I have a confession to make: before I was injured, I was a huge Pace Prince. Pace Prince is a term I just made up, so don’t worry if you don’t follow. What I mean is, before I was injured, I was obsessed with running faster. I was so dedicated to the principal of getting my Personal Best on every run, that I didn’t enjoy it unless I did. I didn’t even count it unless I did. Pace Prince. Obsessed with going faster.
There’s nothing wrong with setting a time goal, that’s a great target and an excellent achievement. But when it becomes the only thing you care about, as it did for me, it robs you of the joy of movement and being in the moment with your body.
My Pace Prince mentality didn’t come from nowhere, since I’m a very competitive person, and I wanted to go faster to prove to others that I was fit enough to be running. If I could pass other people–thinner people–I could prove that I belonged on the trail, in those training shoes, at the race.
But this isn’t a story about going fast, it’s about how I learned to go slow.
I suffered a serious injury. I went from pushing myself to go faster to pushing myself to rest. Being still and slow was imperative to my recovery. I spent most of my time on the couch for the first month after my injury. Even though after about 4 weeks I could technically walk (more of a hobble), my doctor told me that I needed to rely solely on my crutches for at least 2 more weeks. The Pace Prince in me threw a tantrum. I was so slow on crutches! Going across the room took four times as long as if I just hopped or hobbled over (hopping also had more comedic value!). But I turned on all my restraint and stuck to the crutches. This rest was essential because it was part of what made the difference between needing and avoiding surgery. I stuck to slow and I didn’t need surgery.
I inched forward in recovery, getting back range of motion measured in single degrees. When I wanted to explode after doing that same set of simple physical therapy exercises for the hundredth time, I reminded myself that diligent progress was more important than speed and that healing can’t be hurried no matter how much I wished it could.
Three months passed and I could walk mostly normally again. I lagged behind my friends, but they learned to wait. I focused on the motion of walking, training myself to step symmetrically instead of quickly. I walked one block, then two, then a quarter mile, then a half mile. Slow, slow, slow, slow.
Six months after my injury, my physical therapist still insists that I do my exercises with control and rest at least one minute between sets. It takes a long time to complete the ten or so things I have to do, sometimes up to two hours, but I don’t mind anymore. The restraint feels powerful. I’m in tune with what every muscle is doing in way that I never was when I was only pushing for speed. A slow squat makes me appreciate the symphony my body creates as a complex and well-trained orchestra.
These days I’ve sped up to jogging. My inner Pace Prince is silent as I stay slow and low in my stride. I focus on maintaining my comfort, managing my pain, and appreciating the movement I’ve missed for so long.
The speed I have now was grown from the seeds of slowness. This ongoing process has taught me that taking time is valuable. That quality comes from focus and practice that can sometimes only be refined at a snail’s pace. That slowness can be the greatest success.