Whereas the previous month seemed to come and go in an instant, April has seemingly extended far beyond the normally prescribed four weeks. And within these four weeks it feels as though I’ve lived a hundred different lives; my thoughts and attitude flip-flopping, with contrasting and contradictory feelings all competing for space.
It has also been a reminder of just how analogous running is to life itself.
Though seemingly so long ago, the month was welcomed in the most beautiful of ways. Luck would have me spending the Easter weekend tucked away amongst the hills and bush that accompany the perimeter of Lake Waikaremoana and a never-ending series of gravel roads.
Not that any encouragement would ever really be needed, spending seven hours on the road and rotating between the passenger and driver's seat served as motivation to get out and on the trails that encompassed the lake.
As well as being unquestionably beautiful, trail running encouraged a letting go of the data, an obsession of which I’d picked up over the last month. To such an extent you’d be forgiven for thinking I’d developed a twitch, such was my habit of raising my wrist and peering at my watch every couple of strides.
Though the trails, by design, encourage a more eyes-to-the-floor approach, as to not find yourself tumbling down a staircase of tree roots. No doubt I’d be obsessing over that circular screen of data otherwise.
Comparison, they say, is the thief of joy. Comparison, though, has been the theme of the month.
Rightly or wrongly, over the last few years in particular, there has been some anxiety over being left behind by my peers; people my age or younger who, on the surface, are surpassing me in every which way. Succeeding in and pursuing careers that they are passionate about, as well as leading full, interesting lives outside of a professional capacity.
Running, for me, has been an equaliser.
Whatever ill-advised (or more so, unadvised) choices and decisions I’ve made throughout my life that have led to me where I am today feel irrelevant when I’ve been able to run. I am in control when I run, and I have the ability to succeed and be competitive in a way that has eluded me in my personal and professional life.
Even more so, running has offered me something where I can see and feel clear, tangible progress. Any personal and professional development that has stagnated is negligible when I am at least making progress on my running ‘journey’.
That’s not to say this is a healthy attitude, but it is the way it is.
So with this month hosting possibly the two fastest races in New Zealand - the same which hosted my own personal bests - some of that anxiety crept its way into a world that is otherwise normally untouchable by anxiety; but for start-line butterflies. I didn’t have control anymore, and there was an expectation that everyone who was already bettering me in every other aspect of their life was now about to gobble up my personal bests, too.
Were they different races, different courses and elevation profiles, it’d be easier to brush off any new results competing with my own. Instead, there is a direct comparison to be made with little to no alleviating factors.
It’s certainly not as though I don’t want to see people winning; to set goals and meet them, or better yet exceed them. Quite the opposite. I’m fortunate enough to have some friends to train with that I want nothing more for than for them to succeed.
Only, there would be successes this month are a reminder of my own lost progress.
Previous months I’ve had only my own historical fitness to draw parallels to and compare. The memory of ‘x’ distance and ‘x’ pace feeling ‘x’ times easier; as if I really had any memory of how any of it felt.
Instead, the tendency for Strava to remind me of my activities ‘on this day’ one year ago invites me to trawl through the data with particular attention on just how many fewer heartbeats per minute I was doing on this route or that.
These reminders and insight into what I was up to a year ago have encouraged my obsession and insistence on checking my watch and heart-rate data throughout my runs. One might presume this is beneficial, in the interest of that coveted ‘zone 2’ training that we all hear so much about, but such a presumption would be wrong. Instead, dismayed at my heart rate being at this number at that pace, when it should be at that number at this pace, I refuse to slow down or adjust my run. Inevitably, getting more frustrated and raising my heart rate a beat or two as a by-product.
What I used to be so good at doing was just running by feel. And that is the beauty of running. Feeling. Not dictated by data, by pace, or whatever other arbitrary number I’ve chosen to put weight in on that particular run.
But what has occurred to me is that this impulse has been driven by not knowing where I stand. Having been out of action - in a racing sense - for so long, and following a plan I’ve not been entirely convinced by. Instead, letting myself be convinced - based on relics of last year - that I am so incredibly far from wherever I once was. Further still from where I want to be.
April offered the opportunity to set a benchmark. To see, plainly, where we’re at. You’d think, based on the preamble, that I’d jump at such an opportunity. “Let’s see where we’re at, and get to work.”
Not quite.
The intention was to complete a solo 10k time trial following my weekend at the lake and over the first week of April; this would tell me where I am at and what I could anticipate, or aim for, at the half marathon on the opening weekend of May.
Running the lake trails and the gravel roads in all their inclined glory raises the heart rate despite a slower pace. This is much to the disgust of whatever my watch is using to make a judgment of my VO2 max. Irrelevant, yes. Yet somehow it convinced me of its relevance, and over the course of the opening week of April I found every possible reason not to complete that 10k time trial.
