In week one, I laced up for our first group training session. I could sense I wasn't the only person who was a little apprehensive as we milled around in front of the Nike offices. Blue informed us we'd be clocking a little under five miles that day, running to the Culver City Stairs and then making our way to the top of the hill by running along the snaky switchbacks that crisscross said stairs.
"Let's start with a warmup," Blue said cheerfully, which in his world apparently meant a brisk jog vs. a leisurely power walk. As we hit the trail, my friend and fellow editor Sara chatted with Blue at the head of the pack. I managed to keep up, staying just a few paces behind them for the run, but there was no way in hell I could have carried on a conversation.
Later that week, I did "Leg-Pocalypse Now" on my front patio. The workout was a glute-blasting torture session replete with jump squats, planks, and other assorted punishments. I prayed none of my neighbors could see my sweaty red face popping over my fence as I completed every burpee.
But I would confront my biggest fear over the weekend: the first 60-minute run of the training regimen. I wasn't sure I'd ever run for 60 minutes, except in that previous 10K, and I was dreading it. I set out on Saturday morning tired and mildly hungover. I'd had a jumbo-size tumbler of wine and a pile of nachos at the movies the night before — why I made this decision, I cannot tell you — and been woken up by my whining puppy at 4:00 a.m. I had no plan or route in mind, so I just started running around town. After 54 boring minutes, I was hot, hungry, and over it. My average pace had been 11'56" per mile. I was exhausted, but I also had a nagging sense I could do better.
