March 12, 2015 20 Comments
A paen for a thousand little tabs
I wrote down my first ever training run on March 3, 2009. I had been running by then, but was committing the now unforgivable sin of not capturing every possible metric and incorporating it into an elephantine Excel spreadsheet. I had run a 5K and then an 8K successfully, but all the miles leading up to them were lost to memory. Back then running was new and primal – it simply meant putting on running shoes and wandering around the neighborhood or stomping on a treadmill at a brisk pace until I felt out of breath. The infamous pheidippides insectus had not yet bitten me, and I was not yet consumed by that perennial drive to run forever, a malady partially soothed by bibs, safety pins and paper cups.
That was six years ago. Since then, a lot has happened, and I won’t bore anyone with actual numbers. Those aren’t interesting. What fascinates me is far sillier.
I would guess that the vast majority of us, the diehard runners who also write about their experiences, must have a running log of sorts. We plan meticulously for races, train according to experience or with the advice of experts, and benchmark our own personal bests when looking ahead to the next challenge. I can imagine that it would be pretty difficult to do any of this without relying on historical data. Memory serves me well for many things, like my individual PRs, when I ran them and who was with me, but I can’t keep the minutiae of six years’ worth of training straight without forgetting algebra, the lyrics to “Semi-Charmed Life” or the box office grosses of every movie made in the 90s.
Yes, the running log is crucial. It is responsible for that frustrating, but regrettably true apothegm, Splits or it didn’t happen. I could be completely dressed and ready to go, but if my Garmin doesn’t turn on, then we’re starting in an hour. It’s also why I tend to stay away from fun runs. No chip time, no run time.
As paramount as my running log is, it is also constantly changing. My program from 2009 was blocky and lacked finesse, but it provided a suitable foundation. The following year, I prettied it up and added weather conditions to each run, along with limited split information. By 2011, it began to really take shape, with every single split added and a template for future weeks standardized. Future years saw minor improvements. I began tracking the mileage accrued on each pair of shoes, incorporated monthly goals, and began highlighting my hard efforts to make sure I wouldn’t overdo it.
Although it may sound like I’m shackled to it, bound by its prescribed runs, I still love it. Maybe it’s a kind of spreadsheet Stockholm syndrome, but I can’t help but love how it has changed over the years. It’s a veritable representation of my development as a runner. My successes, mistakes and adventurous forays into unknown territory are all documented, color-coded and sorted. I shudder to think at what I would do if I lost it – which is why I have it saved pretty much everywhere – because I hold it in the same regard as my personal journal or my trove of pictures from college.
All of this, of course, is absolutely ridiculous. Running is running, regardless of whether it’s inked anywhere. But for many of us, we have to admit, there’s something special about watching those numbers add up. And where those numbers go is different for each person.
I have the usual tabs that you would expect: this year’s training program; a list of all my races, past and future, sorted by distance; the same list but sorted by date; and a calendar with every race I might someday race, no matter how distant, expensive or backbreaking.
Then there are those that might sound useful, but not vital to carry out a successful training plan. These include a list of every half marathon I’ve ever run, broken down by each individual mile; a similar breakdown for the marathon but with 5k splits; monthly stats that include how many miles I ran on a treadmill; and a list of my PR progression across distances over the years.
I’m pretty sure your average running nerd will have several of the above tabs in their log, in some shape or fashion. But again, what really interest me are the silliest tabs. The ones that I look at and wonder, why would I ever need this? Why would anyone? And yet, I still keep and add to them because there’s no reason not to.
For example, I have a tab for the 10-day forecast for the 2011 Chicago Marathon, with the updated numbers as the date approached; a tab for the most popular races in the United States and how many people ran them between 2011 and 2013; one for just the Shamrock Shuffle, a race I’ve run seven times, and its five mile splits; a list of people and the races I’ve run with them (with Otter commanding an indomitable lead); and a matrix of unrealistically fast marathon times and their corresponding halves, based on a variable negative split.
Sure, they might serve incredibly specific purposes and have likely become obsolete, but these are the tabs that make my log mine. It’s already mind-blowing that for every runner there is a singularly unique log that he or she has lovingly tailored to meet their own demands. But each one of those probably has a similar set of needless tabs that separates it from everyone else and therein lies the true personality of each runner.
It might be a bit harsh to say that the oddities are what truly make us stand out. There are so many other qualities worth admiring or at least observing – tenacity, discipline and resilience come to mind. But as people, we’re drawn to the odd, the uncanny, the strange and ridiculous, for better or worse. The runner in a Darth Vader costume will raise more eyebrows than those around him; the brave speedster who runs in a singlet in freezing temperatures will certainly earn many admirers; and the lunatic who runs hundreds of miles across a desert will draw our attention.
And so I will continue to jot down my times on the ol’ log, each effortless keystroke representing a mile run. As the miles become data, they will continue spreading to the numerous tabs that make up the perennial work-in-progress, telling a story as ridiculous as the sport they represent.
Do you have an absurd running log? Are you completely beholden to it or do you use it more as a guide? What is your “silliest” tab or the weirdest race metric that you track? Do you not have a log and rely completely on memory or feel? Are you a wizard?