Seventeen miles cast a long shadow upon the days preceeding it last week. So long, in fact, that during each workout I kept close tabs on my legs to be sure they’d recovered and be loose enough for my Sunday morning haul. You see, once I’d completed the 17, I would have run 40 for the week, making it my biggest training week ever. Comparatively speaking 40 miles do not qualify as Big Miles by any measure. (Heck, I know folks who regularly run bigger totals but never more than 10 at once). Personally speaking, though, the mileage is notable. (And noted it is, both here and in my old-fashioned pen-and-paper running journal.) The training plan I’m following this season will take me as high as 50 miles per week.
For me, the one mile separating sixteen from seventeen may as well be five, so broad is the mental leap I must make to approach the run, and still I get tummy flutters as I start out. Odd, since 20 seems a more likely distance for which I’d bring the fancy 10-point mental gymnastics routine to the mat, but the 20-milers are more about the physicality for me.
So how was I going to take this tallboy and make it go down like a few nips? Break it down, baby. This is the beauty of long runs outside Central Park. I’m not telling myself how many more loops I have left. Instead, I say, Over the bridge. Then, Across town. To the Financial District. And, when I put my right blinker on at 17 miles to pull to a stop, it’s right in front of my joint, not at Bethesda Fountain where I then have to endure a 45-minute subway ride home.
This was my route: left out of my building, left onto 43rd Avenue, towards the city (I’m winking back at you, Madame Empire State Building) and over my bridge, the Feelin’ Groovy Bridge, the omphalos of my city’s marathon. Then I tickled Manhattan’s waistline and ran straight across 58th Street all the way to the Hudson River, making a left to trace her sloping side downtown along the rec path. I didn’t turn around until Chambers Street, which marked 8.5 miles tread. Then, the retread.
Departing at dawn, I enjoyed cooler temperatures and a breeze that I swear followed me home from the beach Saturday evening. By the time I had Chambers Street at my back, the tummy flutters weren’t nervousness–they were excited anticipation for the weeks of autumnal running that I knew awaited me around the corner of Labor Day.
It’s the little things that add up to a long run for me. Divide in halves (out and back), and then in thirds (Queens. Midtown, West Side). And of course, the little interactions that happen along the way that zap the minutes: a crew of twenty hard-hatted and orange-vested road workers trotting with me for several yards across the bridge, cheering me on; sharing a smile with a fellow TNT-visored runner; an old woman on the East Side chirping at me encouragingly Well done, miss.
17 miles in 3:07:29, right on pace for my long runs. Well done indeed, ma’am.
Seventeen miles cast a long shadow upon the days preceeding it last week. So long, in fact, that during each workout I kept close tabs on my legs to be sure they’d recovered and be loose enough for my Sunday morning haul. You see, once I’d completed the 17, I would have run 40 for the week, making it my biggest training week ever. Comparatively speaking 40 miles do not qualify as Big Miles by any measure. (Heck, I know folks who regularly run bigger totals but never more than 10 at once). Personally speaking, though, the mileage is notable. (And noted it is, both here and in my old-fashioned pen-and-paper running journal.) The training plan I’m following this season will take me as high as 50 miles per week.
For me, the one mile separating sixteen from seventeen may as well be five, so broad is the mental leap I must make to approach the run, and still I get tummy flutters as I start out. Odd, since 20 seems a more likely distance for which I’d bring the fancy 10-point mental gymnastics routine to the mat, but the 20-milers are more about the physicality for me.
So how was I going to take this tallboy and make it go down like a few nips? Break it down, baby. This is the beauty of long runs outside Central Park. I’m not telling myself how many more loops I have left. Instead, I say, Over the bridge. Then, Across town. To the Financial District. And, when I put my right blinker on at 17 miles to pull to a stop, it’s right in front of my joint, not at Bethesda Fountain where I then have to endure a 45-minute subway ride home.
This was my route: left out of my building, left onto 43rd Avenue, towards the city (I’m winking back at you, Madame Empire State Building) and over my bridge, the Feelin’ Groovy Bridge, the omphalos of my city’s marathon. Then I tickled Manhattan’s waistline and ran straight across 58th Street all the way to the Hudson River, making a left to trace her sloping side downtown along the rec path. I didn’t turn around until Chambers Street, which marked 8.5 miles tread. Then, the retread.
Departing at dawn, I enjoyed cooler temperatures and a breeze that I swear followed me home from the beach Saturday evening. By the time I had Chambers Street at my back, the tummy flutters weren’t nervousness–they were excited anticipation for the weeks of autumnal running that I knew awaited me around the corner of Labor Day.
It’s the little things that add up to a long run for me. Divide in halves (out and back), and then in thirds (Queens. Midtown, West Side). And of course, the little interactions that happen along the way that zap the minutes: a crew of twenty hard-hatted and orange-vested road workers trotting with me for several yards across the bridge, cheering me on; sharing a smile with a fellow TNT-visored runner; an old woman on the East Side chirping at me encouragingly Well done, miss.
17 miles in 3:07:29, right on pace for my long runs. Well done indeed, ma’am.