The Running Coach

Recently, I've been afflicted with a delusion that I'd enjoy running if only I could become better at it.  And after Monday's attempt of a full-mile jog surprisingly proved to be a walk in the park (not literally--I did actually run it), I'd expected today's effort to follow the same ritual, thereby rendering it magically enjoyable for all eternity.

It didn't.  Not even three-tenths of a mile in, I was out of breath, in pain, and wholly discouraged. 

"Puff, I think we're going to have to walk it this time," I reluctantly said to my four-legged trail buddy who blazed enthusiastically ahead of me.  "I'm just...too...weak...and sore."  She pretended not to hear me.  I pretended I never told her in the first place and committed to making it to the half-mile marker before I resigned to my evident lack of runability. I could do that much. 

When we finally reached it, I celebrated briefly and began to slow to a steady walk, formulating an explanation for Puff as to why I was breaking momentum:  It would be best if I'd listen to my body.  I don't want to overdo it.  This is as far as I could possibly go today.

"It's 'cause you're not running like a dog," she suddenly informed me. 

"Umm...well maybe that's because I'm not a dog." How dare she threaten my carefully woven excuse from further exertion.

"You have to run with your senses, not your mind or your muscles.  That's how we do it." 

"I'm not sure what you mean." Muscles are rather vital to just about any physical process, are they not?

"When dogs run, we don't think about how much we need to run or how far we have to go or how fast we have to get there.  We just take off and smell and taste the fresh air and feel the wind through our fur and notice the scenery rushing past."  

Since I hadn't completely keeled over, I decided to try it Puff's way for a few strides.  I closed my eyes, took deep breaths, and allowed the breeze to gently caress the wisps of my loosening ponytail.  And then I felt the knot in my right oblique tightening, my knees weakening.

"No, no.  Really feel this.  Hang your tongue out.  Taste that air coming at you."  Puff was not about to let me give up. 

"What about the bugs?!"

"They're the best part!" 

"But...oh...."  The last thing on my list of ways to exalt my running experience was swallowing swarms of waterside insects, just below getting stung by a bee and breaking my left ankle.

"Just try it!  You'll see." 

And so, had you happened to be wandering the Erie Canal this morning, you may have spotted me jogging steadily with a little white dog at my side, my mouth open and my tongue flapping freely over my lower lip.  Except you weren't there, and you didn't see me.  I made damn sure no one would witness this humiliatingly zany escapade.

But I did it.  I took Puff's advice, and I ran almost effortlessly.   I made it all the way to the end of the mile and probably could have continued a bit beyond it.

"There, that's enough," she said, reducing speed to a brisk walk as we passed the shelter.

"But it was going so easy for me and I thought I'd go even longer than I set out to," I protested.

"The last important part of running like a dog....we stop!"

"Okay, okay," I conceded.  After all, she seemed to know what she was talking about.


*Important note:  Puff does NOT encourage you to continue running if you're in pain.  She simply suggests that you try shifting your attention to see if it eases the pain before you give up.