lunges Thursday, a neighbor invited me to pick the ripe figs off her tree – she’d already gotten all the ones within her reach. Sweaty and disgusting, I found myself perched on a very rickety picnic table, and came home with a shopping bag full.

Figs and running – nostalgia again takes me back to 2001. I was still doing that globetrotting I used to do before I became a professional shoe geek, and that summer had me back in the Balkans, inter alia. I wouldn't say I completely stuck to the schedule, but I was determined to keep the marathon training going as best I could. One morning I was out for a run and got stopped by the local teenybopper pop radio station, which was interviewing the random man-on-the-street. I was already the weirdo by running, and even more so once they determined I was a Yank who spoke the language. Later that day, the very buttoned-up minister who we were meeting made a funny face when she heard my accent. "Were you by any chance that American interviewed on the radio this morning?" Icebreaker. That had nothing to do with figs but it was pretty funny. Anyway.

Later that same trip we were travelling in a region that had been "ethnically cleansed" and repopulated with the winning side’s refugees, albeit sparsely. Figs were in season, and boy were they. There wasn’t much in the way of an economy, and little kids would stand out by the road, selling big bags of figs for a nickel. We were on our way from some point A to some point B, and counted on being able to find a restaurant along the way for lunch. We were wrong. Instead we had those figs. Hours and hours of figs.

The next day was "long run" day, and I chose an out-and-back down this road heading towards the border. I knew I was going to need as quiet and untrafficked a route as possible. As I was running, a car screeched to a halt and an enormous mustached guy got out. "Oh boy", I thought, preparing for lechery or the secret police or anything in between. Instead, he looked ready for action, "Do you need help", very concerned. Why else would someone be running for the border? It took several minutes to convince him that there was nobody chasing me. "Ah, fitnis," and then a smile and he went back on his merry way. But little did he know. I could indeed have used help, if it came in the giant green shape of a portapotty. Because here’s rule number one of running near former front lines: no leaving the pavement, no matter how many figs you ate the day before.