Sun Blocked

By now I assume you've come to expect a weekly Wednesday rant about the youth track team and its dipshit dedicated coach.

However, when Martini and I approached our usual venue at the University of Akron, there was only the intermittent thudding of some young men kicking a soccer ball in the center field.

For a second I was sure a tumbleweed would cross our path, as the lone runner on the track, a dark-skinned, pyramid-chested man, rounded the curve in the inside lane.

Where were the kids? How was I supposed to blow a quad? Or practice my forearm shivver? More importantly, what the heck would I write about?

As you all know, I'm an acolyte of the Bart Yasso school of speed. (Though not such a follower of his literary prowess.) Tuesday's session was seven 800-meter repeats. Let's go to the numbers!

7x800 meters (Goal pace: 3:38.3-3:48.5)

1. 3:43
2. 3:41
3. 3:44
4. 3:45
5. 3:49 -- FAIL!
6. 3:54 -- FAIL!
   
7. 3:41

Whoa, there! What happened on Nos. 5 and 6? I was cruising around fine and then -- THhbbbbbth!!1! -- crap and double crap. I do believe I ran into a heat shield. The temperature was in the mid-80s, no clouds, 60-ish percent humidity and a discourteous headwind blowing across the far straightaway. I was sun-saddled and sidetracked.

Those rotten kids and their no good coach! Where the hell were they? No risk of injury plus no anger equals no motivation to overcome the challenges. Those bastards! The nerve! Had there been a lackadaisical youngster milling around near the finish line for those two intervals, I totally would have kicked it into high gear in hopes of a collision. And I surely would have met my pace. Way to go, team.

Thankfully, Martini joined me on the final interval for a good finish to bring my average pace back down to 7:33 per mile.