Tomorrow Ain't As Bad As It Seems

"...the good old days weren't always good, and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems." -- Billy Joel, "Keeping The Faith" (1983)

So, I was running along the perimeter of the local airport with one of my athletes and my wife the other day (we passed my wife about five minutes earlier, but that's par for the course). As always, conversations of substance begin once runners get past that "oh, God, this kind of bites" feeling (usually during the first mile or so) and into the rhythm of the run.

The morning topic happened to touch upon age, aging, and most specifically, aging up into a new running age bracket. Deena, my "poster child" athlete of the moment, feels compelled to take her newly-found running strength and go "dominate the dojo." While she's not the best in her age bracket, she's become very good and will probably put a scare into the one or two gals who are better than she. Deena says she wants to see whether she can run better times at some 10K races she ran in the past, before she doesn't have the speed at her disposal. Of course, she feels concerned because she thinks she won't improve or maintain her fitness over the next couple of years.

Naturally, my job as her coach is to make sure she stays healthy in order to meet the big running milestones of her life, which right now means next year's Boston Marathon. I'm not used to thinking about training plans in time frames of longer than six months; most of my athletes to this point (in my experience as coach) haven't elaborated as specifically on their goal events as this recent crop.

Aging is an inevitable outcome. When you consider the thoroughly unsavory alternative to aging, it does seem fairly acceptable. Some people, like my wife, approach it with no small amount of grace and humor. Other persons, like me, vary in degrees of kicking and screaming, especially when we observe the ways (running the gamut from hair dye to needless surgical procedures) our fellow humans try to ignore or turn back the clock.

One of my dear friends, Ruben, has a high running pedigree; a contemporary of Frank Shorter, Jack Bacheler, Jeff Galloway, Benji Durden, Jerry Slaven, Barry Brown, et. al., during the glory days of the Florida Track Club three decades ago. Hang out with him after a road race, even when you've had a bad day, and there's no doubt you will feel much better about yourself, even before the first beer is drained. Ruben always has a kind word about every participant's performance, and seems to know exactly where the silver lining hides within the darkest of clouds. When a guy has genuinely endured what John L. Parker Jr. called "the trial of miles," raced at national championships and Olympic Trials, I guess everything else could be considered a bit of a letdown. If there's a man who has the right to play the self-pitying "I used to run this distance in..." card, it's Ruben. He's more likely to tell you a story about holding hands with a fellow runner because neither guy wanted to let the other lose. I used to think Coach Slaven was kidding when he would tell those tales after our morning runs. After meeting Ruben I knew they were all true.

Sometimes the hardest part of moving forward is knowing what to do with the past. Perhaps the best thing to do is the running equivalent of Baz Luhrman's advice in "Everybody's Free To Wear Sunscreen:" Keep your old love letters. Throw out your old bank statements.

It's the feelings, more than the numbers, that matter when it comes to running...especially as we become more seasoned.

Be. Here. Now.

"The message of rock n' roll? Be. Here. Now." - John Lennon (ca. 1973)

Word of warning, this might be a little too cosmic for the average runner. So, top off your coffee & take a couple of deep breaths before you read on.

Okay, I guess I can continue: So, I was running late, as usual, to work his morning. One of the last things I passed on the way out, after telling my wife & dog I loved them, was a little plastic & stone trophy. This little turkey with backward-turned baseball cap & tennis sneakers was the newest addition to what people employed by my (other) employer call an "I Love Me Wall." If you've run consistently enough for long enough you probably have your fair share of gadgets, ribbons, mugs, glasses & plaques. Some of the road race awards I've earned don't have as much meaning as others do; because of the story behind the race, one or two cheap fourth-place ribbons tacked up over the doorway mean more to me than one or two of my heaviest first masters' male plaques sitting on the corner shelf of my "man-cave".

This turkey is one of those emotionally-significant awards, & not just another tchotchke: It's an age group high point trophy from a masters' swim meet. I had the sneaking suspicion my chances of doing well in my age group were good when I looked at the heat sheets. However, you never can tell until the scores are tallied & the results are posted. Actually, my friend - who was the meet director - told me I was going to win my age group just before my second-to-last event for the day. Was I pleased? If you are as swim-challenged as I, you would say "absolutely!"

