Intervals are hard. They are meant to be. But sometimes it can feel like you’re fighting with yourself.
Perhaps it was the lack of sleep or the weather. The humidity was at 90 percent. But most likely it was just me. Whatever reasons of the body and the mind that conspire to give that feeling of struggle, it was heart in the mouth running. My upper chest felt like it was knotted in ragged breaths, my legs heavy, finding no fluidity of motion.
I hit nearly all the paces anyway – but it was they were flailing, inelegant sets. It reminded me of a friend who said that the answers to the math problems he solved in college – I think in a course called Math 55 – is not simply to find the answer in itself but the most elegant path to the answer.
Today the track mocked me, gently as it were, and knocked out and flailing as I was, it was another run in the dock.
Writing about Running 