The hills, coupled with the rising heat, are starting to take their toll. The race has been in Newton for a few miles so far, and the lead pack -- which had remained largely together for the first 90 minutes of running -- is starting to splinter.
Cresting each elevation change, I can just barely make out the lead vehicle. I can’t read the numbers on the clock, but I can see passengers in the press van. That must mean that no one has made a definitive move yet; instead, athletes are starting to fall off the pace.
I was the first casualty, but I’m not out yet. The two Americans running side-by-side are within striking distance, while the one other runner is just a stride length or two in front of them. Their lead on me shrinks every incline but then grows every decline.
We’re playing yo-yo.
***
All the great coaches prescribed hills for their athletes.
Arthur Lydiard’s boys were famous for their weekly Waiatarua circuit, a 22-mile Sunday long run on the outskirts Auckland, New Zealand which featured grueling three-mile climb into the Waitakere Range southwest of the city.
Not only that, but Lydiard also featured a specific hill phase within his periodized schedules, which served as the bridge between aerobic endurance and flat track speed. His hill circuit featured some combination of sprinting, skipping, or bounding uphill, jogging at the top, striding back downhill, and then sprinting again on the bottom flat. And repeat.
Staying down under, the eccentric Australian coach Percy Cerutty used to have his athletes conquer the soft sand dunes of Portsea, barefoot. I’ve tried sprinting in loose sand; it’s nearly impossible. I can’t imagine how anyone could do that uphill.
Oh, and both of those coaches would run these workouts along with their athletes. How times have changed.
Most Western coaches have adopted Lydiard’s methodology -- or, if not his methodology, then at least his terminology. We still talk about Long Slow Distance and the sanctity of the Sunday long run. Runners everywhere still do offseason base training before getting into speed work in-season. And most competitive runners still do hills.
But I think Lydiard’s message has been mistranslated, at least in the U.S. We want to follow specific schedules, we want the thinking taken out of training; we want a road map to success. However, that’s not how Lydiard coached. He established general principles of mid- and long-distance training, and then adapted the specifics to the fit the athlete and the event.
The nations that have properly adapted Lydiard’s principles are Kenya and Ethiopia. It should be no surprise, then, that they are also the countries consistently producing the best runners. On the outskirts of Addis Ababa, the sacred ground for distance training is Mt. Entoto, a 10,000-foot peak that requires a bus ride to get to the starting point. In Kenya, the best training spots sit on the edge of the Rift Valley, and geological feature where tectonic plates are tearing the continent apart in slow motion. Every run is done on rolling terrain, and many marathoners include an all-uphill tempo run as part of their training. Get a ride to the bottom of the valley, and then run hard back up. Absolutely grueling.
I had no such luxury in eastern Kansas. The rolling hills that existed around town were gentle and light. Prairie hills, not mountains.
That said, every Sunday I was out there, running a figure-eight long run loop on the rural dirt roads. At times the loop would take me on pavement, but for the most part I tried to stay on softer surfaces. The dirt helped absorb the pounding of each stride, allowing me to recover faster and train more continuously.
One Sunday in December, Amelia joined me for the long run. It was a rare warm day, sunny and almost in the 50s, and she biked alongside as I ran. Winter may have stayed late this year, but it also started late.
For most of the run, our conversation was typical of long runs: we talked about everything and nothing. When you’re out there for over two hours, you need something to pass the time. And besides, endorphins help the words flow easier.
Our run started with an observation about the weather. “This is some pretty great weather for a December morning,” I said. Clever. I always did have a special way with words.
Then it veered into training talk. “I’m worried the high schoolers aren’t doing enough mileage,” Amelia offered. “Well, maybe that’s not quite right. I’m worried they’re not doing mileage the right way. I think they run too fast on their easy days and then they’re always tired on workout and race days.”
“That sounds about right,” I said. “Most inexperienced runners train that way. They think it’s not helping unless it hurts, but they don’t realize that the easier running is when you actually recover and improve.”
“Yes, exactly! I’ve tried explaining that running hard tears your body apart, and it’s only when you allow it to recover that you improve. I don’t think they’ve truly internalized that yet. Will you come run with them on an easy day this week?”
And that’s how I really got to the know the team for the first time.
