Eric Tian

When I tell people I like to run, I’ve noticed one concern seems to come up more than others. It goes something like this: “I could never run that long. I’d get bored too easily.”

Honestly, I kind of understand where this is coming from. Running can be incredibly mundane. If you’re running alone, you might run for well over an hour without much stimulation compared to a gym or the internet. Heck, sometimes the only things you’ll hear during a run are the sound of your heavy breathing and your feet smashing against pavement.

But looking back on my journals, I’ve noticed some of my strangest and most unexpected moments over the last few weeks have come from a run. Here are some notable memories from runs I’ve had during this time in quarantine (links to Strava added).

Running along Royal Park at sunset. The sky’s painted an extraordinary mixture of orange and pink and the temperature is perfect for a relaxed jog. It’s a busy evening, with various runners, walkers and people on bicycles passing by – some by themselves, some in pairs – and the sky provides a romantic filter to the scene. As I jog past a young pair holding hands, the boy looks up as if noticing the sky for the first time and says to the girl, “Oi, check out the sky! Isn’t it beautiful?” The girl gasps and says hurriedly, “Quick, take a photo of me here, the lighting’s good!”

Running along the Tan Track one evening. It’s dark, raining heavily and despite my raincoat, I’m shivering. My legs are numb and my glasses are completely soaked, meaning I can’t see more than 3 metres in front of me. As I wipe my glasses to clear the rain, I notice another runner approaching from the other direction. As we get closer, I see it’s an elderly lady wearing nothing but singlets and shorts, completely soaked. As we pass, she waves at me and through the rain, she yells, “Great weather, innit?!” I give a surprised laugh, shaking my head in disbelief at the sight.

Doing a workout along Princes Park one afternoon (3x [7’ tempo, 3’ float recovery]). During the second rep, I run past two kids on bikes and a man running behind them, presumably their father. As I run past, one of the kids with blonde hair and a green teenage mutant ninja turtles helmet looks up and yells, “Whoa dad! That Asian guy ran past us!” The other kid yells in response, “Let’s catch him!”, prompting me to run even faster.

Running around my neighbourhood one chilly evening. As I run past Uni, I notice a man and a woman wearing similar outfits standing on the path in front of me. Both have brown, curly hair and wear long, dark coats to match their slender bodies. The man is speaking to the woman, who has her hands in her pockets and is looking down, back hunched. Despite me crossing the street to dodge them (#socialdistancing), I’m still able to make out some words from the man to the woman. “Dad’s gone. Please let me help you…”

Moments like these have brought episodes of genuine laughter, tears and a soaring of emotion that is difficult to describe. And so, the short answer to the concern of boredom when running is simple: running isn’t boring. It takes a little bit of awareness, but if one looks around during a run and looks for something interesting, I’d suspect they’d find little bits of magic hiding around every corner.

Disclaimer: This is by no means a peer-reviewed, systematic review. This is simply an excerpt of the few hours of research I spent on PubMed looking up ideas that excite me as a recreational distance runner.

So recently, I’ve been procrastinating by watching some running YouTubers talk about their running experiences. And the more I watched, the more I realised how many fallacies about running I’ve subconsciously fallen prey to. Since then, I’ve spent a good amount of time in denial and looking up journal articles to either confirm or refute the ideas that I’d come across. One finding in particular surprised me, which has since completely changed my approach to distance running. Here it is:

Run slow to run fast

Ever since I can remember, my philosophy to becoming a faster runner was this: run as much as you can and as fast as you can, recover well, avoid injury, rinse and repeat. Voila! Over time, your body will get used to the physical stresses you’re putting on it, improving your VO2 max and aerobic threshold.

Turns out, it’s a lot more complicated than that. A key finding which rejected the run until you drop notion was a 2011 study by Karen Van Proeyen et al. which discussed the effects of training in a glycogen-depleted vs. glycogen-replenished state in 20 male cyclists [1]. What they found was that enzymes associated with fat metabolism increased significantly in the fasted group, allowing them to recruit fat as an energy source during a race, known to be a slow-burning but a more efficient source of energy (9 calories vs. 4 calories in a gram of fat vs. carbohydrate).