My friend Brett Hollowell can explain this same feeling. Eight years ago, almost to the day, we ran a 5,000-meter road race together at Great Lakes Naval Station, just north of Chicago. Several things made the experience memorable: First, it was Brett's first (or perhaps second) 5K road race. Second, it was bitterly cold & overcast. Sleet & snow were falling. These were probably perfect conditions for Waukegan, Illinois, but the temperature was definitely thirty degrees to the south of comfortable for two southern-US-based educators-turned-trainees. When the race was all said & done, I finished high in my age group. It turns out Brett won his age group, much to our mutual delight.

As we drove back to our quarters, Brett grabbed his cell phone to call Meredith, his wife. He started to tell her he won his age group, as he was the only participant his age. I immediately stopped him: "Dude, don't tell her - or anyone - how many people were in your age group. You only tell them you won."

I think it was Steve Jones who said something about the difference between winning a race & running a world record: "To win a race, you only have to beat everybody who shows up on the day. To run a world record, you have to beat everybody who's ever run the race." All too often we downplay our accomplishments as a pre-emptive first strike of humility so others won't make light in an effort to bring forth humiliation. Personally, I think adding asterisks to our own results is wrong-headed. It's as silly as looking at results the day after a race you decide not to run & to say, "heck, I would have finished ahead of...'

If you aren't "here," where ever "here" is at that "now" moment; if you decide to sit & let life pass you by, you don't have the right to complain (like the realtor doing an open house in an otherwise-empty subdivision last Saturday, who called the local constabulary). In the case of the realtor, nobody's coming to visit because everyone decided their "here" was not-here (including Survivor H3, who were two blocks away) now.

Find where your "here" is, no matter what it is, & "be" there. Now.

Humiliation as a Means of Teaching Humility?

Well, lately it's become painfully obvious to me people (Other than my family - thanks, Dad, for the compliments! I guess you've read enough stuff in the past seventy years to know what you're talking about...) do follow what I write here. So what if the blog is dull? Just because I write here doesn't mean I possess expertise or claim accomplishment at ANYTHING. (There are plenty of self-absorbed bloggers in this world who use their space as a cathartic. why should I be less worthy of that opportunity?) I have no corner on deep secret wisdom with regard to swimming (as my swim coach could tell you!), cycling, or running...it's my way of thinking about what a lot of smart(er) people have theorized, hypothesized, analyzed, pasteurized & cannibalized...trying to boil it down into a (hopefully) more entertaining format. If I could do it in as witty a manner as Chuck (Chuckie V.) Velyupek I might have a few more friends, or at least fewer detractors.
That having been said, it was interesting to read Shane Bacon's article in Yahoo Sports this morning:

"There are times to be competitive. Moments when all you want to do is humiliate your opponent as you defeat him. It's the nature of sports, and what our internal competition meters usually read. That, we all know, is how athletes feel most of the time. But, at times, and these are few and far between, we see acts that defy wins and losses. A moment when a girl is brought in on crutches to score a layup to break a record or someone being carried around the field after she twisted her ankle rounding the bases. Opponents coming together to transcend the game. That is what happened between two collegiate golfers, vying for a spot in the NAIA National Championship. A sophomore at the University of St. Francis had locked up a spot in nationals with his team, which won the Chicagoland Collegiate Athletic Conference Championship, but was in a playoff against an Olivet Nazarene golfer for individual honors. As championships go, both the winning team and winning individual are asked to move on to nationals, so if the St. Francis golfer won the playoff against the Olivet golfer, he'd be honoring both spots. What happened next is the type of stuff movies are made about. The St. Francis golfer stood over his tee shot on the first playoff hole, looked down the fairway and back at his ball, and hit it 40 yards right of the fairway, out of bounds by a mile. He made double bogey, the other golfer made par, and Olivet Nazarene had a man in nationals. What makes it so incredible?

The St. Francis golfer felt his opponent had earned a spot in the next round.

"We all know him very well, and he not only is a very good player, but a great person as well. He’s a senior and had never been to nationals. Somehow, it just wasn’t in my heart to try to knock him out. I think some people were surprised, but my team knew what I was doing and were supportive of me. I felt he deserved to go (to nationals) just as much as I did. It was one of those things where I couldn’t feel good taking something from him like this. My goal from the start was to get (to nationals) with my team. I had already done that."

