Run Smarter, Not Harder

I had an epiphany of sorts during a Tuesday evening track workout at M. M. Robinson High School.

The coach, Gord Dixon, has been trying to get me to relax my upper body and arms. I couldn't figure it out. I thought I was relaxed. I tried different things. I tried some mental tricks. Nada. No luck. Gord gave me the same talk every week for the previous month. I try to be a mindful runner but I just was not able to translate the advice into how I feel during the workouts. I'm just not getting it and I know it. Frustrating.

On the long weekend in August, I do a trail run with friends Dennis Christopher and John Falkner.

John is an older guy that burns up the short distances, he's officially designated an F.O.B. (Fast, Old… well, you get the idea). John is a Special Ed teacher that coaches his school's track team. We have a good rapport with one another and, well, he's just plain fun to run with.

As it often happens when you share the roads and trails with friends, you talk about stuff. Eventually the discussion comes around to running form, especially what Gord was trying to beat into my head. John has been watching and I get a couple of tips on how I'm holding my hands and arms.

What John says to me makes sense. He tells me to open my hands, pretend that I'm holding a potato chip in my palm. Hold the chip too tight and you crush it, too loose and you'll drop it. He also suggested lowering my hands so the thumbs graze my hips, not my ribs. I work though this during the week and you know, it seemed to work. I'm feeling more relaxed, but is this what Gord is driving at?

Last week Gord gave me a copy of an article he wrote a while back on relaxation while running. One of the paragraphs hit home, especially with the Commonwealth Games track events being televised. During the marathon broadcast, I'm watching the Kenyans run. Smooth, effortless, flowing. Big knee movement, big kick, big stride, spinning not straining, running with their whole body. It's a beautiful thing to watch. So, when I head to the beach for my usual lunchtime run, I imagine I'm a Kenyan. I try to emulate that smooth, effortless spin.

And the funny thing is, I get it. If only for two or three kilometres before I lose the feeling. I might not look like a Kenyan, but I'm running like I imagine it must feel like to run like a Kenyan. Then, later in the run, I am able to hook into that feeling again. Another perfect moment.

Back at the track the next Tuesday evening, it's interval time again. After I finish my warm up mile, I ask Gord what he wants me to run this week. "800's with 200 recovery. How about five of them?" he says.

On the first two laps I'm fresh and I try to be the Kenyan. It works. Smooth, effortless, gliding... and a sub three minute 800. WOW! That's a good one for me, probably too fast. I hope I won't pay for this on the last few repeats. The recovery is shorter than I'd like it to be, not good. As I pass, Gord reminds me that it was a little fast. "But it felt so good!" I say to myself.

The second isn't so wonderful. Half way through the 800 metres, light and fast turn into heavy and bloated with no breath. My late lunch decides that it's going to try and put in a second appearance. I barely fight it down on the fourth corner. Where did the good go to so quickly? The recovery half lap feels way too short, but a welcome relief nonetheless.

The third just sucks. I'm not only fighting nausea but I develop a side stitch. There's no glide, just work, hard and plodding, bull nosed work. No elegance here. Those Kenyans are a million miles away. Just like a cop, where are they when you need one?

Same thing for the fourth 800. The nausea subsides, but I'm running out of steam, no go juice left. But I still give everything I have in the last 100 metres, fighting the heavy legs and the burning in my chest. "Just get through this and one more," I think to myself.

Then, during the 200-metre recovery, my friend John yells at me. "Collis, you run like a race walker!"

And you know, he's right. I am not lifting my legs, I'm dragging them along with the rest of me. I'm trudging not running. Does the term "Death March" ring a bell? There's no glide, just ugly brute force, and brute force isn't working.

John's words were like a bucket of cold water. As I head into the last 800 metres, I decide to be a Kenyan again, despite how I felt.

So, when I hit the line, I pick up my knees, power through my stride and kick up my heels. All of a sudden, the feeling returns, I'm light, bouncy, working with the track under me rather than working against it. I'm running hard, but not half as hard as I did the previous lap. I hold focus on that feeling and complete my last 800 still in control.

I finish my five 800's feeling as if I could turn another one or two more, if I can only run in the Kenyan moment again.

But I don't. Just turn in my cool down mile and head home for the shower. No point in tempting the running gods when you are given the gift of insight.

I think I get it. Finally. Running harder isn't the answer to running faster. Running smoother and more efficiently is. It's time to run smarter.

By Mark G. Collis

Revised: December 24, 2003.