Now for the placeholder post
Having a blog is an excellent way for anal-retentive types like me to foster one more completely meaningless thing to worry about. I say "completely meaningless" only in the sense that I don't get paid a cent to write this stuff, nor should I (although I once did earn as much as $83.33 a month just to expel whatever I felt like expelling as long as the hits came in; it wasn't fun after a while). And it's okay to write for the hell of it, even when I have assignments out there it would be wise to submit before, say, the holiday season so I can earn some change.
Anyway, since my activity here is and will probably remain sporadic, whenever I feel like I'm about to have something cool to say -- and I have reason to think that this will be the case shortly on a few fronts, including a podcast, a book deal, and a huge unruly secret -- I occasionally feel like jamming a less-than-compelling post into the mix just to keep non-posting streaks to a minimum. Hence, "placeholder."
I raced last week, in the sense that I started and even finished a timed event with others nearby doing the same. I chose the mile at the second (of six) biweekly Thursday all-comers track meets at Potts Field (the U. of Colorado's venue). I wasn't ready for anything short and fast, but I also wasn't ready for anything long and comparatively slow. Or anything taxing. I had a minor setback in early May that cost me a few days that stretched out into a little longer than this thanks to good old-fashioned lassitude, which has nothing to do with the heroic dog of yore but is a bon-fuckin'-mot anyway. But I ran every day for about the three weeks going into this thing, and can claim to have felt okay most of the time.
I thought I had a shot at five minutes if I paced myself judiciously. I'll never know for sure, because I failed to satisfy the first part of that if-then conditional, but it doesn't look like I would have broken 5:05 no matter what. My splits were disgusting yet mathematically elegant at the same time: 73, 77 (2:30), 81 (3:51), 85 (5:16). These are approximate 400m splits, and I believe my final time, which is not yet posted online and hopefully never will be, was 5:17+. When I went through 1200m needing a miracle to come closer to 5:00 and feeling like piss warmed over, I admittedly let my head drop on the backstretch and did my best imitation of a human ass coated with confectionery, but I really had little left.
I was annoyed afterward, yet pleased with having put my sad old self out there. It was a fun night with friends, and I need these more than I need acceptably quick competitive results. Still, I am convinced that by July 2 I'll be capable of close to 10:00 for 3,000m, and this is my stated goal.
This week I managed 63 miles -- the last two were 54 and 64 -- despite a small mid-week slump. I'm hoping to top out at about 90 this summer and early fall in anticipation of...well, not embarrassing myself. Yesterday I put in an hour and fifty minutes in the vicinity of the reservoir and Gunbarrel during the hottest part of the day (it was in the low to mid-90s). Fortuitously, I had a whole sack of those freezy-pops waiting in the car half-unthawed. I must have knocked home about fifteen of those heavenly sugar-water babies in ten minutes. I was driving down Broadway damn near naked and slathered in the run-off from my refreshments. I'm calling it 14 miles. Afterward my hand was cramping but otherwise I was just beat for a few hours, and now, 18 hours or so later, I'm fine. Of note was that even after at least 48 ounces of fluid and a small meal, my weight was supposedly down to 136.2 (this was on a scale I had never before used). If that's within even a couple of pounds of being accurate, it's not the greatest sign. I generally feel and run my best at 138 to 140 (morning weight, when I can be bothered to check it), and I and others certainly prefer my usual, extraordinarily burly and powerful state.