Breakthrough

It was borderline cold out. My hands stung a bit at first. Someone on my 4-mile course told me it was too cold for short pants, but the temperature was perfect for running in them. I suspected I would run well. Thirty minutes earlier, I ran from the lobby of the Country Club of Little Rock — where I had interviewed Arkansas Athletic Director Frank Broyles — to my car and felt great. I thought, "You will have to resist running too fast when you start tonight." I did. My mile splits were 9:11, 9:05, 9:31, and 9:06, and added to a finish in 36:53, remarkably fast by my recent standard.

Later, after I recorded the performance in my spiral-notebook diary, it occured that my average mile was only 11 seconds faster than this little midget friend of mine ran for a fucking half-marathon last Sunday. It made me jealous, and prouder of her, and more eager to improve to the point she cannot possibly assist my pacing in a marathon I plan to run in March.

I felt great tonight, light and fast, a nice way to feel being heavy and slow.