Confession time – I drive a Prius.

I know;  that marks me as a tree-hugger, a global warming acolyte and probably a radical-liberal (though my official registration is with the other party…), but the reason my ride is relevant to this blog is not my politics, it’s the car’s groovy digital dashboard display, which shows the gas mileage you’re getting at any given moment.

On level ground, this is about as entertaining as C-Span (unless you enjoy seeing the mileage drop precipitously when accelerating away from a stop light). In hilly country though – of which I encounter more than a little, seeing as how central Colorado is in the Rocky Mountains, not the Rocky Hillocks – it can be an eye-opening experience. Driving Interstate 70 up to Vail Pass, for example, I’ll see my mileage cut by a third or even half, depending on the lead-iness of my foot. Crest the pass and start down the other side however, and the mileage-meter quickly tops out at 100 mpg.  A nicely clear illustration of one of the basic truths of physics – that hauling any ‘body’ (whether mechanical or biological) up a hill is vastly more energy-consuming than rolling it downhill, or even along plain-old level ground.

As a runner, you experience this same truth quite viscerally, and the reason is simple – every foot of elevation you gain in running uphill is the mechanical equivalent of lifting your body one foot off the ground –and that’s hard work when you’re already pushing that self-same body thru the dense atoms of earth’s atmosphere while overcoming the inefficiencies of transferring chemical energy produced inside your muscles into forward motion of the rest of you. Even a moderate uphill grade greatly increases your effort.  (And yes, a downhill grade decreases it, though for some reason the trade-off never seems quite equal…)

After sweating up some gnarly hills, I’ve developed a strategy for making the best of them, and it’s all about turn-over. For uphill running, shorten your stride in order to keep your cadence high and level of effort consistent; don’t allow the hill to run you out of breath. Yes, your pace will be reduced, but that’s a necessary fact – and as long as you keep a running stride you’ll cover ground and build conditioning. The steeper the hill, the shorter the stride, but the goal is to keep a running stride for as long as possible. If the grade is just too steep – or too long – for you to do that, then switch to power-walking: still with short quick steps. Be careful to maintain a healthy level of effort though, and pay careful attention to the steepness of the route. As soon as it levels out enough, you’ll want to switch into running mode again and work on getting back up to your desired pace (a stretch of power-walking doesn’t have to mean giving up on your run).

Uphill running is a necessary part of many events, and also a great conditioner. Best of all, it often leads to a juicy payoff – downhill running.

More about that, in future.

Distance running is, in large part, about restraint; finding that magic pace which gets you to the finish as quickly as possible, but not so fast you fall apart before you get there. The first time you complete any particular distance, you’re likely to be staggering and stumbling across the chalk, but after a few times, you may begin to feel that surge of adrenalin when the banner comes into view, and be tempted to pull out the stops and surge across, the theme from Chariots of Fire resonating inside your head.

While some running authorities discourage a final sprint, I say ‘go for it.’ Reward that restraint by finishing strong – after all, as a mid-pack runner, your most-likely pay-off is in your own feelings, not a podium, so why not live the dream?

If you Divided and Conquered your run, you’ll know when you’ve reached the last 10% (about 1/3 mile for a 5K, half a mile for a 10K, 1 to 1 ½ mile for half marathon, and 3 miles for a full). When you do, think about building the pace gradually from there to the finish. To avoid injury (or an early flare-out), avoid a sudden shift to full-on sprint. Instead, accelerate gradually, moving those tired feet just a bit faster, then another bit, then faster still, so that in the final hundred feet or yards, you’re splurging every bit of energy you’ve got left, soaking in the cheers and applause of strangers, and knowing you have given it your all.

A slow, gradual start, a steady-state cruising speed for most of the distance, and a gradual acceleration to the line, can make for personal satisfaction, whatever the clock reads!

Before I got a GPS watch, I imagined they were all about the summary – how long was a run, what was the total time. Now that I’ve had one for a while though, I’ve realized sometimes it’s the interim information that makes them really worthwhile.

