By Steven (who dat) Fisher

Original title, huh? Maybe it’ll morph into a regular byline (say it isn’t so!). I bet you’re thinking, what do I have to learn from this guy, other than what not to do? I mean, we’re not talking Roger Price - alias Mr. Running Scientist - here. More like the infamous ‘Mr. Training’. Mr. Training punishes himself and humbles his training partners. He studiously avoids races, but when he does pin on a number he makes sure to really kick butt on the previous day’s long run. Why the blatant self-sabotage, you ask? Well, when’s the last time you heard ‘I feel great I’m going to PR’ on the starting line. Mr. Training has just taken this to the extreme. He can safely exit afterwards with ‘I managed that even after yesterday’, and on the off chance of actually racing well, he can then only imagine how good it could have been if he hadn’t done yesterday. Why, you still don’t get it?

Mr. Training, it seems, is a coward. Of course, Mr. Training admits to this only in the third person. It takes ba--s to say to the world, ‘I’m going to give it my best effort, here it comes’. To admit to this upcoming effort and prep for it properly. And then Race Day to then do exactly that. And live with the consequences. Of course, Mr. Training has mitigating factors. A deeper study of Mr. Training would require an advanced degree in abnormal psychology. Suffice it to say that Mr. Training is a known head case. Mr. Training is dying from all the stress in his life. Why pile on more? Mr. Training abhors the pressure of the final week. It makes him ill, like the mere thought of a presentation. Mr. Training feels no stress in going wild in training, or indulging in the occasional ‘time trial’, but slinks away and hides when Grand Prix points are on the line. They can’t beat you and laugh at you in a time trial. Mr. Training hates being laughed at, which seems his fate in life. Mr. Training is paranoid. He thinks, what are they thinking? Mr. Training writes, computes, trains. He doesn’t give speeches.

Mr. Training has panic attacks, chronic depression, constant anxiety and low self-image skittering about and dueling for control of his ‘uge noggin’. He bravely battles these tormentors. Mr. Training has made an important discovery. The harder he runs… the less he thinks… the better he feels afterwards… the more he drinks… the less he thinks. Thus he forgets for a while. This explains a lot about his training methods. Mr. Training likes running in the woods. There are only animals and trees. He escapes. There is a peaceful solitude. But he is not alone. Mr. Training never runs alone. He doesn’t get the ‘helps me reflect’ school of thought. He feeds like a leech off of the energy of others. He respects, but doesn’t understand, those who are out there alone. Are they enjoying themselves?

Mr. Training has an exceptional memory for traumatic running moments. They stick to him like glue and grow like toadstools. Mr. Training remembers Mr. Trengove passing him in the last mile of a race (more than once!), smiling ear-to-shining-ear and pretending not to see. Mr. Training remembers finishing a race in which he had wasted his hamstring and blown his chances at a long-awaited PR marathon, and seeing Mr. Deroberts (on his cooldown) turning and running backwards along with Mr. Training, fists triumphantly raised in the air as he shouted out his new PR. Mr. Training remembers those who say that his special triumphs (training, time trials) don’t ‘count’ because there’s no digital clock. One day Mr. Training told Mrs. Locke about his best ‘race’ of the last two years, which came on the Strider 13 mile course (complete with pacer and support crew – tell them about it Gary). Next week, Mrs. Locke said to Mr. Training, "Willy’s really improving , check out his Great Swamp time". This aggravated Mr. Training, who asked Mrs. Locke if she remembered his ‘race’. Mrs. Locke didn’t remember or seem to care, implicitly siding with the rest of the rational running community in what counts and what doesn’t. Mr. Training also remembers his occasional failures in training. Don’t mess with his forté! Once Mr. Training went to an RVRR adventure run in Jockey Hollow. He was recovering from an injury, out of shape, and all his ‘boys’ (yes, Mr. Training has many soul-mates-based-on-long-years-of-training in RVRR) were there, and as they were in the process of dropping him on the first switchback hill, Mr. Lehman called out from high above, ‘cut the course, you can still catch up’. Mr. Training had the foresight to yell back ‘Stevie Remembers’ – which he did. Next time out, guess who paid?

