I didn’t walk when I was a young kid. I wouldn’t do it. I went from crawling to running, and this continued for a good long while. It went on long enough that I remember it. I remember my parents, through gritted teeth, just trying to enjoy their goddamn Sunday, telling me that no, we don’t always run. In fact we didn’t always have to wear shorts, pants were also ok. (Yes, I wore shorts because they were easier to run in. I was weird and annoying from the start.)
In an effort to be like my favorite football athletes, I refused to walk. They didn’t walk on the field, so I didn’t walk anywhere. I wanted to be like them. Which athletes? During football season, it was football; as winter came, it was basketball; then spring and summer brought baseball; and then football started the cycle again. All of those sports require running—all sprint stuff, too. Max effort, rest. Max effort, rest. It’s how I am with everything, even now, as a 25 year-old. If I get a chance to catch my breath, I’m good.
That’s why the first time I ever ran a mile in PE was so humbling. I was the fastest kid at my elementary school. Combined with an early understanding of techniques and angles, my speed helped me peak early as an athlete—we’re talking fifth grade. In the same way they say Andrew Wiggins was one of the best high school basketball players ever, but it’s translated into a middling NBA career (holding out hope Coach Kerr can find the greatness in him), Andrew Sanford was the greatest athlete to pass through Roosevelt Elementary, at least in his own head. So when Mr. Benton said we’d be running a mile, I thought “well alright, sucks for you losers.”
I came out of the gate at my usual breakneck pace, and faded well before the halfway mark. After all, I’d never really had to run more than 100 yards at a time (the distance of a kick return in football thank you very much). As I came in dry heaving and about to pass out at 8:47, I thought to myself that this was about the worst thing I’d ever done. That feeling was so bad, and I made such a wheezing impression on my PE teacher and mom when I went home, that when I was diagnosed with seasonal asthma later that year, they also diagnosed me with athletically induced asthma because my mom insisted that that mile was an asthmatic episode. I just didn’t have the heart to tell the truth: my death by mile was the result of my inability to pace.
My big athletic dreams never materialized. I was injury-prone, too small, and an absolute headcase. However, as a back injury ended my contact sports career my senior year of high school, my friends on the track team told me I had a shot at filling the last spot on the 100m relay team. I was cleared to run, and I thought it’d be fun. It was fun, and the feeling of flying around a track simulated the unbeatable feeling of breaking through a hole toward open field with a football, or taking the extra base in baseball.
My first track meet was somewhat of a scrimmage, and about 20 minutes before the whole thing started, my coach suggested I tried the 400 in addition to the 100 sprint I loved. Empowered by my performance in the 100, I agreed, and when the time came, I sauntered to the starting line, ready to fly. And fly I did—for the first 200m. Initially, I built a 30 meter lead and specifically remember wondering if I’d accidentally been put in a JV heat. As the field closed in on me with their beautiful strides in the last 100m, and my form broke down to that of a convict who didn’t think through his escape plan, I decided I wasn’t going to lose and dove across the finish line. As I dry heaved and wheezed, I felt fifth grade Andrew laughing at me. Would I ever learn?
As I’ve grown and focused my physical movement requirements on things other than sports, running has been that childhood friend you periodically check in with from time to time. Sometimes you guys hang out consistently, but you know that if you don’t see them for awhile, they’ll be around to hang later.
As a fitness coach, I talk about something called “intended stimulus” a lot. It refers to what you’re trying to get out of the prescribed workout. For example, consider the following:
3 rounds
200m Run, 200m Walk, 300m Run, 300m Walk
There are a few ways to attack this based on what you’re trying to get out of it. If you’re trying to work on just speed, I’d recommend taking the walking periods at a SLOW walk. If endurance is the goal, the recommendation would be to shorten the rest periods by walking at a brisk pace.
Running has provided me with a beautiful case study on submaximal training and intended stimulus. Further simplified, a 5 mile pace is much slower than a 400m pace.
Slowing down doesn’t come naturally for me in any arena. If I have a job to do, I get tunnel vision until it’s over. If food is put in front of me, I crush it. If you give me a book, I’ll max effort the fuck out of it and finish it in a day. I’ve learned that that’s not really the point of most things, though. In high school and college, I was the asshole who’d put off the project until the last minute, go apeshit the night before, or even the day of, and do fine grade-wise. I remember specifically one time in high school I banged out a 5 page essay during lunch in time to turn it in for my 1pm class. These assignments, however, weren’t done with the designed stimulus in mind. I got the assignments done, but I hadn’t learned anything.
What I’ve learned with consistent running is that I’m working toward more than just today’s workout. A slower pace today doesn’t mean that I’m working to be a slow runner, it’s part of a larger, long-term strategy.
I’m working to slowly build up an aerobic capacity—we’re training for longevity here. At times, I continue to struggle with this. Long distance running doesn’t feel sexy. And similarly, waiting for professional or personal goals to manifest can be agonizing. Sometimes I wanna push the pace juuust a little bit. But running reminds me that I have to be far more strategic in knowing where to push the pace, and where to say “hey we had a good day today, let’s not push too hard so we can have another good day tomorrow.”
In parallel with preventing running burnout so I can do it the rest of my life, I’ve been gifted a tangible allegory for my own life. I don’t want to burnout personally or professionally, so maybe I shouldn’t be pissed if I miss a proverbial shot, or am not perfect as an employee or boyfriend. If I was perfect every time, or accomplish every goal the day I made it, I’d have nothing to work up to.
My dad’s always told me “don’t drive a Porsche at 30 because then you have nothing to look forward to.” Running has shown me the same thing. “Take the pace down just a little, save the juice for when you really need it.” You’ll need that juice to take down the classmate running the mile faster than you, or to finish a project at the deadline, but don’t put yourselves in those positions on purpose. Life’ll put you there plenty of times.
Write the Ship 