Training for Tomorrow

the quiet work behind every finish line

Increase VO2 Max

That’s what Strava declared my workout today would improve most. It was my first speed session in months (maybe years?) and after focusing on Zone 2 heart-rate training for a few weeks, it felt good to let loose and fly a little. I surprised myself with the pace I held over six 200m intervals. The physical and mental strain were real, but I finished exhilarated by the effort.

The exhilaration came after the effort, of course. During the hardest moments, my mind reached for escape, wandering ahead to the finish lines of the races I’ve planned for 2026. I craved future fitness, future community, future accomplishment. My brain wanted a future that doesn’t exist yet. The finish line is still far away, and my feet have to meet the pavement today, one stride at a time.

This craving to escape the present is normal. I really believe this. My mind is working on the images I recently planted there: I recently mapped out my 2026 race calendar. Community 5Ks, trail 10Ks, a few half marathons; each promising vistas, tech T-shirts, and shared moments of joy. And how I look forward to it!

But for now? I run alone. I’m in the quiet, unseen phase of preparation. And this is where the work truly lives—the small, repetitive, unglamorous moments no one witnesses but that build everything.

Progress is slow. Sometimes invisible. My body usually doesn’t show the yield of training for months. But it’s there—in connective tissue, in muscle tension, in metabolic pathways—growing quietly beneath the surface.

Faith is required. Tools help: heart rate monitors, GPS maps, pace measurements. They give evidence when doubt creeps in, reminding me not only of how far I have to go but of how far I’ve come. They anchor me to the present, to the effort itself, rather than letting my mind drift ahead to imagined finishes.

Today’s workout may have improved my VO2 max, and I’m happy that Strava points this out. But more importantly, it strengthened something deeper: the belief that I will continue to show up, that I will reach the starting line, that tomorrow, I will fly a little further. And in that quiet dedication, I find the work, the joy, and the promise of the finish line all at once.