Oh (wheeze) my (gasp) God (cough) this is hard (snot rocket).
"This" is four to five sets of 4 x 400 on the track at 5-K goal pace with 40 seconds recovery and a jog lap between each of the sets.
Mel and I zombie-walk away from the finish line of the track, hands pressing down onto our thighs to stay mostly upright, our chins jutting forward and mouths agape to suck in whatever oxygen we can get in the short 40 seconds before it's time to go again.
"Twenty more seconds' rest," my teammate Kate Grace says almost apologetically from behind the watch. We are hurting. Bad. She knows our pain, having been there only yesterday while I held the watch for her. In response, Mel and I pivot and start shuffling back toward the starting line for the final 400 of the fourth set. I honestly don't know if I can do this.
"5, 4, 3..." Oh, crap. I step in line behind Mel and we move slowly toward the starting line, like pushing a stalled car, praying it will start.
"2, 1..." We cross the starting line, Kate's watch clicks, and the engine roars to life. The timer starts working its way toward our goal of 1:12. We round the first curve on autopilot, having done this 15 times already this morning. After this lap is over, we'll have a four-minute rest and then four more 400s. Oh, God, four more.
My eyes burrow in the space between Mel's shoulder blades, watching the fabric of her tank top wrinkle in the direction of whichever elbow is driving back at the moment. She looks strong, fit, on a mission; a different athlete than the 23-year-old rookie pro who showed up at my doorstep last September with a four-year narrative of disappointment behind her and a heart terrified of being broken.
As Mel powers into the headwind toward the finish line, I swing around her shoulder to finish by her side. She knows I'm not trying to pass her, and she simply matches my stride, our hearts violently pounding as they lead our bodies across the finish line. The pain is instant, and it is constant.
Oh (wheeze) my (gasp) God (cough) this is hard (snot rocket). Maybe I can talk her into stopping the workout one set early (dry heave).
We have, after all, already had a great workout. I'll even venture to say "amazing," once I can catch my breath enough to talk her into stopping. We've completed four full sets of the prescribed "four to five," and my previous best from a few years ago was three sets. I'm sure she'll be game to stop.
"One more set--we can do this," Mel grunts before I can say anything, and she starts jogging the easy lap around the track. I stay put and follow her with my eyes a moment, and my heart aches. I first watched her as a 13-year-old whippet 10 years ago, flying with a passion unmatched down the final hill at the Foot-locker Cross-Country Championships, a race she would podium for four straight years, making her one of the greatest high school runners of all time. As a pro-athlete mentor at the event for many years, I saw a lot of great runners, but the fire in Mel's eyes would stay with me. It was that fire that made me want her on Team Little Wing less than a year ago, even if it had been a while since it burned as bright. Today it was out in full force.
I run to catch up, and we make our way back around toward the starting line for the final set of 4 x 400.
"Stay smooth, ladies. You're amazing!" Kate yells, much louder this time, and just like that we're off.
I focus on my breathing, my form, and redirecting any negative thoughts, which helps me get through the first three reps. But on the fourth and final rep, my body is screaming.
I don't think I can do this.
Mel again charges forward. Her ponytail swishes in an asymmetrical curlicue, like a composer swinging his little composer stick. What's that thing called again? The burning in my thighs and lungs makes it impossible to mine for words. My mind bounces between sensation and memory.
Swish, swish, swish goes her ponytail. I see it swish through four stress fractures in college; swish through solo runs when she couldn't keep up with her teammates and struggled to claw her way back to a level worthy of her scholarship. And just a few months ago it swished through the trails of Reno as she dealt with her father's unexpected and tragic death. And now here, with me. What a gift to run behind this woman. To watch her in the midst of an incredible breakthrough workout, not from the sidelines, but from right behind her swishing ponytail. For 20 hard laps I could have reached out at any moment to touch her. And as we make the final turn with 100 yards to go, I nearly do. Instead I dig deep to pull up alongside her to finish together what I couldn't possibly have done alone.
* * *
Lauren Fleshman, a pro runner with Oiselle, cofounder of Picky Bars, and new mom, returned to competing in January.