Too many times we read about cheap shots or fights or cheaters, and it is stories like this that make it all seem petty. A golfer simply knew his place, was comfortable with where he was, and thought that a senior, playing in his final tournament as a collegiate golfer, had done enough to earn one more week with the game he loved. I'm not a big believer in karma, and I'm sure the story won't end the way it should, but if the St. Francis golfer somehow won nationals, it would make for a really nice screenplay. He did what most of us would never do, and although he is short a trophy in his case, he earned respect from anyone reading this story." One thing I will never be accused of is sugar-coating my own foibles. I lay out my mistakes & weakesses, my warts & battle scars, all to hopefully save some other well-intentioned runner or entry-level triathlete from falling down the same storm drains from which I continually extricate myself. I think some of the more critical followers of me & this blog fail to read (the same way we mindlessly sign the waiver on race entry forms...but that's another topic altogether...) the disclaimer I shamelessly adapted/borrowed from Canadian Olympic/ITU triathlete & two-time Olympic medalist Simon Whitfield:

Whatever is said here - as with any blog/"tweet"/mountain top announcement - is an opinion, a perspective, a rant, a cry for help; some innocent chest-thumping, painfully-inane humour, useless/useful banter and/or all of the above. Take all that is written within with the amount - grain, shake, shaker or entire box - of salt to make it palatable. Heck, you can even apply that to this disclaimer.
Even the title of this blog is a proviso: I've had many runners ask me questions about training specifics, injuries & events; the first words out of my mouth have always been, 'if I were your coach...' Some even follow & appreciate the advice; a few have even had some success (Ironman finishes & Boston qualifications)...every once in a blue moon I even receive a public thanks...which means a great deal to me.

What I write here is not the sum total of all my foibles, weaknesses & shortcomings. If I were to do that people would mistake me for a negative whiny-butt...& then nobody would ever read it, including my parents. So I really don't feel the need to be more humble, & those who consider it their mission in life to publicly humiliate me...save your efforts.

My friendly neighborhood swimming pool is humility-check enough.

The Older I Get, The Better I Was - OR - Never Kick A Man Unless He's Down

Some days, when everything seems to be going haywire, all you want is one voice of sanity in the babble. It doesn't sound like it's going to be today.

A local race promoter contacted me at the beginning of the year to ask about the exact location of some mile splits for a race, since the description I wrote on the technical map was a little confusing. I mentioned to him the concern from guys running at my pace - low-6:00/mile - about getting the location correct. I used the term "front pack" perhaps ten seconds too loosely to describe the group who asked me while we were on the course about the sign location. The discussion went from information-gathering to a you aren't all that statement.

The gentleman proceeded to pull up my local race results from previous years & compare them to the top-shelf local runners near my age-group. He also compared locals to out-of-towners. It wasn't anything I hadn't heard before about out-of-town competition. In fact, I have written on several occasions the (painfully obvious) fact with our performances, many locals wouldn't get a sniff of awards in some areas of the country.

While I was down, so to speak, he provided a diagnosis (his words describe an autopsy) why the training group here I coach isn't alive any longer. He used a comparison to some local female runners who have done well, calling them modest, humble & accomplished. I guess that means I'm not, to which he could be right. Of course, one of the female runners he mentioned, as well as a few age-group triathletes, have publicly complimented my advice & counsel. So maybe he's only part wrong.
There are very few good coaches out there who were accomplished athletes. There are even fewer accomplished athletes who have become great coaches. Good coaches have a talent for getting inside the head of the individual athlete, helping them believe the work they've done in the past prepared them for the performance/s of the present. But, there are very few citizen-athletes who want to do the work to be at the level of the top-shelfers this promoter is trying to draw in to local events, mostly because of the painfully-obvious fact most local citizen-athletes need to be able to eat & sleep indoors, pay utility bills & groceries, maintain marriages & families, etc.

It's like the NCAA commercial, nearly all (of us?) are (going) professional in something else. So, the odds are good most of us will someday (if we're not doing it now) look back at our former selves & wish we could do it again, either to do it better or simply to do it.

A Certain Cure For Wimpiness

All right. I made it to Friday, a day I decided (once I figured I had leave hours to burn before end of year) to take off. The original plan was to take next Friday, the day after Christmas...and the Friday after that, the day after New Years' Day...but since the Pres'dent graciously permitted us to have December 26th off...

