Wednesday night lights

Denise Hazlick Entertainment editor • Profile

We have the lights. That's always a good sign as I pull into the parking lot at Sammamish High School. I spend half my life stumbling around in the dark, but tonight at least, I will run under the lights — cue the theme to “Chariots of Fire” (I still can't believe that movie won Best Picture).

As a rule, I never know what to expect at the Wednesday night track workout (two weeks ago we did mile repeaters, last week it was a 3-mile time test). But not this week. Jeff, the leader of our pack and my personal trainer, opted to actually take a day off. No such luck for us. He left instructions. For tonight's torture, we get 8 x 800s. That's eight sets of 800 meters (800 meters is two laps). My goal time: 5 minutes per 800. That officially puts me in the slowpoke group of one. The gazelles (Chris and two of the three Brians) were shooting for 3:15. Ah, yeah. This is usually when “the voice” begins its multi-part chorus of “you are a fraud.” But tonight there is a different noise in my head, and it's got a beat.

Regardless of the goal time (because we are all winners on the track), it's a hard workout. The murmurs in the group reflect that.

“Can't we just do our warm-up mile and tell Jeff we did the workout?”

“It's feeling more like a 4 x 800 night.”

But inevitably, some goody-goody finally says: “OK, let's get this over with.”

Five, four, three, two, one ... go.

Jim Seida / MSNBC.com Sweet (or is it sweat) exhaustion. Despite the difficulty and occasional pain, the track workout is always worth it.

On the first lap, I try to find my rhythm and pace. I really want to make sure I hit a pace I can sustain for the entire workout. If you start too fast, you'll run out of juice for the later sets. Playing a little song in my head helps too, but nothing is coming to mind just yet. Usually, I start way too fast, but it's hard to tell until I reach the 200-meter mark. If I'm on pace, I should be at 1:15 at the 200 mark. Hmmm, more like 57 seconds. OK, OK, let's slow down. As I continue my canter, I start to count my cadence. One, two, three (exhale), one, two, three (exhale), one, two, three (exhale) ... suddenly, a song pops into my head.

“I met her on the strip ... one, two, three (exhale) ... it was another lost weekend ... one, two, three (exhale) ... ”

The Tubes? “Talk to You Later?” Where the hell did that one come from?

“She won't even miss me when she's gone ... one, two, three (exhale) ... That's OK with me I'll cry later on ... ” 400 meters. 2:02. Damn, still too fast.

“It's been six months ... one, two, three (exhale) ... she hasn't shut up once ... one, two, three (exhale) ... I've tried to explain ... one, two, three (exhale) ... she's driving me insane ...” And time.

4:40. Looks like we have to pick another song.

We walk a half lap in order to rest — and catch our breath — between sets. The gazelles are a full lap ahead of me, taking in fluids. The next group, the go-go gang (Laura, Catrena, Tom and Hao) are a half lap ahead, poised and ready to run their next set. The go-gos and the gazelles have each other to pace off. Lucky! Tonight, I just have myself, and my songs.

Lap two, and I try to slow it down. The count starts again (hmmm, that cadence seems a bit too familiar). “And I saddle up my horse ... one, two, three (exhale) ... and I ride into the city ... one, two, three (exhale) ... ”

I'll spare you the rest. Needless to say “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” didn't exactly slow me down either. 4:46.

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