The conversation continued into a recap of the cross country season: “The boys team has potential, they just lack the depth necessary to score well in the state tournament,” Amelia said. “I don’t know why we can’t get girls out for the team, though. But there is one little freshman who might be really good in a few years…”
Then we solved the world’s problems: “I don’t understand how people don’t understand taxes. If you get bumped into a higher tax bracket, that’s a good thing.” I said.
“Iran should be our closest ally in the Middle East. Iranians love American culture, they just hate the American government.”
After that, we reminisced about our college days. I asked her about her training -- “three coaches in four years” -- and PRs -- “10:41 steeple, that’s the one that mattered.” She asked me about the NCAA Regionals 10k -- “How did you feel about that race, anyway?” “Pretty pissed.”
She detailed her team’s extracurricular activities: “We were unashamedly running nerds. Sure, we partied -- mostly out of season -- but even our parties were running themed. The biggest one we called the Heptathlon, and it was a series of seven drinking games at seven different houses. We played one game at one house, then moved on to the next house. Case race, forty-hands, straw wars, flip-cup, smack-a-bitch, beer pong, and dizzy bat. Oh, and in true runner-nerd fashion, we ran between each house. It’s so much faster than walking and, when you’re all fit, not that much harder.”
“I- I haven’t even heard of some of those games.”
Finally, we launched into a spirited debate about which state has the best state bird. “It’s obviously Hawaii!” I declared. “Their bird is called the ‘nene.’ How can you argue with that?”
“Listen, I’ll give Hawaii the best state fish, but they’re disqualified because the nene is just a goose. You’re looney to think that the best state bird is a goose.”
“Oh no, you didn’t just--”
“That’s right, I did! Minnesota has the best state bird. It’s the loon. Obviously.” The end of the long run is always a welcome relief.
Before parting ways, I asked her, “How come you don’t do this anymore?”
“Run?” she replies. “I still do. Occasionally after school, or sometimes I’ll run with the team.”
“I mean compete. How come you don’t still race?”
“Oh, a number of reasons. After college, I was just burnt out. Not so much on racing, but on the self-flagellating training to get into race shape. I just couldn’t stay healthy...stress fractures, tendonitis, all that good stuff. As soon as I’d get in shape, boom, I’d be injured. Six-to-eight weeks. I never could break that cycle, and it wore me down.”
There it was, her tragic flaw: she was an injury-prone athlete. A runner who couldn’t run.
“I still love running, though!” she continued. “Coaching the team keeps my competitive juices flowing, and running with them keeps me healthy and fit enough. It’s a sanity thing, you know?”
Damn right, it is. And I have to say, doing the long run with her company was downright energizing. I might have run by myself, but perhaps I wasn’t training solo after all.
****
I’m racing solo now, though. Every once in a while I scan the crowds, hoping to see a familiar face. Nothing so far.
I might be paying for the luxury of training on dirt roads too, since I’ve been racing mostly downhill for over 90 minutes on hard pavement. That’s a hell of a lot of pounding, and I can feel my quads quivering each descent. Thigh smash. We have been climbing and dropping without much respite since entering Newton, and now the third of the major inclines rises ahead of me.
This isn’t Heartbreak Hill, I tell myself. Not yet.
But the three runners ahead are getting closer. Go get them.
I try to quicken my tempo, matching their stride with mine and then pushing mine just slightly faster than their rhythm.
The gap to the Americans closes -- 15 meters, then 10, then 5, and halfway up the hill we’re even. I glance, and Kelley isn’t one of them. He must still be hanging on.
The one farthest from me doesn’t make eye contact. He’s in a world of hurt, eyes glazed, staring no further than the road immediately in front of him. The other one glances over at me with a look of helpless pity.
“Go get ‘em,” he softly encourages, echoing my own self-talk. Both of those runners have stopped sweating.
I press on up the hill. Cresting the hill, I overtake the other East African. I don’t know who he is or which country he is from. All I know is to not let up at the top of a hill, since that’s when most people do. Throw in a little surge and break their will.
This mile passes in a 5:07. Not a negative split like I had wanted, but this had a big hill in it. Besides, it helps to be passing people.
If I am counting correctly, I think I’m in eighth place now.
**********
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