But how does this relate to running pace? Well, the key link is that the more time spent using fat as an energy source, the greater the levels of enzymes associated with fat metabolism, allowing one to metabolise fat more efficiently. That means if you spend more time running in a fasted state, you’ll become better at using fat as energy. And of course, if you run fast, you fatigue easier and run less, meaning you’re not training this ‘fat-metabolism system’ as much as you could.

This finding (as well as various others) has lead into what are now well-established training regimens such as the 80-20 rule, where 80% of one’s training should be slow and above the aerobic threshold, with the other 20% spent for faster workouts to keep the legs turning over. This maximises development in speed as well as aerobic capacity, while keeping one relatively injury-free.

For my own training, most of my runs now are well above my aerobic threshold with the exception of one or two workouts a week. I can say, I’m enjoying my runs more than ever by running slower – it’s nice to run without a sense of urgency but just getting out and enjoying some solitude with nature. Yet, the more cynical part of me says that despite the evidence, this method of training is pure garbage and entirely placebo. Who knows? We’ll just have to wait until the next race to see.

But this eye-opening discovery does make me wonder: what other narratives are there in my life which are actually complete fallacies? I was convinced for over 3 years that my approach to running was correct, and while I have gotten fitter over time, all the research seems to suggest my approach was not the most effective. Maybe even this new running approach could actually turn out to be garbage, which would be a little sad. Fear ushers me away from this road of examination which will inevitably lead to pain, but curiosity tells me to head down this road. Right now, curiosity seems to have the upper hand.

4 Months
Out (Mid-June)

12pm. I’m on my laptop at home, reading messages from my
running club’s group chat. Most of the messages are fairly standard:

“Who’s racing in cross country this weekend? Can I grab a lift?”
“Can someone tell coach I’m injured?”
“What’s the plan for our Sunday long run?”

Today however, one message stands out to me:

“MUAC team set up for Melbourne Mara”.

“Melbourne Mara” refers to the annual Melbourne Marathon in mid-October, covering a span of 42.2km throughout the city of Melbourne. It is usual for the Melbourne Uni team to send in a few runners for this event, though I’d never run one myself before.

“The marathon” I think to myself. “I’ve done a few half marathons already.. can a full marathon be that much harder?”

In an ideal world, I would remember that day the hip injury I’d acquired and that I’ve never run more than 25km in my life, and decide to try the marathon another time. But it turns out, today I’m sleep deprived and feeling particularly daring. A rash voice inside me gives clear instructions.

Do it.

And so I do. I go to sleep that night without a care in the
world, $160 less in the bank, not realising the recklessness of the decision
I’d just made.

3 weeks out (Late-September)

9am. I’m in the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from my eyes
while drinking a tall glass of water. It’s a Sunday, and I’m due for my longest
run in training for the Melbourne Marathon – the goal is to run for 3 hours and
10 minutes, which should equate to around 35km. I put on my shoes and hat and
run out the door. After a moment, I decide to go back in for some sunnies.

After I signed up a few months ago, it took a few days for me to realise what I’d actually done and quickly made a training plan. 2 workouts a week. Sunday long runs, steadily increasing in distance. Easy runs, strength training, mobility work and recovery every other day. Today, I’m running along the Capital City Trail; a long and scenic route that stretches along the Yarra River to the city. The trail is mostly dirt or concrete with looming trees and windy hills.

Along the route, I see a group of runners from the Melbourne Uni elite squad run past, also on their Sunday long run. I see my coach in the group, who yells “Marathon Man!” as we pass each other. I flush, trying to conceal my tiredness. I also see my friend Ahra along the way, on her own long run despite nursing a knee injury. We chat briefly, give each other encouragement, and go off on our separate routes.

After 25km, my legs begin to ache – they aren’t used to
running past 2 hours straight yet – but I hold my pace. I repeat my mantra to
myself during difficult moments like these:

Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional.

After some water at a nearby fountain, I manage to complete the 190-minute run, feeling quite tired towards the end. When I get back home, I stretch a bit, take a shower and proceed to nap for the next 3 hours. The hard aerobic work is done – the focus now is to maintain fitness and not get injured.

(This run can be found here).

