We would go running most evenings, through the rolling hills of the streets of Monrovia. John would hold back and run my pace with me, I would try running faster so that he wouldn't be bored. He'd often run ahead when we were out of the "bad" parts of town, ones that really weren't so bad.
Most times, my times would improve. Not always, but most times. One evening, having run harder than I had before, I asked in exasperation, "Does this ever get any easier?!?" John laughed, and said, "It doesn't."
"It doesn't get any easier, because you're always pushing yourself. Running slower becomes easier, but running hard never does."
I kept wondering if this running would become easier, as I ran from home to track practice, which was only 2.7 miles away, but I was trying to get there before Kris caught up to me. He let me start before he started running and Heather started rollerblading to the high school. I didn't run the whole way there, but had to stop at various lights, and walked for a few dozen yards after the light. I managed to make it to the school before Kris, but not before Heather, who passed me about a quarter mile from the school, but slowed to let me keep up.
I wondered the same thing as I ran the 3 sets of plyos Doyle planned, and the 3 200 yard sprints that weren't so sprint-like when I ran them. Does this ever get any easier? Does the cotton clear from my legs so that I can concentrate on ultimate instead of how tired I am?
Does it ever get any easier? Does life ever get any easier?
I'd have to say, if I'm pushing myself, no, it never will.
And that's okay.