Friday Ramble 03/12/21

Heart rate blues, making peace with Strava and choosing joy.

Each week, the Friday Ramble takes a spin through my training along with whatever else is floating around the ether (besides pollen, UGH.) This week: Stuck inside of heart rate zones with those existential blues again, making peace with Strava, and choosing to reflect on joy rather than looking back with pessimism. Plus, dude, Birkenstocks? 

In my first week as a trained athlete, I ran less than 20 miles on flat, dull terrain. All the things I love about running were missing from the equation. There were no scenic vistas or catch-your-breath moments of transcendence. It was just me, plodding along a joyless path with cars whizzing by and garbage in the bushes, frantically trying to keep my heart rate below 145 beats per minute. 

We need to talk about data. I don’t really want to talk about data because numbers are inherently boring for everyone except the person from whom they are being collected. But we’re going to talk about data because there’s some interesting lessons here. 

Trying to keep my HR below 145 was immensely frustrating because it zooms into the stratosphere whenever it’s cold, like it was for my first 5-miler under Avery’s coaching tutelage. As soon as I’d start moving, my HR would immediately glow yellow, orange, and then ominously deeper shades of red until someone looking only at the data —like my new coach — would think I was having a heart attack. 

Only I wasn’t. I was barely even breathing. I’d sigh, stop, walk, and try to get it back under control. Over and over and over again. 

Then I started getting mad. This whole thing with data collection is BS, I told myself. Our fetish with numbers and optimization is dragging us further and further into a dystopian world where we don’t even know how to feel anymore, man. 

Then I was mad about being mad since anger certainly wasn’t helping my heart rate calm down. Some Buddhist, you are. Besides, I reminded myself, this was hardly the time for Pflanns’ Theory of Everything to hold sway over a dopey 5-miler that doesn’t even mean anything, really. 

Then I started ruminating on all the things that could be contributing to this absurd heart rate reading. Maybe my watch is broken and I need a new watch. I wonder what kind of watch I should get. Maybe my hip is really messed up for real and my muscles are working too hard overcompensating. Oh jeez, what if I’m actually hurt and need PT?  

This constant discursive feedback loop piled deeper and deeper layers of meaning on top of what should have been a completely benign experience for another mile or so until I finally broke. I did so loudly, and with great emphasis, to a couple of unsuspecting joggers, “There’s just no way I’m maxing out my anaerobic threshold with a 12-minute shuffle!” 

One of them turned around and laughed. “Good luck with the heart zone training.” 

Absent any better ideas, I decided to ignore the watch and simply do a good old fashioned talk test where I carried on a verbal conversation with myself about the book I’ve been reading. There’s something to be said for analog solutions in a digital world. 

My HR stayed in the red, but my tension cooled down to the point where I could return rationally to my original thought, which was that my bizarre readings were almost certainly the effect of it being 22 degrees. What was it David Byrne said? “This is why first impressions are often correct.” 

Anyway, I went back to the same boring spot for the same boring run a few days later. Only this time, the weather had warmed up significantly, so I figured to get a more accurate read. Stepping into the sunshine, I immediately felt lighter, less anxious. As I was getting started, a woman called out by way of greeting, “Isn’t it wonderful to be outside and alive at this very moment?” 

Why yes, it certainly was. Once again, my HR seemed out of whack with my effort, but the difference wasn’t nearly as pronounced. I kept my pace slooooow and made the best of it. 

I have a theory that I expend more energy consciously trying to run slow than I do simply running by feel, so after a few miles I opened up a bit to see what would happen. As I eased into an 8:30 pace at maybe a 60-65 percent effort, my HR slowed down dramatically to where it was about 113 beats per minute. Eureka! 

The more I thought about it, though, the less sense it made. I was expending more effort at the 8:30 pace, so what was happening here? I looked at the numbers on my watch and the post-run charts on Strava (more on that below), but couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it. So. Much. Data. 

That’s the danger of doing stuff like this without a guide. Avery reassured me later that everything was fine. Did I have coffee before my run? (I did.) Maybe it was windy (it was). Or maybe it was just the way my body naturally warms up (definitely plausible). 