This past Saturday, for instance, I did a long event that was well laid-out (a surface-measured course is plenty-accurate to know your overall distance) and very well managed (chip timing is definitely more accurate than punching buttons on a watch as you navigate the start crowd, or trying to remember to do the same at the moment you cross the finish). There was no need at all for a GPS to tell me how I did overall, but boy did it help me make my goal – especially after my water-bottle kept popping out of my belt until it’s drinking lid shattered on the pavement and the thing got tossed in the gutter, from which point I stopped in at nearly every aid station to hydrate.

Thanks to GPS, I could see in the middle miles that I was running about fifteen seconds faster than my overall goal pace, so that should allow for slowing down and drinking – but I could have figured that out with a stopwatch and mile markers.

What I could not have figured out that way though, is that my perception of my pace got totally skewed after every aid station. I’d get my drink and toss the cup, and a hundred yards or so down the course I’d feel like, ‘OK, I’m back up to pace’. Looking at my GPS though, I’d see that what felt like the right level of effort and difficulty, was actually one or two (or more) minutes slower than I had been doing just before the aid station. And with every passing mile, that false sense of pace seemed to get more drastic (nothing surprising there – it’s called fatigue…).

Once the GPS gave me that news, it also helped my do better. Each time I looked down and saw a number that put the lie to how I felt, I’d focus on cadence – visualize my feet moving back and forth as fast as possible below an upright and stable torso. After I’d done that for a ways, I’d visualize my heels coming up higher and my strides stretching out a bit, but still snapping just as quickly. Time and again, I was able to get back up to pace within a fraction of a mile, and as I got used to ‘The Aid Station Effect’ I made that recovery more and more quickly, knowing what was happening and what I wanted to do about it.

Without GPS, I’m pretty sure I would have relied on that (false) perception of effort, and my pace would have gotten slower and slower thru those late miles. With it, I had the data to push through discomfort and momentary sensation, and ask of my body what training told me it was capable of. I was able to finish strong and make my goal, thanks in large part to the nearly-instantaneous feedback from that little electronic marvel on my wrist.

Now, if I can only do something about that water bottle-belt….

A few years ago I had a difficult run – colder weather than expected and headwinds that seemed to come from whatever direction the course was headed, no matter how many ways it turned. After battling intermittent showers and my own head-trips, I finally reached the home-stretch, laser-focused on one last chance to feel good about my morning by finishing strong, and found myself pulling-up on another runner who didn’t seem to have much ‘oomph’ left. Inflatable arch in sight, I huffed and puffed and managed to pass the guy with less than a hundred feet to go, feeling really proud of myself. It was only later, when the results came out, that I discovered the gent was over twenty years my senior! He’d been ahead of me for 26 miles, and if he took any notice at all of me passing, it could only have detracted from what was a far more impressive performance than mine. Suddenly that last-minute pass didn’t feel so glorious.

Since then I’ve become a lot more conscious about who is around me in that last hundred yards or so.

It’s one thing to challenge yourself to catch some person up-ahead in the middle of the race – that’s a great way to keep up the concentration and intensity, and for all you know, she or he might find it a useful spur to try to keep ahead of you.   I know I’ve felt that way – the “I’ll be darned if she’s going to pass me going up this hill…” kind of thing. At its best this turns into a team effort – two runners drawing each other on so that both excel. With a few friendly words tossed back and forth along the way, I’ve had this lead to a new friendship in the cool-down pen – exchanging names and histories, and even sweat-soaked hugs. (Nothing better than those slippy-soggy, salt-crusted, post-race hugs….well maybe a few things).

Nor am I saying a finish line push is never justified. If there’s a chance to catch some big young fella’ you’ve been playing leapfrog with all the way – and he’s still fighting as well – that’s part of the game. But if I find myself approaching the finish line neck-and-neck with a 14 year old kid (yup, it’s happened) or if it feels like one more hard push with two strides to go might allow me to pass another runner who’s clearly run out of gas, my rule now is to back off and seek satisfaction in clock-time and how I executed my game plan.

