We walked along the beautiful Portland waterfront this week. (Still tapering.) It's a great place for people-watching. It's also a good place to observe runners since the waterfront is one of their favorite haunts (mine included). It's easy to see why.
This time I was particularly tuned into their foot strikes (how the foot meets the pavement) as they cruised by. I'm always looking for a clue as to how others make it all look so easy. Heel first? Not good. Mid-foot? Good. Toe first? Also good. At the same time I studied their form, something of which I'm always mindful (and a bit envious), when watching others run. Most of them glided. The pavement seemed to rise up to meet them as they floated along. It's like poetry in shorts. Smooth, effortless, rhythmical. As opposed to this:
However, as you can see, I am a schlepper. In my head I feel trim, perky, and cute -- but on film, the truth comes out. My stride is better described as a ga-lumph. And who knows what kind of foot strike I have. But in spite of my inelegant form, my running history of almost three years is injury-free. So something's working. And I figure I best NOT try to mend what isn't broken.
So it's probably better for all, to just keep the camera pointed towards the poetic gliders and the pretty scenery, so that we schleppers can ga-lumph along in the shadows unnoticed. That way, at least my perky fantasies can remain intact.
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