Degrees

So this is going to be a short post. My final project in my Master’s program is due May 3, so I have to make sure it is perfect. My project is a lot about running, though, so you all will get a little treat to it…mainly because I had no idea what to write about this week, so I’m just going to cut and paste something in.

I wasn’t extremely pleased with my race at Stanford this week, but there was a lot to learn from it. Namely, that I need to be able to handle being tired and head into a race still with my head on straight. I am racing May 13th in Minneapolis for the USA Road Mile Championship and then May 22nd at Occidental College for a hopefully fast 1500… That’s all the updating for now. Enjoy the opening to my Capstone Project (thesis type project for journalism students at Gtown)…

Traveling Stoll Road in Bath, Michigan, the distance between Upton and Center Roads is one mile. Starting at Upton and going east to west, the first three hundred yards is flat before a steep hill leads to a mailbox marked 7804 that signals the first quarter mile. A field opens up to the south while tall pine and walnut trees hug the north side of the street as the dirt road flattens out for another two hundred meters. Long blades of crabgrass droop over the shoulder of the road as the fuzzy ends of the yellow foxtail weed find themselves caked in brown dust. A slight downhill begins as three ranch style houses appear behind the giant Oak Trees lining their front yards. Power lines carry long black ropes down the hill and continue onward towards Center. At the halfway point, one smaller electricity post stands alone, away from the larger ones lining the entire street. One measly, black cord extends from the post. It makes its way to another lonely pole, drooping in the middle to form a sad smile. Below the lowpoint of the smile is a creek that cuts under Stoll perpendicularly. Extending from Potter Lake to the southwest, largemouth bass sometimes follow the creek outward. A young fisherman sits atop the steel cylinder tunnel that runs below the road with his legs dangling back and forth above the clear water. If he hears anything other than the buzz of horseflies and gnats, it is the faint crunches of gravel. Quick, rhythmic steps tread over the dirt road and the crunch becomes more and more audible. The fisherman turns around to see a runner approaching him. A sun worn mop of frizzled, curly hair bounces on top of his head with each step. Sweat beads flow from his hairline down his hollow cheeks and fall from his chin down to his chest. Sweat soaked shorts swish with each step as droplets splatter in dark brown splotches on the road behind him.

“One fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine,” The voice inside my head counts off as I pass the electrical post to my right that marks a half-mile to go. “They’re on pace now, just over halfway there.”

I wave my arm at the fisherman and only slightly disrupt my running motion before switching my concentration to the approaching hill. Up I run past the farmland to my left. To my right is the Jerome’s, an old farmhouse with black shutters outlining each of the windows. Robson Road branches off to my right and I only have a quarter mile to go.

“Two fifty-eight, two fifty-nine,” The announcer in my head reads off. “400 to go and these guys are getting going now.”
I steady myself and pick up the pace, bouncing a little higher with each step as I arrive at the crest of the hill and begin a slight decline for the last 200-meters.

“Less than half a lap to go and Boylan-Pett looks like he’s going to get under!”

I hunker down and veer to the right side of the road, picking up the tempo even more. Down the last hundred I float, covering ground as smoothly as possible.

“Three fifty-seven, fifty eight, fifty nine…”

I pass the stop sign to my right and click my watch.

“He just did it ladies and gentlemen! Liam Boylan-Pett has broken four for the mile!...”

I snap out of the track world in my head and glance at my watch. No three on it. Not a five or a nine either. Forty-five minutes and six seconds, it shows.

The imagination of an aspiring high school miler lets you break four even on easy runs.