Today I ran an alleged 5 mile in 36.27 minutes (I’m not sure I trust the Scottish measurement of a mile). Both my academic Dad and my real Dad agree that I can break 35, so cheers to that! (It really only requires I become even more maniacal about running, which is not going to be a problem).
The race today was in Edinburgh and it was all hills. Up and down. Up and down. Just over and over.
My academic Dad explained something to me about English cross country that has fundamentally altered and bettered my understanding of the sport. First of all, it is not about running. As he put it, “it’s about doing something really painful and dirty and then feeling really manly afterwards.”
Not being a man, it’s hard for me to know whether this definition can actually apply to me, but everything suddenly made sense because then he explained that he’s never really timed himself before, or known his pace per mile or whatever, because it wasn’t important. The important thing was getting through the absolute insanity of the race. And then there’s me, calculating that I ran a 7.17 pace and realizing it’s about 20 seconds faster per mile than the five mile I ran two weeks ago. I always thought the fun part was getting faster — and never encountering much pain beyond the killer uphill and the two days afterwards in which soreness takes over your soul.
David has set me straight. English cross country is just different. And now all the mud makes so much more sense.
The rest of this weekend holds excessive socializing and washing of clothes and towels and sheets, because it’s important to wash your sheets.
I am so excited to eat that I have to stop writing right now.