Race Day
(Mid-October)

7:59am. One minute before the start of the Melbourne
Marathon. Ideally, I’d be ready and warmed up in my starting zone by this time,
but I’ve gotten lost finding the bag drop area and am now half running to the
start line. As I reach the flood of anxious runners, I hear the siren go off and
see the crowd steadily moving. I silently berate myself for taking so long to
get ready this morning, as my starting zone is now over 200m in front of me,
separated by a few hundred people.

A few weeks ago, I decided the goal was to run between 3hr
15 and 3hr 30 for my first marathon. The plan was to stick with the 3:20 pacer
for 30km, then try and take off at the end. As I see the 4:10 pacer in front of
me, I realise the plan has abysmally failed: I would now have to try and catch
the 3:20 pacer and hold on.

4km in

Flying. Having started so close to the back and desperate to catch up to the 3:20 pacers, I quickly find myself in a small pack of 4 who I’m guessing also came a little late, as we proceed to overtake hundreds of people. We pass the 4:10, 4:00 and the 3:50 pacers in quick succession. Along the way, I remember all the pasta, the gym sessions and the countless numbers of kilometres ran in preparation for this day. I wonder momentarily if it’s enough. The voice inside encouragingly whispers back.

It will be enough.

Nevertheless, I say a prayer for the next 3 hours or so,
knowing very well they may suck a lot.

10km in

The wall. The moment during a marathon when your body begins to shut down. It’s typically projected to start around the 36km mark and is characterised by immense pain, with collapsing and vomiting not uncommon symptoms. As I continue to run, I am dimly aware that I’m running closer to ‘the wall’ and wonder what it might feel like.

Along the way, I find my friend Chris, who I seem to always
bump into in half marathons. He’s a tall, Aussie bloke with long strides and a
tendency to make witty comments during races. We get along quite well. We chat
briefly when we see each other.

“How do you know when you’ve hit the wall?” I ask, knowing he has run marathons before.

“Oh mate, you’ll know. It’ll be one of the most painful experiences of your life.”

20km in

Moving steadily. We are running down St Kilda Road, a long
road that follows St Kilda Beach. It’s usually filled with cars on a sunny day
like this, but the roads are closed just for this event. Along this road, Chris
and I pass the 3:40 and 3:30 pacers. I make some quick calculations in my head
and work out if we maintain our current pace of 4:33/km, we can catch the 3hr
20 pacers. We begin to get in a rhythm and the kilometres fly by.

“How are you feeling?” Chris asks.
“Pretty good. You?”
“Me too.”
“Great.”

We say little for the next 10km, but continue to nudge each other on towards the finish line, feet pounding down together on the long, gravel road.

30km in

It came slowly, like a spider sneaking down from its long web.
But sure enough, the insidious soreness that comes from distance racing hits me
and Chris notices. He pulls out a packet of electrolyte lollies and hands them
to me.

“Want a chewy?”

I grab one and mutter a word of thanks.

“Keep going, man. You got this.”

I chew, wishing I could believe it. I was not expecting to
feel the soreness this early in the race, but it has happened, and now I must deal
with it.

Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional.

36km in

The cramps came in quick succession. One moment, I’m running
normally despite slightly heavier steps and breathing. The next moment, every
step has jolts of lightning firing up them and breathing seems like an enormous
task. I slow down significantly these kilometres, limited by the range of
motion of my stiff legs. Running up a hill near the Botanical gardens threatens
to end me, and I become acutely aware of the possibility of collapsing very soon.

Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional.

40km in

I’ve been reading a memoir recently called “Why Running Matters”.
In the opening chapter, the author says something I find remarkable:

 First you run for fitness. Next you run for speed. Then you run for meaning.

– Ian Mortimer, “Why Running Matters”

At this point in the marathon, my body screams one question
at me.

“Why are you doing this?”

My inner voice gives a simple answer.

For meaning.

It offers nothing more, no matter how much I question it.

I grit my teeth, pain firing through my legs in every step. The
lactic acid accumulation from the last 40km has caused a mind-numbing pain so
intense that I almost stop and collapse multiple times. Every time, the voice
returns for some emergency assistance.

Keep going. You are nearly there.