The important thing, he reminded me, was that my average HR for the second run was 137, which was right in line with what he wanted me to do. Then Avery said something very important. “Don't analyze your HR. It will drive you nuts. That’s my job.” 

I think that’s good advice. 

I’m on Strava. Please don’t look for me.

As part of our training program, I finally broke down and signed up for Strava. I’m keeping all my stuff protected so that it’s only between myself and Avery for the time being. I’ll let you guys know if I decide to put it out there publicly, but I’m not going to accept any follow requests right now. 

No hard feelings. Love you all, but I need some time to get comfortable with the application. The privacy aspect, or lack thereof, is the principal reason I didn’t sign up for it until now. 

On first glance, I can see why Strava is A) addicting and B) super-useful. The analytics that came with my Coros watch are interesting, if not super robust. Strava’s displays are more detailed, and I’ll say it again: useful. I still don’t really know what the numbers mean, but I can see where having all this information can be valuable if you take the time to truly understand what it’s telling you. 

As I wrote way back in December, I have a complicated relationship with running tech. I like having the numbers, but I try not to get lost in them. With that in mind, I’m intentionally trying to stay clear of several Strava rabbit holes. Namely, the community/competition aspect. 

I don’t particularly want to know what other people are doing on my runs because I don’t want to be influenced by their accomplishments. And I don’t want my own times to interfere with the progress I’m trying to make organically. I don’t need any virtual medals or trophies, and I definitely don’t need any more notifications. I’m good on all that. 

So, Strava. I’m keeping you at bay, but with an open mind. It’s not the application, after all. It’s the way you use it, or allow it to use you. 

To Birk or not to Birk.

This may come as a surprise, but I, a veteran of a half-dozen Grateful Dead shows and known associate of several people who could legitimately claim to have been, “On Tour” during the early 90s, have never owned a pair of Birkenstocks. That’s not to say I don’t let my freak flag fly, but there was something about Birks that always seemed a bit too, how do I say it, earthy, for my taste.  

My perception started to change after my wife, one of the least crunchy people I know, bought a new pair last summer. They looked good, and she raved about the comfort. It’s to her credit that she doesn’t associate Birks with patchouli or incense, so when she suggested I might find a pair useful as a post-run alternative to plastic sliders, I began giving it serious consideration. 

I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve never quite found the right post-run footwear. I’ve tried Oofos -- too squishy -- and Sanuks -- too formless. My default apres-run shoes are a pair of beat-up Keenes bought on our honeymoon in Hawaii, and those unforgiving sliders. 

So, I’m thinking about trying a pair of Birks. If they’re good enough to carry Bobby Weir gracefully through middle age, they should be good enough for me. Before I take the plunge, I’ll open the floor to suggestions: Any good post-run shoes, slippers, or sandals that you swear by?    

An anniversary I’d rather forget, thanks. 

This week marked the one-year anniversary of when the world shut down. Everyone has their own date. Ours was March 11 when my son’s school closed and my wife cleared out her office. We’ve been home together ever since. I don’t want to dwell too much on any of this because it’s incredibly depressing, and I’ve already said what I wanted to say about how the pandemic affected my running. 

Rather, I’d like to share a photo I took about a week earlier. It was the first warmish day of almost-spring, a bright and sunny morning filled with optimism and possibility. Yes, the news was concerning. We have friends in Italy and I was worried about them. At that point, however, COVID was still an abstract problem in a world with dozens of other pressing issues even as it was becoming more real. 

Whatever happens is going to happen. Sit with impermanence, as they say in meditation. Let it wash over you. 

In keeping with that spirit, I didn’t have a plan for this run. I was just happy to be outside and free of the trappings of winter gear. I felt so good, I decided to run some hills. The adrenaline was pumping and the endocannabinoids were flowing in a glorious symphony. That’s when I took this photo.

Over the last year, I’ve made time to look at this photo whenever I feel overwhelmed or anxious as a reminder of what it means  -- meant? -- to be truly happy. I don’t want to forget that stressless feeling of open-ended possibility, that intoxicating mixture of radiant joy and wonder. That’s where I choose to focus my attention at the moment. 

Have a great weekend, everybody. As always, feel free to share tales from your own running journeys in the comments or in response to this newsletter. I love to hear how you’re all doing.