Considering that Tuesday eves still seem like an unofficial run club night, it admittedly still surprises me that so many people show up. I always deep down expect that I’ll get there… and then find myself standing around looking lonely and forlorn, before striking out on my own for some ‘well-I-AM-already-dressed’ self-pity klicks. I even brought a pair of headphones, y’know, just in case.
There were about a dozen people ready to run this Tuesday evening, everyone with slightly different goals because not many of us are targeting to be running the same races anymore. Some people doing local halves. Others traveling afar for similar or even longer distances, your’s truly included. Still others are pretty much just done for the season and phoning it in… but at least they’re making the call.
So, I didn’t actually have a plan.
Well, not a writ-in-stone plan. Not a hell-or-high-water plan. Just an if-stars-happen-maybe-perhaps-to-align plan. And that plan, yeah, was to run some tempo. But –> ugh. I was still achy, grumbly, grumpy, tired from the weekend. And as we set out I wasn’t really feeling it, and deep down was submitting to the simpler reality of instead clocking some steady, easy mileage.
And then I warmed up. A few hundred steps into the jog, I warmed up and then clipped ahead at a strong pace. One klick. Look back. Almost two klicks, look back: and as I turned back to join the group on what would have been our first walk break, Ron, still pushing it, passed me face-to-face and barked that “there’s no walking!” So, my primal brain locked onto that motivational gauntlet toss and I cranked it back up. We sped off, and onward, forward, and fast-ward.
Six and some klicks later we were giving it, all-out, pushing and driving with a quick-step strong pace, and I was pushing my cadence up and down to a speedy, sub-tempo average, not-quite wheezily exhausting, but damn close.
Unexpectedly, despite my reluctant unplanning, we did tempos anyways.