I somehow managed to throw a big, honkin' monkey wrench into my holiday season training schedule (which at this time consists of maintaining a schedule!), catching a bug at work. It's not often you can tell the exact moment you catch that infection or cold...but I was sitting in a meeting with a bunch of other training personnel. I tend to gnaw on wooden toothpicks at meetings; it helps me to keep my mouth shut & provides me something with which to stimulate my gums...if not my mind...during the mindless moments. I suddenly felt this tickle, like that when you swallow something you probably shouldn't have. After that, it was all downhill.
By the time I got off work I was draining like a tap, sneezing & miserable. I had to go to the track for the workout, but there was no way I was going to be able to run. Ever have one of those days when you prayed for a massive torrential downpour? That's how I was feeling. I did not want my athletes to see me in the state of misery I was in. I gave them their workout, then drove back home to curl up on the couch with a bowl of soup & some drugs.
The next morning felt no better. In fact, I searched in vain to find the man who spent the entire night beating me with a rubber mallet. If not for the fact my time card had been processed I would have taken a sick day...because I don't have a dead day.
If not for the visit of a friend of mine, the unit chaplain, at 10 o'clock, I would have been miserable for the entire day. However, sometimes the proverb (a merry heart does good, like medicine) does have full effect. My agnosis was temporarily shelved by Ed's (self-described) ministry of presence. Thanks, Ed. You are a true mensch.
After that point in time, the recovery seems to have begun. I'm still a little wobbly on the pins; better today than yesterday...perhaps enough to do a very easy swim (think I'll work on my flip turns, since I found a good instructional clip on viddler.com).
I've added a link this morning to a video I found on viddler. I've seen it also on YouTube, but viddler has better picture quality, in my humble opinion. Once again, I'm not one to harbor a great deal of religious belief, having much to do with recovering from ten years in a fundamentalist (near-cult) church. But two things stand out in this video: The love of father to son, & the will of both father and son to succeed somehow. Ironman? Who Knew?
The video of Dick and Rick Hoyt is filed in my list of favorites & stands as a certain cure for my wimpiness. I'm almost together; give me one more day before you tell me to suck it up & drive on.
See you at the track, on the road, & in the pool. Oh, Happy Holidays.

Another Year on the Job

...okay, so there are worse jobs. Actually, I saw something posted on the work area of one of the training division's officers that made my job seem pretty good in comparison. While not one of those Discovery Channel, Mike Rowe Dirty Jobs, definitely food for thought: I guess every one of Johnson & Johnson's rectal thermometers are tested and inspected to determine they are of the highest quality. How would you like to be the person who works in rectal thermometer quality control? Oh, I heard this song and dance before...and so have many coaches. Didn't Jack Daniels call these kind of athletes coach frustrators? Actually, I'm blessed to have motivated athletes - most of them are exceeding my expectations, almost all of the rest are meeting them.

I think everyone has at least one or two athletes who prefer not to (or choose not to) tap into those deep wells of desire, and there's only so much a coach can do for them. With those athletes, it's maintenance of the fun factor that's most important. They don't really want leadership, just a lack of bother. Today marks my fourth anniversary as a married man, and the beginning of my third year as a coach. Yep, that means the warranties on both counts have expired and I can't be returned to the manufacturer for replacement.

Both have been learning experiences. Both have humbled me and shown me (regularly) the limits of my knowledge, my patience...and the worth of continuous improvement. So, thank you, Suzanne, for not deciding to trade me in on two twenty-something guys. Thank you, ECRT, for not (as a whole) resorting to on-line coaching. This always happens to me, especially on the weekend. After a while a guy can get a little cranky about any phone call. I had a couple of beer mile participants comment about my flat affect on the phone, to which I responded, 'well, if you had as many (stoopid) phone calls as I've had, you would have a flat affect, too.' I always thought (otherwise rational) adults were capable of reading instructions and following directions. I've learned otherwise in the past year. However, I keep holding out hope...maybe they will once I do. Gee, you think? Last month of training and racing for the locals before the weather gets too awful...and they go into the Florida version of hibernation: Tuesday night music on the beach, Thursday night music downtown, Saturday or Sunday out on the water in the boat (for those who have boats). Since most of my folks are training with an eye toward a couple of triathlons in May/June, we've decided to not field a team in the local major race here. I haven't heard much disappointment, either...some of the group will run with other teams (and have in the past), others will probably run independent (or not at all). As for me, I won't be around to see the action. I get to go to Cincinnati. Sometimes I think the national organization decides to switch between cool cities and not-so-cool cities (in my humble opinion) for their national convention. My first convention was in New Orleans - cool city. The first convention I was slated to go to as a rep...Houston - not-so-cool city. First convention as a rep, Chicago - cool city. I hope, sincerely, that Cincinnati is a better city than I suspect. Come on, I like gumbo...deep dish (Chicago-style!) pizza...but I can't seem to get my stomach to jones for Skyline Chili. Oh, next year is in San Francisco, a city I've only been to in utero. That's going to be an expensive endeavor, but well worth the visit. I've got some running friends there who are dying to get together.
I might even get the missus to take a week for that one.

