Recently I added some flat running on the treadmill to try to be a bit better at downhill running. Did 2 miles at 2.5%, 2 flat, 2 at 2.5% and 2 flat. While keeping HR below 170 I did 8 miles in 73:12. Which was a great run. Since then I've tried to do an 8 miler every other day and I've not done as well. Not sure why. Today did 4 miles flat in 35 minutes. HR crept just above 170 at end although it felt very easy. Not breathing hard, felt good. But then crash and burn on last 4 at 2.5% incline.
Sep 28 2011 I did 8 miles in 74:02 and while gasping for breath. That was intervals though. That's all I did then. 6 mile continous time was 50:30 at that time. Hugely different and not much different. Somewhere around in there I did 4 miles in 34:30 I recall. I can do that at least on a treadmill now without even breathing hard.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Danse Society had the "quintessential 80's feel" to me. At least that one album with Heaven is Waiting on it.
Three high schools each with 1000 people. Rivalries. And a huge place where they all went to dance and stuff and listen to cool 80's music.
He had only one arm and wanted to be a great basketball player. He would practice and practice. Train and train. In secret of course. Because it was ridiculous. And he knew it. But the dream made him happy. He would be a great shot blocker. Leaping drills. Dreams of flying.
To school in early morning mist. His still wet hair partially freezing. The old barn in the forest where they skateboarded. Spyhunter at the 7-11. The roiders.
In his basement he would hit the punching bag with his one arm. A quick lean to the left and hard roundhouses. The key though was to be able to punch in rapid succession with his one arm. Jab, roundhouse, overhand, uppercut. But they'd always know it was coming from the left. He wore a toboggan and added head butts. The dumbasses made fun of him. How he wanted to get one of them alone. Out late at night, walking along.
A bit less country, more people walking, thus more life.
He was dismissed by so many but he would show them. Somehow. He'd impress her. Somehow. He only had one arm but he was still a man. Gosh darnit.
----
Into the radiation zone, the dead zone, the only place he would have any chance of not getting caught. Unfortunately he'd surely die, or so they said.... There he ate something that made him very sick. Far below the surface he laid curled in a ball in agony. Wanting to throw up. But it wouldn't come. So this was his death. It couldn't be.
He lay there and became calm in the pitch black. Was he seeing something or was his mind playing tricks on him? Shapes that flittered to and fro. He tried to watch them closely. He tried to be still so as not to scare them away.
Day after day he crept up for food, explored a bit and then otherwise quietly watched them.
Three high schools each with 1000 people. Rivalries. And a huge place where they all went to dance and stuff and listen to cool 80's music.
He had only one arm and wanted to be a great basketball player. He would practice and practice. Train and train. In secret of course. Because it was ridiculous. And he knew it. But the dream made him happy. He would be a great shot blocker. Leaping drills. Dreams of flying.
To school in early morning mist. His still wet hair partially freezing. The old barn in the forest where they skateboarded. Spyhunter at the 7-11. The roiders.
In his basement he would hit the punching bag with his one arm. A quick lean to the left and hard roundhouses. The key though was to be able to punch in rapid succession with his one arm. Jab, roundhouse, overhand, uppercut. But they'd always know it was coming from the left. He wore a toboggan and added head butts. The dumbasses made fun of him. How he wanted to get one of them alone. Out late at night, walking along.
A bit less country, more people walking, thus more life.
He was dismissed by so many but he would show them. Somehow. He'd impress her. Somehow. He only had one arm but he was still a man. Gosh darnit.
----
Into the radiation zone, the dead zone, the only place he would have any chance of not getting caught. Unfortunately he'd surely die, or so they said.... There he ate something that made him very sick. Far below the surface he laid curled in a ball in agony. Wanting to throw up. But it wouldn't come. So this was his death. It couldn't be.
He lay there and became calm in the pitch black. Was he seeing something or was his mind playing tricks on him? Shapes that flittered to and fro. He tried to watch them closely. He tried to be still so as not to scare them away.
Day after day he crept up for food, explored a bit and then otherwise quietly watched them.
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