For the past 74 days, I’ve been marathon training. The optimal way.

I asked for a Polar H10 heart rate chest strap for Christmas so I could monitor my heart rate and adjust my pace in real time to train more optimally. I stole the Polar A300 watch my girlfriend wasn’t using anymore to transmit my heart rate from the chest strap to the watch face. Then I used Polar’s web platform to create a custom-optimized training program to build up to the glorious 42.2 km marathon.

Four times a week at the cusp of mid-morning, I begrudgingly drain my last sip of coffee, close my computer, and pick up my phone—which would otherwise be stowed away—to see what the run of the day is. Sunday is reserved for long runs. Monday and Saturday are medium runs. Thursday is quite possibly the most optimal but certainly my most dreaded workout of the week: interval runs.

I sync the watch with my phone to load the run. I already checked the charge on the watch when I woke up. It died once mid-run. I had no idea what my heart rate was for the rest of the run—completely suboptimal—and was left with no record of the workout to analyze or share on Strava. The only thing that run optimized for was embarrassment.

With the watch synced, I strap on my camo-coloured heart rate chest strap. The black rubber electrode band sends shivers spiralling through my spine as it touches my torso for the first time. Electrodes work optimally when damp so I saunter to the kitchen sink, tuck the bottom of my shirt under my chin, and flip the electrode strap away from my skin with one hand while wetting the fingers of the other hand under the sink. After sliding my dripping fingers along the now optimally moistened strap, it’s finally time to run.

I step outside and walk to the end of the driveway, my head pointed down towards my left wrist as my right fingers caress watch buttons to queue up my run. Birds might be chirping and the sky might be blue but I have a run to optimize and there’s nothing optimal about enjoying what you’re doing.

I hit Start and ease into a jog.

Each part of the run is phased. Warm up, work, cool down. Each phase has a duration and a heart rate range, depending on the session intensity and targeted outcome. When I’m running too fast or too slow, and my heart rate is too high or too low, the watch beeps and buzzes until I’m back in the optimal zone.

Frustration seeps into my internal monologue as my surroundings blur into the background. On slow runs: How is my heart rate this f*king high? If I run any slower, I’ll be walking. On interval runs: How the f*k is my heart rate dropping as I’m running faster? If I keep this pace, I’ll be pouring out my guts by the second interval.

Eventually, after enough beeps and buzzes, the final series of accentuated 3-2-1 vibrations count down the end of my session. I hurry inside to sync my watch with my phone to see how I did. My post-run stretch, even though I enjoy it more sans smartphone, is distracted with post-run analysis.

I can’t not look at the run I just completed.

~~~

I’m tired of feeling like I need to optimize everything.

Unforgivingly rigid optimization sucks the joy from something that can be joyful. It adds stress and compresses the air out of my chest as I run like a lab rat responding to beeps and buzzes anticipating the cheese at the end of the maze—the stats to analyze, the recognition to receive on Strava, and the trap door feeling that this tracking somehow makes me a better athlete or will bestow more longevity benefits.

I have no evidence that all this optimization is making me a stronger runner than when I just run for the joy of it. For the fresh air and the sun and the trees. For the feeling of elevation, lightness, and clear-headedness. For the soul-searching and character-building.

I’m done sacrificing the joy of movement for hollow promises of optimization. 

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Thank you to Jeremy Scharf for your edits on the initial draft of this post.

Lots of love,

Jack

P.S. If you want to reach me directly, you can respond to this email or message me on Substack Chat.

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