Bells and Whistles

I have one of these:

The Polar 625X.

And recently I got my hands on one of these to try:

The Garmin Forerunner 405. [Pardon the pint-sized image.]

Oh, and I'm also testing out these nifty-cool kicks:

Somnio's new Runaissance custom-built running shoe.

But none of these has made me run faster.

Which isn't really a problem, right? Because now I'm all chill about my pace.

(OK, but I'd still like to be a faster runner.)

Despite all the bells and whistles currently at my disposal, this afternoon I headed out in the Asics I've been wearing a while and my super-simple Nike cuff watch that features little more than time/date/chron.

My neck has been bothering me lately and today my lower back got into the act. I wasn't expecting much from the run, was dreading it in fact. It called for a warmup, followed by 10 minutes at tempo and then hill repeats.

It's funny how fast after the high of a race I can fall so low again. I felt like a real runner after the half marathon. This week, I feel like a wannabe. Sigh.

Anyways.

I head east from my office through a residential neighborhood that runs between two railroad tracks. I take the warmup nice and easy. When it's time to hit tempo pace I pick it up and feel good for the first minute. Another minute ticks by and, though I'm still feeling good, I find myself thinking, "How long can you really do this?"

And then: "You probably can't do this."

Followed by: "But you won't know unless you try."

And so I resolve to try because I want to know if I can do it. If I can push myself into a pain box for just 10 stinking minutes. Because why shouldn't I be able to do that?

But as quickly as my resolve tightens, I shove it aside: "Well, at least try to get to the next block, then you can turn around and reassess."

I hit the turnaround point and hear the throaty whistle of a train approaching. To my right I see the lumbering engine coming toward me with a couple of cars behind it. I turn around and begin running in the direction the train is traveling.

I notice the train is going slow, almost coasting along the tracks that bisect a jumble of backyards and alleys.

I don't consciously think about keeping pace with the lumbering train, but I do it anyway. And it means working hard. It means staying in the pain box. It means I'm a gazelle prancing alongside an elephant. It means I'm running neck-to-engine with the train, even for that quick moment.

The train bellows its whistle again and again and I throw my head back and look up at the gray sky. I imagine I'm racing the train, and the thought opens a smile on my face because that thought is ridiculous, I know. But it's fun and I'm loving it and I think: "You're trying and you're doing it."

And this time I listen and let myself keep going.

Then the train pulls away and the moment is over, but running with the train means I keep running hard until the watch clicks to 10 minutes. And it means I run easy for five then tackle the hill repeats with new confidence because I ran with the train. And during the cool down, it means my legs want to keep turning over fast because they actually feel pretty good so I have to force myself to slow down.

And it means that maybe the best bells and whistles are the ones that actually make me push myself.