Catching Fire

To ignite bliss on the run, you’ve got to keep the embers warm.

- Jonathan Beverly

IT ALWAYS comes as a surprise, the first time: on a winter afternoon, I’m running repeats of a one-kay trail segment that snakes over two hills alongside a field. As I approach the biggest hill, I prepare for the slog, expecting to wallow in the steep, sandy surface and to have to muscle my way over. Instead, my feet dance over the uneven terrain, my legs power up the slope with ease. I crest the hill and charge down the other side, my strides extending behind me, my hips channelling their force smoothly into forward motion. I feel light and balanced, a fine-tuned machine. I’m breathing hard and my heart pounds in my chest, but I’m in control. I fly over the ground, driving myself faster as I descend the hill and hit the final straight. I can sense tumblers falling into place, unlocking the ‘thing behind everything’ that makes all else seem second-rate, as John Updike described in Rabbit, Run. I’m riding the wave, hitting the sweet spot, in the zone, in flow. As I finish the workout, I feel invincible, fully alive, connected and powerful. The next day, the feeling is there again as I accelerate to a cruising rhythm on a 12-kay run. At this more relaxed pace, power plays second fiddle to a consciousness of deep strength, the ‘tireless state’ that legendary New Zealand coach Arthur Lydiard spoke about. It lures me to extend my run three extra kilometres, then four. I roll along, barely touching the ground, feeling like I could run over the horizon.