Of Mice and (old) Men
October 17th 2006 12:28
Tonight I rode my bike out to the West End for track practice. It wasn’t really track practice, because we run back and forth on this road, doing variations of kilometre repeats. Anyway, for variety’s sake, I run with this group of old men on Tuesdays, who really aren’t all that old, older than I am…adult men.
I think that I am too competitive with these men. I get there, think to myself that these guys are old, so I should be faster, or I am a girl, so I have to prove myself. We kind of antagonise each other, as much as we get along. I don’t want them to be faster because they are old, they don’t want me to be ahead of them because I am female. Or, like tonight, someone sidles up to you, asks about your times, tells you they are an engineer (aerospace), ex-Olympic hopeful, turned swimmer and cyclist (and socially retarded), and I decide that I have to run faster than he does because he is irritating.
Yes, I know that physiologically, I am never going to be as fast as men. Or fast period, but that is not my point. I am stubborn as a mule sometimes, and as my team mates can attest to, get really excited at the start of workouts and run way faster than I should, and then crawl along at a hobble in the last interval. I never learn my lesson, I try to, but then the next workout rolls around, and I get excited again. I promise you that this time next week, I will be thinking about how I need to learn to pace myself.
So one repeat in, he blows by me, and I figure he will tire out….he clomps when he runs…he has to tire out. Four intervals in, he still isn’t tiered (myself, on the other hand…). By the time I am done, he is sitting in the grass eating the candy our coach gives us after workouts. He doesn’t even look sweaty. Then he runs home. Meanwhile, I climb on my bike (which is rusty and sounds like a motor cycle) put on my giant red helmet (I am the coolest person ever) and bike home, at a snail’s pace.
I think that I am too competitive with these men. I get there, think to myself that these guys are old, so I should be faster, or I am a girl, so I have to prove myself. We kind of antagonise each other, as much as we get along. I don’t want them to be faster because they are old, they don’t want me to be ahead of them because I am female. Or, like tonight, someone sidles up to you, asks about your times, tells you they are an engineer (aerospace), ex-Olympic hopeful, turned swimmer and cyclist (and socially retarded), and I decide that I have to run faster than he does because he is irritating.
Yes, I know that physiologically, I am never going to be as fast as men. Or fast period, but that is not my point. I am stubborn as a mule sometimes, and as my team mates can attest to, get really excited at the start of workouts and run way faster than I should, and then crawl along at a hobble in the last interval. I never learn my lesson, I try to, but then the next workout rolls around, and I get excited again. I promise you that this time next week, I will be thinking about how I need to learn to pace myself.
So one repeat in, he blows by me, and I figure he will tire out….he clomps when he runs…he has to tire out. Four intervals in, he still isn’t tiered (myself, on the other hand…). By the time I am done, he is sitting in the grass eating the candy our coach gives us after workouts. He doesn’t even look sweaty. Then he runs home. Meanwhile, I climb on my bike (which is rusty and sounds like a motor cycle) put on my giant red helmet (I am the coolest person ever) and bike home, at a snail’s pace.
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