Running in the middle of the pack is about how you run, not dodging your “would’a, could’a, should’a’s” at somebody else’s expense. The best events are run against the clock, not the other MPRs around you.

If you’re a Mid-Pack Runner, then by definition there are folks finishing after you, some of whom may be radiant with achievement, some of whom are likely to be struggling for all they’re worth to achieve their goal.

Now I don’t want to take anything away from front runners – those Dionysian souls whose ability to take-in and process oxygen makes the rest of us look like we’re sucking atmosphere through a sippy-straw, but a part of me says if it takes a person more than twice as long to complete the course as the leaders took, then that person has probably worked way more than twice as hard.

Unfortunately though – and especially in small local events – by the time these dedicated souls come around the last turn, there may not be many spectators to greet them, and that’s a shame.

My suggestion is, after you’ve finished your own mid-pack run and taken a few minutes to catch your breath and grab a drink of water (and maybe free those tired toes from their running-shoe-captivity), consider spending some time standing ahead of the ‘Finish’ line, clapping and cheering for those who come in behind you. You don’t need to think up anything brilliant to say – most runners will be so focused on toughing out those last few strides that all they’ll register is the general hubbub – just make some noise with your hands and your voice, or by banging on something handy, and trust that they’ll appreciate it.

I’ve done this many times, and find it can be downright humbling to realize just how hard some runners push themselves, in full knowledge that they are finishing toward the end of the pack. Spend a few minutes shouting “Way to go runner!” or something equally banal, and chances are good you’ll find yourself gaining enthusiasm for your next Mid-Pack Run.

Ever forged your way up a hill early in a run, only to find, when you come upon another hill later, that your legs feel leaden and unresponsive? I certainly have, in fact it has always seemed to me that there was only so much climbing in my legs, and once it was used up, it was gone for several days. Now, I’m not so convinced.

Preparing for a rather intimidating trail event that that includes several large climbs spaced out over the total distance, I set the goal one morning of running up the largest of the climbs twice in a row – with even a distant thought I might be able to tough-out three laps. (Masochism runs in the family…)

The first time up was just as I expected with a fresh start; hard work, but steady, and I crested the ridge in decent (for me) time. On the way down I reveled in gravity’s assist while reminding myself not to overdo it – I’ve learned the hard way that even on a steep downhill, too fast a pace can take it out of you, and I had another lap planned.

Once at the bottom I turned right around and headed back up, but this time, because I’d set such a stiff goal – two laps on a hill I’d always considered an achievement to do once – I set out pretty slowly, telling myself it would be enough just to keep a running stride, regardless of the pace. Enlisting the music in my headphones to drown out the cries of my leaden legs, I settled in to daydreaming, but here’s the thing – when I glanced down at my GPS a good while later, I was surprised to find myself not that far off the pace of my first lap, and feeling almost as strong!

Which made me wonder: maybe that dreaded dead-leg syndrome was not so much about the exhaustion of particular muscles, as it was about the shock to the entire system when different muscles were enlisted in different ways to transition from downhill (or flat) to climbing once again. Between my low expectations and the distraction of music coming from my Shuffle, I’d managed to coast thru that transition and only gradually drift back up to the cadence, stride and level of effort that my conditioning caused to feel natural.

Now, I’m not saying it was painless getting up that hill again, and yes, my time was a bit slower than the first lap, but I made it feeling surprisingly strong, and headed back down with newfound optimism. Enough so that there was no doubt about trying for lap three, on which I made a point of starting out super-slow, and only building the pace as my legs felt capable, which they did after a few minutes of perfunctory complaining. Cruising down after cresting that ridge three times felt great, and I found myself looking forward to the upcoming event more than ever before.

From now on, my goal when approaching yet another hill will be to ease-in the clutch as slowly as possible, allowing the wise physiology of the body plenty of time to drop into a different gear before asking it to do its best.