The
finish

The end of the Melbourne Marathon consists of a lap of the Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG) in front of a large crowd of spectators. Despite it not being more than 400m, the lap feels like an eternity. As I stumble to the end, I vaguely realise I must be the last runner for Melbourne Uni to finish. I nearly collapse at the finish line but am caught by a volunteer and helped further along. As I cross the line, I look up to see my friend Joanne standing in front of me, also volunteering for this event. She sees me, smiles, offers her congratulations and hands me a medal. It’s a nice distraction from the numbing pain that my body radiates. We chat briefly and she takes some photos of myself and Chris. I do my best to smile, acting as though I have energy to spare.

It takes a while for me to realise the race is over. My brain and body have been shocked so badly I suspect it’ll take a few days for me to register what’s just happened. Later that day, I find out my net time is 3:20:59, an average pace of 4:43/km – I never ended up catching the 3:20 pacer. As I begin stretching, I wonder if I’ll do another marathon in the future. The answer comes fast.

Yes.

But why? People tend to run away from painful experiences,
not towards them. And for painful experiences, this one tops the list by far.

Perhaps it’s for meaning.

(This run can be found here).

Recently (28th of July), I ran in the 2019 Run Melbourne Half Marathon. This was my sixth race over the half-marathon-and-beyond distance and I’d been anticipating it for a while. At the time, my half marathon PB was 1:29:40 from a race in March, and I was looking to break 1:25 at Run Melbourne. The following excerpt details some of the events and thoughts from the day. Details of this run on Strava can be found here.

—

I wake up in darkness to the sound of a familiar ringtone: my phone alarm. As I reach over to turn the alarm off, I note the time on my Garmin watch: 6am. One hour before Run Melbourne. After a few minutes, I get up, turn the lights on, make my bed and stare at the running gear laid out from the night before. In particular, I stare at my starting zone on the race bib pinned to my shirt: P. P for Priority. I find it a little unbelievable – I’ve never considered myself anywhere close to an ‘elite’ runner, but here I am about to start this race with over 5000 people at the very front. Starting with people that can probably run 15-minute 5ks or sub-3 hour marathons. I shake my head, drink some water, grab my bag, and head to the venue on my bike.

Riding down Swanston St at 6:30am on a Sunday is a pretty therapeutic experience. There are no cars, no trams, and all the traffic lights are green. As I ride, I think about my goals and plan for this race. I told myself a few months ago that I would try to go sub-1:25 in this race, which is about 4:02/km pace for 21.1km. I ran a 40:00.74 in a 10k race two weeks prior (4:00/km pace), so I know that I have it in me to hold this pace for a while – but whether I can hold this over 21.1km I am unsure about. I decide to plan and run this race how I’ve run my other HMs: take the first 10k a bit slower, then speed up in the second half. This means around 4:05/km for the first half, then 4:00/km for the second.

Getting to my “P” starting zone is a little intimidating. As I jog past the “B” and “A” zones, I try my best to avoid eye contact with runners from these zones. Thanks to my peripheral vision however, I am able to gather that there are a lot of fit and lean-looking people. I begin to question myself: am I really in a starting zone above these athletes? Imposter syndrome thoughts start creeping in. However, there’s no time to think – before I know it, I hear the countdown: “3! 2! 1! … Let’s go!” and I’m starting my Garmin watch with a swarm of other runners. Beep. It begins.

The first 5k of the race feel good. At 3km, I find my friend Chris from a previous HM and tag along with him. We run together for 2km, but I decide to let him go once I see my 5km split: 19:57, or a 3:59/km pace instead of my planned ~4:05/km pace. I immediately slow down and begin to worry that I’ve gone out too fast, mentally preparing to enter struggle town for the next hour or so.

At 6k, my worries manifest themselves with the insidious feeling of lactic acid slowly filling up my legs. Each leg swing feels a little heavier, and each breath feels like I’m taking in a little less oxygen. I decide to take a fast-acting glucose gel at 7km out of desperation to give me energy, but I can’t tell if it’s helping or not. Still, I march on – there is no going back.

The first major hill at 10k is a big yikes. Seeing it from a distance immediately warranted a small prayer of desperation to God to either make the hill smaller or give me super-quads to get through it. My pace slows right down to 5:00/km up the hill, but I manage to get up it without walking. Thank you God, and thank you Melbourne Uni Athletics Club for all those hill repeat sessions.