There was one legitimate reason not to run, though. Weather.
The second weekend of April was to host the Waterfront Half Marathon and associated events. This race - the half marathon - was one of the aforementioned ‘fastest races’ in New Zealand, of which I set my personal best over the 21k distance some two years ago.
It had occurred to me that the associated 10k would be the perfect place to complete the TT. Race conditions and on a waterfront course that I trod almost daily, you’d think, would be a breeding ground for a real, honest time and reflect, fairly, where my engine currently is.
Yet, somehow, I convinced myself out of it. Convinced I would do the TT solo and instead pace a friend over the course of his half marathon at a pace irrelevant to my own aspirations and targets.
I enjoy pacing and have done so on multiple occasions; there’s a great deal of joy to be found in helping others across the finish line. Doing so in this instance, though, would in part be an act of cowardice. Somehow, over the course of the last year, I’d developed the fear of racing and become vulnerable, insecure seemingly, about my running capabilities and fitness.
As if anyone even cares.
What may come as a surprise is that the solo 10k time trial never happened.
But neither did the Waterfront Half Marathon. At least, not on that weekend.
Cyclone Vaianu, making its way from Fiji, had some areas of New Zealand put in a state of emergency and saw the event postponed.
Auckland would, fortuitously, evade any significant damage and flooding.
Instead, a perfect storm had brewed to see me run out of excuses as to not participate in the event now scheduled for the following weekend. Whatever micro-damage and fatigue those trails and hills had left was now alleviated. My friend who wanted pacing now suffering from a niggle and lacking confidence in his ability to run the half.
The mental gymnastics had run their course - the show was over. There was little else I could do but lace up the carbons and race, for the first time in 371 days.
Despite such trepidation in the week or two prior, on the eve of the race I felt very little.
No delusions of grandeur; I certainly wouldn't be breaking the tape and running a personal best, but equally no real anxiety about confrontation with a derelict aerobic system.
Such were my expectations, or lack thereof.
I, and 5,500 other runners and walkers who ventured out to St Heliers that morning, were celebrated with the most beautiful of conditions. The clouds made way for the sun as a light easterly breeze accompanied all of us on our journey west, before ushering us back to the finish line.
My 10k compatriots and I had the privilege of watching the well-regarded New Zealand runner, Michael Voss, charge down the opposite side of the road on his way to his half marathon victory in 68 minutes. Whilst we enjoyed our own empty half of the waterfront road before turning around 5k later to mix it up with the half marathon runners returning home.
I’d shared the opening 5k with a couple of others, though after the turn-around and with my engine stalling at 7km, I could do nothing but watch as they zig-zagged through the crowd and became but another bobbling head in a sea of people.
What I’d forgotten was the level of hurt you’re able to push through and persevere on race day. The atmosphere, the energy, having people chase you and being able to chase others all serves as this intangible fuel and motivation that I suspect impossible to find on any sort of solo endeavour.
That’s not to even mention the crowd.
A crowd, in parts, made up of people you care about and who are invested in your success is a wholly different bottle of lightning. I was lucky enough to have a few of those both in the crowd and on the course.
A part of me crossed the finish line and wanted to be disappointed.
Another part actively tried to be disappointed.
But try as I might have, that disappointment did not find me.
However I may try to convince myself otherwise, my result, my time, my performance was an honest, fair reflection of my current fitness.
This should not be in any way discouraging; it should be motivating.
A friend and training partner, Amelia, who won the half marathon reminded me what it is to be grateful when I found her to say congratulations.
I’d anticipated her to be disappointed in running 1:20 in the knowledge that she’d been on the hunt and precipice of sub-1:20 for the last couple of years. But having found herself not finishing at the Christchurch Marathon the weekend prior (despite incredibly consistent, strong training), she had just been grateful to finish the race. Even more so that the opportunity was even presented.
I passed far too many runners on that beautiful Sunday morning who’d slowed to a crawl or who were needing medical attention to be so obnoxious as to be outwardly disappointed and discouraged by a time which so many others consider untouchable or impossible.
Perspective.
It is unlikely that I will ever stop with the self-comparison. But just as running has been the great equaliser in my life, perspective too can equalise the toxicity of comparison.
This is the first race I’ve done this year.
This is the fittest I’ve been this year.
This is the fastest I’ve run this year.
I can be both happy and unsatisfied; but reservation, doubt, and cowardice are a waste of mental resources that will weigh and slow me down.
To be the fittest, and the fastest I’ve ever been, I have to cut the dead weight.