During Montana summers (or during any season, really...) my favorite time of the day to run is, strangely, at night. I seem to have the most energy then, the air is cooler, and I get to enjoy the view of the sun setting (and believe me, where I live, this is not a view you want to miss.) Also, when it's really dark, I get the feeling that I'm running faster somehow. I think it has to do with not seeing where I'm going - I feel fitter and lighter - the illusion is created that I'm flying over the ground. I've been told I love running at night because I am young, but I think the above reasons are also contributing factors to my preference for getting out there around sunset.
I spend the first hour or so before my run getting myself mentally psyched to go the distance I plan to do. I am preparing to run my first half-marathon in a few weeks, and have spent the past month not only running longer distances than I am used to, but also trying to figure out what my personal preferences are when it comes to going beyond my usual 5 to 6-mile runs. Just as every run is different, so is every runner different. Everyone needs to figure out for themselves what will keep them going when they get tired, just how far they can push their bodies, and what tricks and tips they can use to improve their performance. For me, it's all about "mind games." My running partner (Abba) tells me that tonight we are going to run a 10-mile loop alongside the Gallatin River, and immediately I start prepping the most important part of my body for the challenge: "Tonight," I tell my brain, "you are going to run ten long miles and you're going to do it without stopping. Get ready."
Along with getting psyched to go the distance and running at night, a hugely influential factor in my running performance is my music. This, I am told, is also because I am young... but I think it's mostly just because I like music. It helps me focus on something other than what I am doing, transposes me to that mental zone that is so vital in long-distance running, provides me with a rhythm that makes me want to keep moving. My musical tastes are pretty eclectic, and also change daily. Currently, my running playlist contains a lot of rhythmic Bollywood music, along with some upbeat, mainstream pop, Latino remixes, Klezmer classics, and even a couple of country songs. It's all about finding the tunes that will get your mind off of running and onto the music - whatever weird stuff that takes.
Before I signed up for this race I was told that having a partner was also very important for marathon training. Since then I have realized how true this is. After long days on my feet at work I generally come home longing for nothing more than dinner and bed - getting outside and going for a run sounds like the opposite of fun. But when Abba says let's go, I have no choice but to kvetch a little, put on my running shoes, mentally prepare myself, and get out there alongside him. I've never regretted it, of course. Sometimes you just need a push to get you out the door, and the push is even better if it's from someone you respect, someone who is going to run beside you, challenge you, and keep you going when the going gets tough.
After a little stretching and a short walk to warm up, we take off through my tiny hometown. Houses speed by. The sidewalk feels good under my feet. I start to get into my music, mouthing the lyrics as we make our way down Main Street and up the overpass. I have to admit, I have no idea where we're going - I've never personally run this route before, so all I can do is mentally prepare myself to run for a long time wherever Abba leads me. It's enjoyable running this way sometimes. Other days it's nice to know exactly where you're going, but tonight is one of those nights where it just doesn't really matter.
It doesn't take us long to get out into the Montana countryside. Behind us, the famed sunset of classic Westerns spreading across the entire sky in an array of oranges and pinks. Before us, the outline of the Rocky Mountains tossing blue mountainous shadows and cutting a majestic line across the horizon. On either side of us, rolling green and golden farmland broken up by trees, farmhouses, the Gallatin River, the Crazies, and the Tobacco Root foothills. Mountains on every side make you feel protected and secure, a feeling I always miss when visiting mountain-less states. It's a gorgeous evening all around, one of those summer nights where you feel like the only thing you really want to be doing is running along a country road with the sunset at your back.
Eventually we turn off onto gravel that takes us alongside the river itself. The trees here are much more dense on our left, and houses, fences, and barns grace the fields on our right. Abba points out a couple whitetails feeding along the river who gaze at us placidly as we run by. I'm not sure how long the road lasts so I just keep running, using the rhythms of my breathing and my music and my pounding Asics to move me into that long-distance zone.
Like I said before, this zone is vital when it comes to running distances over three miles. It's where you start to feel like all you've ever done your whole life is run, and that's all you're ever going to do. It's where your brain disengages from your feet and sort of shambles off into a world of its own, allowing the rest of your body to go on its merry, mindless way. It's where you stop thinking about keeping your chest up and shoulders relaxed, and start thinking about your day and your life and your music instead. This zone is what helps the miles roll by.
