Dayton

I’m sure this posting will inspire nothing but pride and motivation. I wanted to tell you’all about a workout I had in college among the cow turd fields of Dayton while I was coming back from a hamstring injury my junior year. It was an odd threesome. I worked out with Guss, who was also coming back from an injury, but he was not fully healed, and a professional runner who hung around the team named Sandy - Sandy was preparing for “a very big race.” Coach drove the three of us out to Dayton on a weird day to do a workout like a Wednesday or something. The van ride would have been quiet (and always a good time to take a nap) except Sandy chirped on and on like a mental patient about his “race, very big race, race race RACE big race RACE….” When we finally got to Dayton, Coach explained that we were going to do a five miler, dropping the pace each mile. I do not remember the exact times, but I do remember thinking how incredibly slow they were like starting at a 7:40 pace (I think the workout was really for Sandy, and Guss and I were supposed to be the rabbits). After a warm up, the three of us started out on the first mile, Coach peeled ahead in the van to get to the first marker.

Now I had not worked out in over two weeks, just the bike rides in the training room, so my legs were fresh and I felt good. I was also excited to be feeling this good in Dayton, where the dried shit gravel roads had always gotten the best of many people, especially me. Guss, however, was still hurting, or sick, I think he had some weird blood infection; anyway, he immediately dropped off the pace, leaving just “race” and me. Now for some reason, annoying on many levels, he tucked in so tightly behind me that he kept kicking the bottom of my shoes. I picked up the pace to get away from him and he yapped “too fast… too fast”. It was a fun first mile. He was right though, because when we passed the first marker Coach yelled “EASY! EASY!” I’m guessing we were a full minute under the pace. So for the next mile, Coach drove along side of us in the van, leaning out the window with his dark sunglasses, quietly saying “easy… easy... easy…” as Sandy continued to kick my heels. After a while of this, passively and aggressively, I decided to slow way down in an instant - causing Sandy to run into me hard and he snapped “What the Hell!” I said “Sorry”, Coach said, “Damn CJ, you don’t have to bust him up!”, and he sped to the next mile marker. Now things were awkward between Sandy and me and I love to run from awkwardness, and I felt exceptionally great that day, so I really picked up the pace. Sandy just let me go and stopped with his incessant “too fast”. I think he was pissed at me, and he realized I wasn’t going to be a good rabbit that day. I felt too good. He must have realized that I had a new focus - to run well at Dayton finally. Fucking shit farming Mennonites! Coach knew this too, he could see it in my eyes when I passed the second mile marker - he said nothing. Really though, I thought he might be pissed at me, which is a scary thought (a flash of him yelling at Curtis at that indoor meet came to mind). Nevertheless, when Coach drove past me to get to the next marker he slowed down and said the classic “You’re Fine, You’re Fine!” I took this as the green light and I started to roll. For the first time and probably the only time, I was running well at Dayton. How many people can say that? I think my last mile was in the mid 4mins. After the workout, Sandy told me that “I was blazing” and he seemed not to be mad. Guss did not come in for a while so we backtracked in the van and found him in a driveway deliriously talking to a chicken. I don’t think I followed the theme of Dusty Spikes, but I don’t care, I had to post this entry immediately when I learned of this blog. I am positive, however, after reading my tale you are clear as to why.