After the hill is a bit of a blur. A lot of runners pass me, and I see many random supporters holding various signs. One of the signs say, “Don’t stop! The zombies are still behind you!” and another, “21k = 21 beers at the finish!”. These don’t really help – I don’t particularly like beer, and at that point I probably would’ve let the zombies have me.

Gratitude is a powerful emotion. And sometimes, it comes at times when you least expect it. At 18k, my body is beginning to fail. My left hip begins to cramp, my right achilles begins flaring up and every footstrike hits the ground hard. People begin passing me every couple of meters, and I begin to feel sorry for myself. I start yelling at myself for not doing more hill repeats in training, for going out too fast and for not doing enough calf raises amongst other things. But then, a wave of peace floods me. I’m reminded of how blessed I am to be living in the city of Melbourne. To be part of such an amazing running club. To have friends and family to help me through difficult times and to celebrate good times. To even exist. A scripture passage hits me hard and clear: Matthew 11:28-30. It says:

²⁸ “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. ²⁹ Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. ³⁰ For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Matthew 11:28-30 (NIV)

I end up finishing the race in 1:28:11. While it was nowhere close to my intended 1:25 goal, I still managed a 89s PB. I’m a little disappointed after the race due to the lack of bananas at the recovery area, but soon forget about it as I begin chatting to familiar faces. One of my coaches ran 1:27 and another ran 1:19 – both huge PBs for both of them. Chris from earlier in the race went on to run 1:25, three minutes off his previous PB. I am so happy for all of them, and am excited to see the times they’ll achieve in the future. As I see other runners crossing the finish line, I can’t stop smiling – I wonder about each finisher’s own experiences from the race and whether they found it as challenging yet peaceful as I did. I check my Garmin for my recommended recovery time: 72 hours. I laugh, and hobble back to the bag drop area to begin my ride back home.

A few days ago (March 14^th), I raced in my first track event in quite a while: The Melbourne University Athletics Club 5k. I think the last time I raced on a track was in Year 10 for my high school where I ran in the 800m. I wasn’t even meant to run then – I was the reserve, and our fastest runner decided to get injured just before the race so I had to step in. I came either second last or third last. But anyway, that was a while ago and a lot has changed since then.

Over the last few months, I’ve been building up my running fairly consistently. Last year in 2018, I was averaging about 20k a week (~3 runs per week) but during January and February this year I was running about 30k a week (~5 runs per week) and now in March I’m running around 40k a week (~6 runs per week). It’s slowly becoming a part of my lifestyle. Just as I would eat, sleep or work, I run. But it’d been a while since I tested my fitness in an official race so when my coach brought up the MUAC 5k, which involves 12 and a half laps of UniMelb’s 400m track, I decided to go for it. The rest of this post details the night of the race and what went through my mind on this special night. The Strava details of my run can be found here.

—

I’m on my
kitchen floor with the foam roller under me. It’s about an hour before the MUAC
5k race starts and I’ve got the jitters. As I loosen up the fascia surrounding
my calves, I tell myself to calm down and mentally run through my plan for the
race. “Your goal is to break 19:30 – that’s a pace of 3:54 per kilometre. Don’t
be a fool and get too excited at the start, you will burn out. If you do a
kilometre split in under 3:50 you’re going too fast. But most importantly,
enjoy yourself.”

I run this plan over in my head a few more times before looking down at my watch: 6:20pm. My heat is scheduled to start at 7:10pm and check-in closes 30 minutes before the race so I decide to head off. I’ve been blessed to live fairly close to the MUAC track – only a 5 minute jog – so I’m not too worried about missing check-in.

As expected, check-in goes smoothly. I meet a guy from my heat who I followed on Strava a while ago (he out-sprinted me in a Parkrun) and have a chat with him about the race. We’ve been mutually encouraging each other on Strava for a few months now by liking each others’ runs and though it’s my first time talking to him in person, I feel like we get on quite well. I later find my training partner who’s also competing in the same heat and warm-up with him. I have no chance of beating either of these two tonight but it’s nice having friends in the competition.

When the
time to line up finally comes, I realise I haven’t put my bib number on my
shirt as the club ran out of pins and I completely forgot to get some from the
competitors in the previous heat. I begin to worry a bit since everyone else
but me and my training partner have their numbers on but am relieved as the
race coordinator decides to name us by blue and black – the colour of our
shirts. Before long, all the competitors in my heat are ready to go. As I wait
for the gun to go off, I smile and mentally prepare myself for 12 and a half
laps of pain.

