It’s 85 degrees outside, and there’s no wind or breeze. The sun beats down, relentlessly, worming its fingers through the inconsistencies in the canopy of oak. A team of forty makes its way along the gravel and paved “Creek Trail,” towards the shadier Murdock Park, in hopes of finding shelter from the ruthless sun.
Jake hasn’t said a word, but I know what’s coming. It’s going to be six intervals of 1200 meters. I heave exasperatedly and toe the line along others. This is what I had prepared for. During the summer I had ran workouts from start to… almost the finish. I would fizzle out on the last interval, the last mile. I invested time in an effort to improve my closing speed – striding, leading interval workouts, and trying to cement the last meters of a race.
I lead the guys on as we start our workout. The first, second, third, and fourth intervals move seamlessly, illustrating the rhythmic cycle of timed workouts.
Shirts off, and it’s the penultimate interval. People begin to drop like flies, buckling under the immense heat. I keep my eye behind Justin, and float on his draft to the finish. My watch flickers through the digits, ticking off seconds of my rest as I’m bent double and feel my lemon rice lunch shooting up my throat. We get on the line one last time, and too tired for words, I make a halfhearted gesture signaling the start of the ultimate interval.
We’re skipping through the woods, protected by the dense, interlocking branches of the trees bordering the intermittent San Tomas Aquino Creek. We hit the turnaround, and it’s the last 600m of the workout. I push forward and make my move. Revanth and Justin follow me around the bend as we break out into the sun again. It’s 300m to go, and I shove the thoughts of a glass of ice cold water and a hearty dinner to the back of my head as I surge into overdrive. I’m sprinting to the finish now, I can see my parents and my teammates on the side, providing exhortations as I bound towards the tape. I let it get to my head though, telling myself that I’ll finally close out a workout. I let my guard down and break the rhythm in my stride. Andy passes me and hits the tape just as I throw myself across the finish line.
Frustrated emotionally and physically, I take off my shoes and spike them against the ground in a fit of fury. I silently fume and utter some choice blessings as I walk alone to the water fountain. My anger is visible, and there’s a black cloud hovering above my head in the clear sky. I grab my shirt angrily without saying much of a goodbye to Jake and my other teammates. I jog back to Lynbrook in silence, replaying the finish in my head. The smug grin on his face, the sweat blurring mine, and the image of defeat polluting my thoughts all echo simultaneously in my mind.
I sit silently on the benches outside the locker room. I can’t move because the workout has drained me dry, literally. I’m dehydrated, and I’m drenched in a solution of sweat and tears. I throw my bike helmet on the ground, frustrated at my helplessness. I bike home listlessly, trying to expel the thoughts of the recent workout.
I get home and sit outside, thinking about why I run. I think back to my uncle, and my heart lurches for the thousandth time. Even as he fought with cancer, he would always make the effort and talk to me about my races and training. He held an interest in me, which was my central motivation to run. I reflect on my behavior and realize that frustration isn’t something he would’ve seen as a proper reaction after a difficult workout. I resolve to keep a cool head in a sea of heat, vowing to never lose my temper in such a fashion again.
I consider myself lucky that Monday wasn’t a race day.