Pyramid of Death

Now I know some people think I have a tendency to hyperbolize, but I really don’t know how else to label this morning’s track workout. What’s that, you say? Track? Oh yeah, that’s one of the new aspects of running I’ve taken on since the last mary. Wednesday track workouts at 5:30 a.m. Yes, I am insane. Fortunately there are about fifteen other similarly afflicted folks who show up each week. Not to mention our fearless leader, Coach Crazylegs. Coach Crazylegs loves to force, I mean give the opportunity to, hapless victims to lead certain sections of the workout. Coach Crazylegs seems to have latched on to me as his 800 victim. I’ve learned that when he says we’re doing an 800, yours truly will be the rabbit. Ugh. I literally almost vomited in my mouth last week as I was running. Did I mention that of the fifteen or so gluttons for punishment, at least half have qualified for and run Boston ? Yeah, that’s great. Try to rabbit them. Not pretty. Today I actually improved last week’s time by 4 seconds but the recovery was much worse. And that wind-sucking interval fell in the first half of the deadly pyramid: 400, 600, 800, 1200, 800, 600, 400. You don’t even want to know what that 1200 looked like. Gross.

Aaahhh, but it’s done. Therein lies the appeal of track. Kill yourself for an hour, question your motives, your desire, your endurance, your humanity, then go home, shower, and be grateful the workout is done for the day.