Setting out for a run at Stanford, I prayed to do the right training. I was weary, having slept poorly for several nights, and during the warmup I sensed an inner guidance to do a short tempo run instead of the hard speedwork I had planned.
I was finishing my warmup when I saw Brad Hauser jogging through the woods. Hauser is a ten-time All-American, a three-time NCAA champion, and a 2000 US Olympian at 10,000 meters. He was jogging slowly, for him, and he looked deeply relaxed, contented, and focused.
I had been reading about how hard the top distance runners work to develop their speed. Bruce Fordyce, the great South African ultramarathoner, said, “Speed is the killer.” And I knew it was so. Speed is seductive – it’s tremendous fun to run fast as a deer, and on a good day, the last repeats of a hard track session feel effortless.
Several years ago, I ran weekly speed workouts with a group at the local high school track. For seven months, we ran all our workouts to a simple, unvarying formula: “three miles, as hard as we can go.” It was totally unscientific, but we developed wonderful speed. Whether we were running twelve quarters, six halves, or three miles, we ran everything all-out. I delighted in being able to run as fast as my legs would carry me, with little strain.
Engrossed in thoughts of the need for hard speed training, I ignored the signals that were quietly telling me “No,” and headed for the track. I did twelve quarters, running them very hard, and although my body was tired, I forced it through the workout, hoping that if I persevered it would eventually come around. I was affirming mentally: “Today we’re going to rap fatigue on the head!”
Alas, it didn’t happen. After the last repeat, I was exhausted and grateful to be able to step off the track.
Jogging out of the stadium, I noticed that a track meet was in progress at Angell Field. I trotted over, arriving just in time to hear the announcement for the 10,000 meters, which would begin in five minutes. I took a seat and sprawled in comfortable anticipation. Brad Hauser was entered in the race, and it would be the first time I had seen him run. I was delighted.
Hauser ran 28:52, a time that would have broken Emil Zatopek’s 1956 world record. “Zato” was famous for his extremely hard training and agonized running style, yet Hauser made it look easy.
He had no competition, so he ran alone, far out in front of the pack. As he passed the stands, I watched his face, curious to see if I could discern his mental state. His carriage was upright, and his face was relaxed, without the slightest sign of strain; he appeared to be looking within and subtly smiling. His relaxation was reflected in his running form, which was faultlessly smooth. The other runners, meanwhile, were showing clear signs of the effort – some were grimacing, and in the latter stages several were visibly struggling with their form.
I was riveted, feeling that the race held a personal message. I had just completed a brutally hard workout that left me physically drained, emotionally flat, mentally scattered, and spiritually dry. And this superb runner was looking focused, relaxed, and self-contained while racing 6.1 miles at 4:43.9 pace.
The lesson wasn’t difficult to make out. I would rather run in the state that Hauser was enjoying, than develop my speed at the cost of my inner peace. I had seen him warm up, his face and bearing reflecting calm focus. And I had watched him race in a state of visible poise and concentration. In my own running, I had proved often enough that I could achieve the same focus, at my incomparably slower speed. Yet the lesson is one that I confess I’ve had to learn repeatedly.
I like to think of a runner’s inner “tools” in terms of the nature symbols that native peoples traditionally assign them. Feeling is water; will power is fire; mind is air. The nature symbols give me a quick-and-dirty way to evaluate my training, especially when things go wrong. During the unfortunate track session, I let the fire of will power burn out of control, ignoring my body’s clear message of fatigue. As a result, I burned myself in will power’s flames, and my nerves, legs, and heart were scorched by my ill-advised effort.
Later, I compared my deep fatigue with how I had felt after a track workout a week earlier. I’d been well rested, and I’d jogged slowly for 45 minutes before running hard. During the warmup, I worked calmly and deliberately to focus my attention. When I began the hard repeats, I carried that mental focus and calmness into the workout, and it allowed me to make good decisions: choosing the correct speed, holding good running form, and above all, making the subtle mental and emotional adjustments that nurtured a positive, happy, and successful run. It was one of my most enjoyable hard workouts ever.
