(click here for tunes in the background while you read: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fa0KZFz-az4&feature=related)
It’s the middle of the week and it’s a pretty day; with my long run far enough behind me that the legs are feeling a little fresher again I head out. Right away I hit a good stride, running pretty easy and breathing steady.
Ten minutes in – I’m moving now; arms swinging, pumping the elbows just a little. I look down and see my feet moving, the pavement blurring beneath them. Hips tucked, core firm. I eat miles for breakfast. I Chuck Norris miles. If Chuck Norris saw me running right now he’d look for Clint Eastwood to hide behind because I’m so freaking awesome and Chuck Norris knows awesome.
Thirty minutes in – I’m Shalane Flanagan, I’m flying, I’m top form, I’m running and the crowds are cheering, they’re SCREAMING for me THEY CAN’T GET ENOUGH they shout “RUN RUN RUN YOU CAN DO IT” but I’m humble because Shalane is just like that, she’s nice but she’s Faaaasst and I’m faaast, I bet that car going by is thinking “now there’s a Runner” and I OWN this run. They probably had to accelerate for half a mile before they passed me, nice Ferrari by the way, I wave casually, I know it’s tough for ya.
An hour in – I’m doing 5:33’s striding it out smooth as glass, hair whipping behind me, focused, holding form, my mind constantly assessing this machine of a body and there it is, finally, that sweet .2 that I just have to hold it through and I’m there, I’m there – I cross the line and churn to a stop, looking behind me to congratulate the others.
That 5:33 was my half-mile splits matters not at all.