I was thinking about runners this morning. The way they look. The way they move.
I don’t mean the champions of distance running. Despite the impossibility of their feats (26 miles at a 4:50 pace, 50 miles a day for 90 days, etc.), the competitors themselves srike me as very real, fundamentally human. Lank simians new-cast in nudity on the savannah, running a gazelle to exhaustion.
But then I think about one of these Olympic track stars. A guy like Usain Bolt. His whole life dedicated to the staggeringly impractical ability to run a mere hundred meters faster than any human being has ever crossed by foot that span.
I mean, have you ever really looked at this guy? He belongs in a DC Comic even more than a Greek pantheon. His last name is Bolt, for God’s sake! This is not the little ape on the prairie any more. This is a physique engendered not of hunting and travail and the fear of starvation, but of something more otherworldy: an emanation from the forge of human potentiality.
And I think of what it must mean to him, that race. Nine seconds, you know? Nine point six-nine seconds. His whole life, a growing crescendo to this one measure in which he will either be validated or he will fail. Nine seconds. It’s a mental burden, to be sure. But the pressure of the moment cannot possibly exceed the trials of the body thereto.
This latter I know – in some tentative way – because I have become something of an athlete myself, in no small part thanks to this book. By “athlete” I do not mean that I am particularly gifted, nor even particularly good, but that improving and competing in a particular sport has become a chief purpose in my life. There is work, and there is training. There is little else that matters.
What Joe Friel offers is the structure that makes this possible.
Because training at or near your peak physiological efficiency cannot be done haphazardly. It requires discipline, it requires obsession, and it requires a whole lot of time.
The more one learns about the theory of peak performance – the further, in other words, that one ventures into the mind of Joe Friel – the more aspects of previously quotidian existence which are subsumed into the training structure.
There is periodicity, to start with. What was once a random affair of going to the gym when you could cements its way into the calendar at preordained intervals. Then there is the principle that workouts should vary in duration and intensity (attributes themselves subject to a separate rubric of periodicity) in a certain specific way. This implies those same workouts must be planned far in advance, and carefully.
Then, of course, enters nutrition, and training suddenly becomes not just how one exercises but how one eats. Every meal is scripted by calorie and macronutrient, then micronutrient and glycemic index. Then come the laws of recovery, which govern sleep, posture, bathing, outside recreation. There are fast-twitch and slow-twitch fibers, regulation of glycogen stores, injury prevention, neurological training, sports psychology, cadence regulation, heart rate and power output monitoring; the list, presumably, is infinite.
Soon one’s entire day has pledged fealty to some distant and cruel master, from literally the first seconds that one struggles from slumber and must grab a watch to take a resting heart rate (a good predictor of adaptation to training stresses), to the final collapse into bed as sweet slumber overtakes an exhausted body once more. In between, you must do exactly what Joe Friel tells you.
In short, I cannot conscionably recommend this book to those with a penchant for obsessive compulsions and alpha-male extravagances, unless you are willing to give up your previous ideas of living.
For soon you’ll start looking at a guy like Usain Bolt – and you’ll be realizing that despite everything you do, nothing is enough. Every time you cut a workout 15 minutes short (to get to your desk on time), or run an interval with your heat pumping at one beat per minute too slow (because you got 11 minutes too little sleep the night before), you are falling short of what he is. You’ll realize that even with every free minute allotted to training, the gap between you and a guy like Bolt is far vaster than the gap between you and the average couch potato.
And you just go on struggling, and the starting gun is fired, and there goes Usain out the blocks like some sort of devil or madman, flailing and writhing and then nine seconds is gone. And the impossible is made real in that moment and from where you sit, all those thousands of hours behind those few seconds suddenly attain a significance so clear to you that you could weep. A clarity that is forever denied you, even as your fingers trace the soothing grid lines of your schedule, or Friel’s lactate threshold curves: their numerological tangibility belying the human torment which draws them.
And you just keep on, not daring to hope anymore for that clarity of significance. It doesn’t mean anything any more, nor will it. At some point it just turned into living. You do it because it’s what you do.