Rowls picked a good workout to kick start my confidence today.  What it will do for me physically, who knows?  Who cares…at this point in the season its about keeping your head in the game so you don’t lay down $500 to fly home a week early, cheating yourself out of a potentially great performance.

I find that at the end of a season when you can’t wait to go home, you are either going to hit a great one, or completely bomb.  Its interesting enough for me to stick around until London to find out.  Today was a great example of that phenomenon where emotions do not equal physical ability:

The session was loosely described as 6-8x 1k efforts done as a fartlek with shorter recoveries to keep it aerobic.  Paces were meant to be controlled…something between tempo and 10k pace.  Something very vague and adaptable.  Basically something I couldn’t fail at; something I could walk away from satisfyingly tired.  A shot in the arm, if you will.

When I woke up this morning, I decided “Feck it.  I’m going to the track and doing 8x1k in 3:16 with 200m jog in 1 minute recoveries.”  It was tougher than what was prescribed, but still very doable, and since I took ownership over it, I had something to be excited about.

Jesse came to the track with me, at my urging, and held the watch.  Around and around I went, him calmly calling out splits, me never stopping for so much as a drink for 6 miles worth of laps.  It was mechanical and relaxing; I hit the same pace on every single one within one second; I could have done 10.

gravel road

I cooled down on a gravel trail and felt grateful to be healthy and able to repeatedly run a pace that was impossible a year ago.  There was no one else there but the two of us, the way it always is when I really boil things down.