But what really makes Mr. Training run for cover is thinking of the beer-ridden frenzies which occur at Midland (afterwards in the barbecue pit) when great races are relived ad-nauseum while Mr. Training listens in, having had another terrible race. Mr. Training knows what they’re feeling. He knows the other side. Mr. Training can relate. He groks. He knows the glow. For when Mr. Training puts in that special effort in a race, gliding along on the edge but not going over it, pushing it out, holding on, bringing it in, and crossing the line with a great time, having beaten his peers and sometimes his betters, and finally posting one for all posterity, well then Mr. Training sits on a higher cloud than anyone. His first reaction is one of sharing – shake hands and buddy up to the nearest competitiors who he assumes also knows the pain and feels the triumph. But then it all changes. Call him the most self-centered man in the sport. He runs around like a crazy man in an attempt to find someone to tell. Look what I did. Look who I beat. After his triumphant 10 miler, Mrs. Locke came up to Mr. Training and asked how he did. Mr. Training was effusive in his description. And then ran away to find the next person. He later, upon seeing Mrs. Locke, realized he had no idea of her time (other than she had been one of Mr. Training’s victims). Mr. Training felt guilt. But not for long.

Because Mr. Training knows that there’s nothing – Nothing – better than a great race. The glow is intense. It fades slowly. It lasts longer than sex. The psyche is massaged, and the demons are kept at bay. During the all-day bask in self-congratulations, Mr. Training is happy as a pea (is a pea happy?). He gets drunk as a skunk (is a skunk drunk?). He puts behind his other existence. And even better, he knew before, and sure enough – it has come to pass – that he can actually keep this thing going… all Winter. This will last at least until the next race, which redefines things once again.

Now that you know a little bit about Mr. Training, he will teach you how to get into great shape. Your best shape. And have fun doing it! So good a shape that running your PR marathon is a given – a veritable lock - the only question is, by how much? Mr. Training did exactly that, last summer leading up to Steamtown. He was superman. He never actually looked forward to a race as much. He was never so certain. He ran circles around his training partners. He did fartlek out and back in the middle of long runs, daring the likes of the Frieders to run away from him in the final miles, even though he had already put in extra speed and distance. He did 20+ milers every weekend, and got his mileage up to 80+ five weeks out of six, even though he had never before done more than mid-70’s. Tell us about the marathon, Mr. Training, tell us! Sure, but first did I mention that Mr. Training always monitors the other guy’s log. His must be more imposing. So Mr. Training, during that final ascendancy to mileage heaven, decided to ‘catch up’ to the others who had been methodically doing track workouts for months. Mr. Training started doing intervals twice a week ‘at pace’ – their pace, of course. Well, class, you probably know already that Mr. Training and his hamstring sat this one out.

So listen up, class – for graduation, Mr. Training wants you to experience something really special. He’ll help you duplicate his amazing feat at last year’s Motown Corporate Challenge. First, prep two days before with a Strider summer series, really max out in that one. Now on race day, whatever you do, do not internalize. Don’t concentrate on your body. Think of all the people you know who you must beat – no one has a longer list than Mr. Training. But really focus on someone you’ve never beaten in a race, but who is a long-time rival. This person should also be your manager (UPS-speak for boss), Chuck.

Chuck pretends that he is ONLY interested in the team aspect – not in his continuing domination of Mr. Training. Or maybe he is not pretending. Chuck is a professional. Mr. Training can read his mind: A) This is a BIG corporate event, and where would poor UPS be without Mr. Training. B) Performance is actually a mental thing; performance (or lack of it) on the roads will translate to the job. Now, realize that, according to his more sensible half, these reflections would be best excised. But Mr. Training makes no compromises in this forum! He will be honest. He don’t want no PC. He don’t like no BS. He don’t do no LSD. This is life, not work. And besides, he knows that Chuck will realize that Mr. Training is delusional. The point – when you go totally mental, the physical is ignored, with profound consequences – as you will see.