Live To Fight Another Day

Up this morning to make my way to the swimming pool...the hammies were oinking, the quads were multiplying their pain response somewhere closer to octaves, and the calves were definitely mooing. The cacaphony of catastrophic proportions - muscle and joint pain at all-time highs - encouraged me to turn back to the (relative) warmth of my bed. Humor notwithstanding, both the missus and I were in a world of pain two days after our marathon experience. I felt guilty for not doing anything today, but if you follow the rule of thumb; no activity for the number of days equal to the number of hours you race, no hard training for the number of days equal of miles you race, well...I still owe myself a day...or two...
The marathon is a humbling experience. I've said this before. Fortunately, I still can smile about what happened on Sunday.
We had conditions on the warm and humid side; not good for marathoning, but nice for Florida in mid-December. My athletes and myself, not to mention 2,000 friends, blew off the line at a couple of minutes after seven to run the full and the half marathon.
I had both my heart rate monitor and my running watch to keep track of my mile splits and my effort. Well, I also wanted to keep track of Suzanne's performance (she had the goal of beating Katie Holmes' NYC marathon time of 5:30) for her own record-keeping. Ah, but enough about her. This is all about me.
The first half-marathon was good for the first eleven miles with splits of 7:30, 7:16, 7:14, 7:24, 7:06, 7:15, 7:12, 7:20, 7:24, 7:26, and 7:29. At that point, I hit a section of the course I had not seen and didn't take the time to look at on Google Earth; I'm usually anal about studying courses because I need to know exactly where I'm going and what to expect on the trip back. The splits went to 7:44 and 7:35.
I hit the half-marathon point with eight minutes to play with on the return trip. The calf cramps began at 14 and stayed to mile 20. I never had them bilaterally, but they would swap off; one would tighten up and cause me to walk for about 30 seconds, after which I could run for a couple of minutes...in time for the other calf to join in the fun. My splits went from 7:30-ish in the front 13 to 7:51, 8:41, 10:25, 9:23, 8:46, and 9:36. I then tried to adjust my stride to keep the calves from firing too much, and had taken in all of my fluid and gels to get glucose to the muscles. After a 12:25 mile at mile 20, I did the math and knew the eight minutes I had at 13.1 had been spent. My right achilles' tendon was swollen and sore from the change in stride mechanics.
At that point I had three choices:
1 - drop out of the race.
2 - push the pace and try to get back on the good side of 3:30.
3 - walk the last 6.2 miles.
None of the three are emotionally or psychologically satisfying, and one of them could have led to some serious long-term consequences. So, in order to pay respect to the course and the other participants who were slogging it out in various stages of ecstasy and pain, I decided to walk it in. I wasn't going to get my Boston qualifier, but it was still a nice day for a walk.
I did learn some lessons from the weekend:
Regardless of how well you think you have trained, 26.2 will beat you senseless if one little thing goes wrong. In my case, I was racing on borrowed training; a base shortened by six weeks because of a fractured humerus, a peak performance months too soon, and a few too many bad training days near the end. I toed the starting line gimpy and fragile, and paid the piper.
However, I was smart enough to quit trying to race when I felt the first danger signs. I'm hurting today, I got lit up by the marathon. I may not do another marathon, but I get to live to fight another day.
You be cocky and arrogant, even when you're getting beat. That's the secret. You gotta play this game with fear and arrogance. -- Crash Davis (Kevin Costner), in "Bull Durham" (1988)