I was at the track last night knocking out some intervals. (Pay attention. You are probably interested in how this turned out as it might end with you having to hook a car battery to your nipples in order to win my upcoming giveaway. Keep your fingers crossed.) It was hot. It was windy. There was a fat kid and his trainer/sister/girlfriend doing laps in lanes 1 and 2 clearly in violation of the Slow Traffic Keep Right track law.
This is where the Mindf*ck comes in. As I was loosening up and watching Fat Kid and Sis make their way around the track, I had already started my inner whine. It’s too hot. My shoes are getting old and hard on the feet. I’d rather be home wearing a fish net shirt, like the guy from Right Said Fred, with one arm casually thrown over my head preparing to amaze you with an illusion. In other words, I was being douchy.
The plan was 6 x 800m intervals with the standard 400m easy interval in between. I just did 5 x 800 last week in the low 2:50’s for each with very similar weather conditions. Should be able to do about the same right with just one more interval? Sure, unless you Mindf*ck yourself right from the start.
I’m a big believer in mind over matter. Confidence. The ole Can Do attitude. I absolutely hate when I hear (or read) someone say they don’t think they can do this or they probably can’t do that. I’ve written about this before so I won’t get into it again. It’s self defeating to talk yourself down. No problem with a dose of realism but that’s completely different than pure negative CAN’T energy.
It’s Mindf*cking. Before this interval session even began, I treated my mind like a Dutch prostitute. Despite all previous track interval results as evidence, I set my goal at 2:57 per 800m. Why 2:57? I don’t know. That’s like asking why someone would allow themselves to be photographed like in the one above. In mascara. It makes no sense. I just settled on the number. I mentally boxed myself in to a sub par work out before I even started. Mind. F*cked.
Guess how it turned out?
Big surprise, a bunch of 2:57’s. I lapped Fat Kid and Sis on a number of occasions (even as they walked during rest breaks IN LANE 1 AND 2!) Periodically, Fat Kid took a few breaks to sit in the grass and drink some water. As I ran by, I noticed he looked remarkably like Jonah Hill. I knew it wasn’t Jonah Hill because Seth Rogan wasn’t attached to his hip. He looked drained and defeated. But he continued to get back up and do another lap. Over and over again. I was impressed with his determination.
I completed my intervals just as they completed theirs. I had basically run 2:57’s just like I said I would before hand. Once I settled on 2:57, there was no way I was going to do any better. I ran to the number and gave no greater effort. Meanwhile, Fat Kid was giving all he could next to Sis. By the end, I realized I didn’t deserve lane 1. My pace was faster but his effort was greater.
I had Mindf*cked myself to the point where I’m pretty sure I have a brain STD now. Don’t expect a lesser effort than you know you are capable of before even starting! I had started the work out settling on a number in which I knew I could out perform and mentally chastising Fat Kid and Sis for their douchy track etiquette breach. By the end, I could see that Fat Kid had put his all into that work out. Me? Well, it’s called a Mindf*ck...
And it made me the douche. Someone get me a fish net shirt and some goggles.
Next post: I promise, the giveaway exists!
Also, I apologize that I haven't been commenting a lot recently. Work calls. I promise I'll make it up. Maybe with a wonderful illusion that'll both astound and amaze you....