Friday, January 8, 2010
And that's where it veers from the script. It's cold out. There's half a foot of new snow. Zoey looks up at me as if to ask what the hell I've done with her yard, and turns her tail to the door to go wait a while for some kind of stronger motivation.
If you ask me, a bladder containing a night's production of piss is motivation enough, but Zoey's got one that goes up to her ears, apparently, with the p.s.i. tolerance of a scuba tank. Motivation does come eventually. Later in the day, when it's light and the squirrels come out, she can't go through that door soon enough. Or often enough.
I can relate. My bladder's not much to brag about, not that I'd want that to be my top résumé item anyway now that I'm not applying for a lot of long-range fighter-interceptor-pilot jobs, and I'm content to live and let live where wildlife is concerned. But yesterday, at the beginning of the big snowstorm and the last few minutes of daylight, I couldn't bring myself to run outdoors. That wasn't a motivation issue. That was a smarts issue. The motivation issue was about the treadmill. A 7-mile run outdoors isn't much at this point in my life, at least not at the 8:15 per mile my plan called for. Seven miles on a treadmill is interminable at any pace.
And this is why I race. Say all you want about all men being created equal, but some people's genetics are better than others', and a lot of athletes' genetics are better than mine. If I'm in line for any athletic success at all, it's going to have to be because of hard training and taste for misery. And a desire not to get beat to the line by someone who just may have gotten there on sloth and talent.
So I guess that line about the dog being motivated by squirrels was a metaphor after all. Hope it holds, because later today I've got to run 5 at tempo, and the roads won't be clear or safe any too soon.
Posted by Jef Mallett at 11:19 AM