Numb and Number.

Numbers are a runner’s well-known friends.

Pace, cadence, heart rate, hangtime, elevation gain, calories burnt, steps taken, sleep logged... tech today comes with a lot of fluff to help one feel good about oneself.

But there are only exactly two which are essential. Distance and time.

At the end of it all, when one descends into the purity of a race, the only two which really matter are these. And they should tell you everything that you need to know.

Right?

Wrong.

It has been said, by Greek guy named Heraclitus, no less (so it has to be astute!)

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.”

Things change incessantly, and keeping track of such changes in the past is a sort of crutch for those of us who seek something in the future. Numbers are the vehicle.

Two things strike me immediately when I compare my races in 2017 so far, with those last year. 

The numbers are off.

One- My marathon at Boston this year, on a much tougher course, resulted in nearly the same time (a little slower) as Dubai last year, in much worse conditions.

Two- My half marathon at Hyderabad this year, on exactly the same course, however, resulted in nearly the same time (a little faster) as last year, in much better conditions.

That’s mildly confusing in the same way that volcanic lava is mildly tepid.

The first result loosely indicates an enhanced level of running fitness, while the second indicates that I might be on my deathbed. If I want to do anything worth shit in the target half marathon of the year in Delhi on 20^th November, I must come down to Mother Earth.

Last weekend, for the fourth year running, I dumped my exquisite derriere into a large flying metal tube bound for the city of the Nizams. My intention being to cover the strangely mandated distance of  13 miles, 192 (and a half) yards on it’s roads, on foot, as fast as I could.

In accordance with established tradition, I trained very little for the race in earnest, getting volumes close to or below marathon training base at moderate to low intensities.

It’s Hyderabad in August. What do you expect? Doesn’t matter. Because what we got was exactly the opposite. Oh yes. Ask anyone. Hyderabad was uncannily divine this year. All overcast and drizzlebeset. Prompted me to reset my target time in the race from a 1:29ish to a 1:27ish (when weighed against last year’s 1:30:59) as I meditated upon it, the evening before. After all, going by Boston, I was waaaaay faster than last year.

Right?

Wrong again. Two for two.

Yes. I was faster, at 1:30:17. By 42 seconds. So my definition of ‘waaaaay’ was, well, waaaaay off. 

I remember the old days with fondness, when a single training cycle saw times over distances come down by minutes, even tens of minutes. Those days are gone.

From the numbers...Am I faster? Am I slower? Is immaterial. 

Am I happy? Am I disappointed? Dunno. It just is. I'm kind of numb. From the uncertainty.

Only two things are certain...

One- Nell remains elusive. I will throw myself into ADHM training and see if I can come closer this year to her half marathon time. I have reset my time plan to actually catch up with her. Realistically, It’s now probably going to happen in 2019.

Two- And this be a doozy. From now on, with the numbers approaching differential limits on my improvement curve, I’m at a place where every few seconds will have to be clawed and snatched and coaxed and seduced from the almighty clock.