The Kilometer Brain and Other Parts

I got my kilometer brain and just in time. After years of measuring distance in miles, I have finally honed my kilometer thinking to the point where I don’t have to do mind numbing conversions to figure out my running pace. It took nearly two years, and going on five marathons/ultra marathons, and frankly, I never thought I would get it. Ask me the temperature outside in Celsius, and I can’t even hazard a guess. How many grams of flour I just put in a vegan chocolate cake? I would have to get a pencil and paper. But I can now speak kilometers.
I started trying to train my brain and my feet to think in kilometers about a year ago. I asked my neighbor to use her car to measure a half mile, kilometer and mile on the main road near our house. Thus, the second taxi stand, the bushy tree and the Media Institute of South Africa sign have become staple landmarks of my interval training. The first time I attempted to do kilometer repeats I couldn’t begin to guess what time I should aim for. To solve this conundrum, I asked myself, “How many meters is a kilometer?”

I know, I know. Even someone without the kilometer brain, someone with any brain at all, should be able to name the number with the automaticity of stating one’s age. And, failing that, the slightest reflection on etymology would have revealed the answer. But my brain, if we’re going to be generous, was just too mile-y. So here’s what I did instead. (Bear in mind I was running at the time.)

A 5k race = 5,000 meters. (Yes, that should have tipped me off)
5K=3.1 miles
Therefore, 3.1 miles = 5,000 meters
5,000/3 = a little more than 1600 meters

Duh! 1600 meters is one mile! I knew that! And 800 meters is a half a mile! So somewhere between there is one kilometer.

I fiddled around with some more calculations I can’t recall and concluded, “One kilometer is about 1,000 meters.”

It wasn’t until several hours later that the light bulb went on.

At least my arithmetic isn’t too bad.

So while there is really no excuse for not knowing (or figuring out really quickly) that a kilometer is a thousand meters, I’ll give some anyway.

Like I said, in the US, we race in miles. Sure we have 5k and 10k races, but anyone who runs them knows that the former is 3.1 miles and the latter is 6.2. Furthermore, we measure our running routes in miles, do grueling workouts of mile repeats, and during the races, our mile splits are clocked. A standard high school cross country race is 5k. So the coaches gather at the mile markers and shout out the times for your first, second and third miles, rather than the times for your 1st-5th kilometers. (At three miles, you’re not finished. You’ve got a sprint to the chute). If someone ever yelled to me somewhere on the third mile of the course, “You’ve only got one kilometer to go!” it wouldn’t have made anymore sense than if he had yelled, “You’ve only got one mfjuketvu to go!” And, looking back, we did have an occasional 1,000 meter race during track season, but no one ever called it a kilometer.
So now that my kilometer brain is screwed on tight, I’m focusing southwards. That would be the busted knee, and the mid run chats it has to the opposite hip who creaks in reply. After three months of anti-inflammatory pills, anti-inflammatory gel, anti-inflammatory patches, R.I.C.E. with extra ice, icy hot for horses, bandaging, stretching, gym-ing, biking, limping, the occasional codeine stupor, glucosamine chondroitin and guttural screams of frustration, the rebellious IT band has quieted down it’s protests of ultra long distance running. For awhile it seemed to be riding the see saw with my right hip, vying for my attention with various tactics such as swelling, clicking, cracking, snapping and good old-fashioned pain. I had my last trip to the orthopedist last week. Possible cortisone shots were on the menu, but since the pain hasn’t been bad, for weeks, he ordered X-Rays instead.

If you have brittle bones or partake in risky hobbies, this next paragraph will not impress you. I have only ever had teeth X-rays and lung X-rays. Neither was particularly high tech (the latter-for TB tests- taking place only in Lesotho and similar locales) so I can’t really compare this X-ray experience with one of a similar kind. I can only describe it as awesome. First, I was told to stand on a platform, and shift at minute increments until the shot was perfect. Then the X-ray technician told me she would take the next one of me lying on the bed. I start to step off the platform and she says, “No! Don’t move!” The wall my back was against tilted 90 degrees until it became “the bed.” It scared the crap out of me, a sensation quickly overtaken by motion sickness, and then awe. Finally, I was given my X-rays to take home on CD! To enjoy from my laptop anytime I want to recall what my hip looked like in May of 2010!

Brain, check. Knee and IT Band, check. Hip, check. X-ray to prove it, hell yeah.

To Do List: 89 Kilometer Race. (This Sunday).