I wrote rather extensively yesterday on the pleasures of the run as a tour, the bipedal equivalent of a Sunday afternoon country drive.
I do have to say, though, that I'm enjoying my recent commitment to track work. Nobody ever told me it was this fun. Perhaps because they don't think it is? Certainly possible. There's a beautiful rhythm to be had though, in cruising around a 400 meter oval, bounding along on a surface that feels made for the task... because it is.
Mile repeats today. Something about that distance and that pace that just invites a sense of flow, of speed without strain. Wanted to run all four at six minute pace, but by the fourth, I felt far too curious what a harder effort would yield. So I gave one, and found 4:54 on the watch. (This is a good how to/why concerning different paced mile reps. Assuming you don't just want to do my usual "whatever the hell" pace.)
The sun had set, the rain fell lightly, and lighting danced between clouds. A lovely night.
And I felt pretty damn good. Pretty damn perfect, really. The sort of sensation you'd like to bottle up and save for races. (It does so rarely happen that a race feels like a best possible effort.) Like there was a perfectly linear relationship between effort and pace, such that going faster was only a question of willing it. (I think El G's world record is safe though.)
Of course, the satisfaction I derive from such nights is so significant as to render races almost beside the point. Another instance, as mentioned yesterday, that I'm more concerned with chasing down certain sensations than times.
Feeling good feels good. How's that for philosophy?