Syncopation

In music, syncopation includes a variety of rhythms which are in some way
unexpected in that they deviate from the strict succession of regularly spaced
strong and weak beats in a meter (pulse). These include a stress on a normally
unstressed beat or a rest where one would normally be stressed. "If a part of
the measure that is usually unstressed is accented, the rhythm is considered to
be syncopated."

Since I know this term, did I just out myself from the band geek closet?

Really, I was very, very cool. I was the one band geek that was immensely popular. Honest. My imaginary friends and collection of unfortunately located pimples were a testament to this coolness. You might say that I was one of the pioneering RBF’s before there was blogs…or internet…or household computers. The RBF’s existed in my head. And I was their king.

This entry isn’t about band or my childhood syncopated pimple pattern. I believe we’ve covered engorged pores here ad nauseum. Today, it’s about running. Syncopated running. As always happens after a marathon, I devolve into a slothful, gluttonous orgy of rest and sugary food. When I finally get back out on the road, it takes some time to get back into the smooth, steady rhythm of running. My steps are awkward. My mile splits are erratic. Basically, I’m out of sync (i.e. syncopated).

Now, I’ll take syncopation over constipation any day. But, really, there was no reason to bring up constipation here other than a cheap, loose rhyme. Since I’ve covered zits and poop now, let’s see if I can work in boogers and vomit at some point and really not act my age. Just because I’m officially closer to applying for my AARP card than being in high school does not mean Adult Onset Maturity has set in.

Do you ever feel out of step with your normal stride? Something’s not right. I still have a lingering hamstring pain from the marathon. I’m sure I’m carrying around an extra 5 lbs worth of bite size Snickers and Three Musketeers pilfered from the kids’ Halloween bags. Maybe this is knocking me off stride just a bit. My training mile splits are about the same but it’s taking a lot more huffing and puffing to knock out that 3 miler than it did just a few weeks ago. Perhaps, post marathon 3 miles = pre-marathon peak training 16 miles? Is that normal runner’s math?

For kicks and giggles, I did 2x800 at the local track last night. Both 800’s were at 2:46. Okay, I’ll take that. But it sure would have been nice not to feel like puking all over lane 8 and wiping my chin spittle with the High School Track Records banner hanging precariously within arms reach.

I’m sure things will be back to normal after a few more runs or so. I won’t be that goofy, syncopated, red faced, air hogging runner that children are pointing and laughing at from passing cars. I’ll shed the syncopation for the smooth, steady pace of a metronome. Children will once again look upon me in wonder and amazement. ‘Mommy, mommy, look at the expected, rhythmic, non-syncopated beat of that majestic runner’s pace’. I can hear the awe in the little booger eaters voices already.

I haven’t decided on a theme for this fall/winter. I had my Summer of Speed. The Fall of Fast seems redundant. The Winter of Whiz could be mistaken for things other than speed. Maybe this will be the Season of No Theme.

Without being tied to a training plan, the next two months will find me attempting to build speed again at a distance of 10 miles and under. I consider this my base building time. Shorten the distances. Maximize the speed. When another marathon approaches, I’ll just need to build from the base of 10 miles. Prepare yourself for a steady diet of 800 split times and limbo runs again in future posts.

First, however, I need to conquer the syncopation. Like a true, strict Carmelite monk, I find the best way to knock myself back into rhythm is through a form of running self-flagellation. I’ll hit some 800’s. Hard. Every lap around the track is a whip strike to the back. I will pay for my sinful two week exile from training.

Before long, I’ll be back in rhythm.

And, probably, pretty pissed at llama’s again.

Happy trails.