Pacing, Pals & Patience

I've  always believed in the opening score of The Wonder Years--you know, the one that musically proclaims: " I get by with a little help from my friends". In fact, I've learned over and over again that Fred Savage is right, that not only do I get by with a little help from my friends, they are my world.

Yet, I wonder if Kevin and Winnie ever tried to go running together.

Today, in the blistering midmorning heat, I set out on a short, 3 mile run with three close friends--each an athlete in his or her own right, each a strong runner, at an entirely different pace. Ten footfalls after the start of the run, the fastest among us took off around the bend and we were lucky to catch a glimpse of him later, letting us know to cross a bridge. With one friend behind me and one ahead, I found myself well-paced and well-pleased with my seasoned athlete friend (who is so cool that he already has a half-marathon shirt and so hard-core that he runs in "barefoot trainers" that mold to your feet and look a little like scuba fins, except, cooler!). We ran at a steady pace for a while, chatting and warming up, me falling in synch with his fluid motions. I was happy to match his pace and happier still to have someone to run with rather than someone--real or imaginary--to chase. A supportive friend and running partner, he was just what I needed to get through the day and feel good about our run.

Then, I fell behind.

As I stopped to fiddle with my ipod (not so much the music as the chip in my shoe, counting the steps of my workout) I watched him disappear around a wooded curve and vowed to catch him again. I raced ahead at my "breakneck" pace and still could not catch him; I watched his flipered feet and strong form disappear behind one tree after another--just a short spring out of reach. "Stop moving!" I yelled at him angrily and my ipod answered me in a buttery voice with: "Current pace, 10:30 per mile." Crap. Not only had I fallen behind my partner but I was running way below my training speed.  With no one in sight, I found myself in the middle of the pack.

I hate the middle of the pack.

I know I'm new to running and I furthermore acknowledge that MOST runners are in the middle--somewhere between the elites and the sweepers in every race--but I still hate it. When I commit to something--a job, a class, a relationship, a run, I expect excellence. Of course setbacks happen, but I can usually push through with a load roar and a modicum of grace.

Today, I wanted to kill somebody and I wanted new legs.

I love running because it makes me feel confident, strong and free. I hate it equally because I don't yet know how strong I am or how to push myself to get there. When my friends disappeared, I realized that though we're running together, we are also (and perhaps more importantly) running our own races against ourselves. What I need to do now, it seems, is figure out what my race is and what my pace is. Then I need to push hard and be patient. My feet will catch up.

I don't want to go running with friends again. Except that they remind me of things like this:

Me: Ugh, I'm so tired today.

Joe Cool: You shouldn't be; we haven't run that far.

Me: Yeah, but it's so hot outside. I'm used to running in 30 degrees in the cold--

JC: or 60 degrees in the gym.

Me: Good point. Thanks for not taking my BS.

JC: No problem. C'mon. let's go.

That and we end runs at Starbucks for water, espresso and a Sunday New York Times.

I get by a bit better because of them.