It's completely dark now - all I can see is the bobbing light of Abba's iPod next to me, the faint outline of trees, houses, and mountains ahead, and the occasional blinding headlights of a car driving by. At about mile seven my first endorphin rush, or whatever it was that made me feel good running that distance, is over, and I start to wonder if this road has an end. Running in the dark, mile after mile, having no idea when the finish line is going to come into sight, can be frustrating when you're getting tired. Actually, anything is frustrating when you're getting tired. When the lag sets in, but you know you need to keep running, the slightest thing can annoy you. For instance, now I start to get irrationally irritated with the passing vehicles whose lights are causing me temporary blindness whenever they rush by. I put my arm up to block them but it doesn't really help and I trip and almost fall into the grass by the roadside a couple of times. Road-running at night has its advantages, but it also has its drawbacks, even in the relatively peaceful Montana countryside.
Finally a couple of twinkling lights horizontally flashing ahead clue me into where we are, and I can make out the highway cutting in front of us about a quarter mile away. I realize that we're going to turn left onto the path beside this highway, leading to a bridge over the Gallatin and to a route that is familiar to me from previous, shorter runs. Except that quarter mile stretches longer... and longer... we go around several bends and the cars on the highway don't seem any nearer. This is the part of the run - and every run has it - where I want desperately to quit. My philosophy as a fitness instructor is that if you don't experience this emotion during your workout, you haven't really worked out. At some point during all the runs I've ever done, I have desired nothing better than to stop and walk the rest of the distance... or even walk just for a few minutes until I get my second wind. But this is the point at which it's most important not to quit, because it's where your body's getting stronger. It's getting prepared - trained - conditioned - to run even faster and harder next time.
I know this, of course. However in the moment it becomes what feels like an epic inner struggle, one where my physicality battles with my mentality, and my psychological zone turns into a heated debate instead, each side stating the strengths of their case. My body wants to be done. It's tired - my lungs feel shallow, my thighs are aching, my calves are cramping up, my toes are blistered, my ribs are full of stitches, my throat is gasping for water. During these moments my mind often retreats to the lines from Kipling's poem If:
"If you can trust your heart and nerve and sinew,
"To serve your turn long after they are gone,
"And so hold on when there is nothing in you,
"Except the Will, which says to them 'Hold on!'"
A little melodramatic, perhaps, for a nightly training run, but usually it serves to remind me that the Will is always stronger than the body, no matter how weak the body thinks it is. Tonight I don't let my body fool me. I know I'm in good shape, my body can hold on a little longer. Just a little longer...
And there's the highway. We take a left, and there's the familiar bridge. I have never been so glad to see it in all my life. Now I know exactly how far I have to go before home is in sight, and the two-and-a-half miles down the path, over the hill, and into town seem short in comparison to the seven or so miles I just did. Or maybe I just experienced a second burst of endorphins. Or both. Who knows. All I know is that I feel better, and Abba starts to step up his pace, forcing me to stretch my legs out, open up my lungs, take in more air, and feel myself start to fly over the ground. Once again we are in town and houses are rushing by. Also, the feeling of victory sets in, making me feel like I can run even faster. Triumph can do a lot for a runner - if you know you've almost completely accomplished your goal, finishing it can feel like a breeze. After all, the worst is over - the longest, hardest miles are behind you.
This is why we turn our run into a sprint once we cross the railroad tracks. We haul it down the past couple of blocks like we're the first two competitors in a race, digging deep within ourselves to go as fast as we can possibly go. Being a short-distance runner I love doing this. Sprinting short distances makes you feel powerful, even if it's just for a matter of meters. You can go all out, give it all you got... and then you're done. Except now I have ten miles behind me, and the sprint feels that much more potent.
Until we stop. Then the tiredness - the real tiredness - sets in, and I'm just glad that it's over. Every runner, every athlete, knows this feeling. You've finished, not just a race or a run or a workout, but a journey, complete with inner struggles and highs and low... and now you're done. Sometimes I feel like I didn't even really do it. Those past ten miles carry a sense of vague unreality, now that they are behind me.
But I don't actually notice these deep emotions when I'm cooling down - generally all I am really thinking is "Water. Water. Water." And then it's off to stretching and resting and psychologically prepping for the next big adventure that is my nightly run.