The firing
of the gun is accompanied by 30 beeps of
Garmin watches starting simultaneously. The first two laps go fairly smoothly.
I feel comfortable and found myself in a pack of two other runners who I don’t
recognise. During these first two laps, I hear familiar voices shouting voices
of encouragement from my training partners and coach.  

As I
approach 2 and a half laps, or 1km, I hear the coordinator at the line reading
out the time: “3:48, 3:49.. 3:50.” I look down at the watch to confirm it and
sure enough, my 1km split reads 3:50. I think back to the plan I had before the
race and ponder whether to take the next two laps easy or just to go with the
pace. For fear of burning out, I decide to slow it down a little and let my
little group go ahead.

I wish I could give a more detailed recount for the rest of the race, but it all seems like a blur now. Over the last 2k or so, I get lapped by the fastest runners in my heat and lap a few runners myself. In the last two laps, I catch 4 runners ahead of me – including the two I was with at the start – and end up with an official time of 19:26. The ‘Runner’s Euphoria’ hits soon after and masks the pain of lactic acid build-up, replacing it with pure ecstasy.

I walk off the track and notice my surroundings. It’s a beautiful night with rosy-pink skies with small patches of white clouds. A cool breeze brushes against my face as I go and take a drink from a nearby water fountain. Talking with some of my teammates later reveal that one of them won the heat in an astonishing 17:17. As I clap him on the back and look around, I see runners from all walks of life around me. Running has this spectacular way of bringing people of all backgrounds together in this vibrant community. I wonder how long these people been training in preparation for this race and if they were as excited as I was a few hours ago. But I push these thoughts aside – no use wondering. All I can do now is enjoy the moment.

One of the
most common questions I get when I tell people I enjoy distance running is,
“Don’t you get bored? I mean like, what do you think about?”

The first time I was asked this I wasn’t sure how to respond. During my three years of running, I never once reflected on what my mind was doing during a run. What exactly do I think about when I’m running? I guess when I feel sluggish, I wonder why I’m sluggish and when it’s hot, I’ll say to myself, “Oh it’s hot. I’ll probably sweat a lot – I’d better remember to hydrate afterwards.” But these thoughts only arise at the start of my run, and when I get into the rhythm of things they soon disappear.

This might sound strange but when I’m running, most of the time I don’t really think about anything. In Haruki Murakami’s memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, Murakami describes a similar feeling. He says:

“…as I run, I don’t think of anything worth mentioning. I just run. I run in a void. Or maybe I should put it the other way: I run in order to acquire a void. But as you might expect, an occasional thought will slip into the void. People’s minds can’t be a complete blank. Human beings’ emotions are not strong or consistent enough to sustain a vacuum. What I mean is, the kinds of thoughts and ideas that invade my emotions as I run remain subordinate to that void. Lacking content, they are just random thoughts that gather around that central void.”

Haruki Murakami

It seems a
little odd – terrifying, even – to describe the mind as a void. Do we lose our sense of self and just become machines when we
run, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other until we stop? It
seems a bit unsettling.  

Obviously, this isn’t the case. Yet, the idea of a runner’s mind as a void is something that I adhere to, and is actually one of the main reasons why running plays such a large role in my life. I don’t think I would have continued running until now if it wasn’t for this ‘void of mindfulness’ that I can slip into. The feeling of being present in the moment – the ever-present breeze against my skin, the feeling of breath, the ‘pit-pat’ of my legs against the Earth – and taking a break from the barrage of thoughts present in everyday life, is so profound that as I run, I find most of my superficial worries disappearing, leaving behind a mind clear and focused. I imagine such similar states are achieved by musicians deeply engrossed in their practice, or sculptures pouring over a block of stone.

Of course, if there’s something I want to contemplate as I run, I will. It’s not like moving removes the ability to think – random thoughts do appear. But the act of naturally cleansing a cluttered mind and focusing on the present moment, listening to the polyrhythm of legs, arms and lungs… this is something that has helped me a lot in difficult times and is one of the main reasons why I continue to run.