First 10k for a time

Today I ran the first 10k I have run for a long time. Almost a year, perhaps (or at least seven to eight months.)

While I have been injured, my greatest foes is apathy. Most evenings for the recent past have seen me return home to sedentary pursuits. Part of this is due to the pressure of work, and the need to teach at a standard that leaves me, at least, satisfied. Another part is my inclination towards such hobbies that see me sit down for many hours (painting, gaming, reading, writing.)

As part of my training, I have tried to change my running style. I used to sprint, and this used to do me well. According the current records, I would (have) run the 150th (or so!) fastest 400m for a junior athlete. There was no celebration for that, save a trophy purchased by my mum. You can be certain if I was considered to be the 150th best footballer, some more recognition might have been had. Yet the Olympic spirit isn't about recognition from others. It is about seeing what limits might be set, and realising how often those boundaries can be moved (or, occasionally, broken.)

The sprinting style I spoke about before wasn't smooth, though. I used to bully my muscle down the track - there was no fluidity or grace. I would grunt and shout and pound. Shin splints and nausea were the initial indicators of whether I had worked hard.

Although I have running middle-long distance for four years, my style has not changed. I aim to spend up, and to bully my body into moving fast.

That is, until recently.

First to change was my foot striking. Heel striking was my style until I researched and practised and began running nearer to the tips of my toes. It led to some injuries, but it also led to some fast times.

Next I changed the way I trained. Impact training was put to a minimum, and instead I regularly pushed myself to run fast and hard as soon as I could. I couldn't run slowly; I wasn't happy unless I was exhausted.

And so, several years on, I look back on what I have wanted to achieve. My running is not so much a sprint, and it is not so much a measure of constant intensity. It is beginning, now, to be something elastic. My arms do not swing in a constant motion, but instead almost imperceptibly propel me forward with a bounce. My knees now bend somewhat, absorbing the impact of my straight-legged-heel-crunch.

I have a half-marathon next week - I think it will be interesting to see just how able I am to run that. Slow running is something for that; as is ensuring that I have a bottle of water (and the inclination to stop at water stations to fill it) in order to save myself dying of thirst as one man literally did in the same race last year.