So, as the race develops, be sure to stay well out ahead of this person. Blast off and fry yourself the first 2 ½ miles of heat precipitated hilly delirium. Imagine the joy of competition when as Chuck inevitably passes you in your death throes up the final torturous hill he says ‘Come on, let’s do this together?’. (Sidebar: Why do they keep saying that to Mr. Training? Why not just ‘looking good’ as they make the pass, or even a condescending wink? Fine, together’s great, just stop long enough to let me attach this harness and rope to you. Or if you prefer, we can do the old Vulcan mind-meld and body swap for an encore. Beam me up, Scotty). Having focused so long on the competition, now you are permitted to listen to your body as you weave drunkenly towards the finish line in an approximation of SF’s Lombard Street, and suddenly discover the lack of an important body part (legs). Now the fun begins! Time to go out-of-body as you watch someone else drop to the pavement. Hey, the brave man is doing his Paula Newby-Fraser impression (of course that was an ironman, not a 3.5 miler) as you push away the volunteers who just want to pick you up. Mr. Training would like to say he travelled ‘the last few feet like a demented diaper derby in hydrodynamic bathing suits’, but crawling didn’t occur to him, so in a lawsuit induced frenzy, two well-muscled dudes ignored his protestations and picked him up. Now if you can picture yourself in this situation, remember to insist that your rescuers drag you over the finish line (as Mr. Training did) – you can later say it counts, your feet were touching the ground.

Now class, imagine the exhilaration involved in the ensuing spectacle. YOU happen to be the spectacle. Up in the air you go, as the volunteers force you horizontal and pick you up. "Somebody get a stretcher" they scream! You are first carried along, then rolled onto a stretcher (of course, more volunteers are needed for this feat). "No, I’m fine" you weakly protest. Now you are horizontally motored through thousands of gawking finishers to the medical tent. Only to find the concerned faces of your secretly gleeful teammates peering down at you as they ask if you’re OK. Well honestly, what more could you want from a race?

Every year brings new wonders. Change is good, right? Usually. Except Mr. Training’s ‘worthless’ consecutive run streak from June 1 2000. That hasn’t changed. Well, to quote a famous actor who’s almost as handsome as Mr. Training, ‘I’ve got my mind right, boss’. What’s changed is that Mr. Training’s on a roll. He’s gotta whole new attitude (don’t make you puke, you say?). A missed marathon, a stunning time trial, and the fabulous 10 miler have put him in a different frame of mind. He can ignore the last two years. He doesn’t want to blow it again – this time, he’s ready to go for it – but don’t hold him to it! He changes his mind quickly. He knew he could ‘ride the wave’ of the 10 miler and pretend to be really as good as all those folks he was lucky enough to beat for the first time ever. It's a confidence thing, even if it’s misguided. He is training to race. He’s focussed. He’s going to do the circuit. He’s got quantity. He’s got quality. And now he’s got something to protect. The pack is chasing him. They on his tail! He on their list! Better to be the underdog. Too bad, but c’est la vie.

Now, Mr. Training has a new way to avoid dying from the pressure. He rationalizes: he will have a good racing season. This means, Mr. Training is in great shape. He will have good races, and he will have bombs, but the great races will inevitably come. So the next race doesn’t matter. Yes – it almost doesn’t count! This keeps Mr. Training in the game. If he doesn’t get’m this time, he’ll get’m next time. There, no pressure, see?

Besides, Mr. Training is building a Saturday run following, and it's working! Realize that while Mr. Training may appear to have a loving wife and a friend or two (where?), he has strong anti-social tendencies, with strong aversion to human assemblages. Therefore, this growing group threatens his perception of reality. Imagine, being the center of something – almost a leader! (Please keep your guffaws to yourselves). This run is the foundation of his scientifically guaranteed program. A rock-solid 17-19 miler or more, usually with hills, sometimes (more than not) ending – or starting - with several miles ‘at pace’ (whose?). Mr. Training likes to follow this with a hard Sunday Strider run, nine or thirteen. Now pay attention, crazy Dave; run a marathon a weekend only as a guideline – thirty or more is better, right Mr. Meade? Alas, Mr. Training would love to grace the Strider Wednesdnay night race (uh, group run) with his presence, but his unearthly work schedule precludes this.

You are thinking, this reads like the confessions of a disturbed inmate with too much time on his hands. Mr. Training needs to know that he is not alone. He doesn’t want scientific dissertations, discussions of stretching, T-Cells or VO₂ Max. He wants only the most obsessive fervor. Rantings and ravings. So please follow his lead – write about it! He at last almost feels at home with the MCS = VSI (Very Strange Individuals), and is confident others will come out of the woodwork to pour out their bizarre mindsets onto these same pages in the next newsletter.

Finally, please do not mistake Mr. Training for the man who bears some resemblance to him, should you encounter that person in your running travels. That person is quite normal actually. Not to be confused with the lunatic who wrote this article.

Fini (until next time)