Two Runners Go Into A Pizza Joint...

...and were in one of those moods you get in after an entertaining week in the world which surrounds us. Yep, only more proof of the existentialist assertion we live in a world gone mad. So, right off the bat my (out-of-town runner) buddy & I are discussing health care, especially the lack of civility which crept into the debate, & definitely has shown in the aftermath of the bill passage. We're both pretty well aligned in the socioeconomic realm, in spite of our divergent belief structure (We've both taken the same side of a religious argument or two in the past couple of years, too - one of His Chosen People & one of His Red-Headed Stepchildren, tag-teaming...who knew?).

His solution to a contentious issue relating to womens' health was fairly entertaining; a variation of an old friend's recommendation for people who failed a basic civics examination (My friend was willing to limit to that and revocation of ones' right to participate in the electoral process. I would have added a mandatory two-year C-SPAN and PBS-only cable package in the mix, just to provide remediation somewhere.). Of course, the veterinary term (used in the comic above) was the term we both used as the solution...which when you're dehydrated, glycogen-depleted & fairly well stoopid after a mid-week run...sounded humorous to us & probably offensive as heck to the rest of the public immediately around.Ah, but what do they know? Most of 'em were busy on their cell phones, trying to find answers to trivia questions. And perhaps some day the name/s of some of the screaming pundits will be little more than the answer to a trivia question for my grandchildren.

So there's no real variation from settlement to settlement along the Gulf Coast, huh? I would have never thought Port Aransas looked anything like our barrier island. Of course, when I was in Texas I had no desire whatsoever to be near the beach or a large body of water. I was in the Air Force; if I wanted to be near lots of water I would have joined the Navy, right? The irony is that now I've been with the Navy longer than I was with the Air Force...thanks for the reminder, amigo. But he's been working with the Air Force for the past two or three years...high time for him to get back on something big and gray and... And then, there was that thing on ESPN last night...saw it briefly...and I have to agree with the cartoon below.

Your Potential - Bring It!

A frustrating day yesterday - no run in the afternoon and a few less yards in the morning swim workout than I would have liked. I started to whine to myself the old 'I s*ck and it's hot and I'll never get back into the shape I was before I broke my arm a year ago and my achilles hurts and so on and so on and on and on...' mantra. Yeah, the kind of stuff I usually hate to hear from the folks I train. I hate it even more when I'm the one doing the whining, because it's more difficult to place a silver lining on your own dark cloud.

However, since the achilles was sore, it was probably a good thing I took the afternoon off. It wasn't like I did absolutely nothing but lay around and drink beer. I did wrestle with a boatload of pharmacy school notes, books, multimedia, entertainment center items, tables, washer/dryer, etc., belonging to Jason and Laura. It was hot. It took three hours to shove it all into a U-Haul. And it definitely s*cked to be Jason; the dude had to drive the stuff back to Tennessee in a day. I definitely felt for him much more than I did for me. I offered him the opportunity to shower and change into some dry clothes before he took off; I was completely soaked and miserable, so I knew he had to be close to that point. Days like yesterday are good every once in a while. It makes you think long and hard about the silliness of moving all your household belongings in the middle of summer. It reminded me just how good it is to have a couple of college degrees and some ostensibly-marketable skills. It reminded me how good it is to have a choice to work in a location where air conditioning works fifty percent of the time (the main office in Norfolk has worse a/c problems than we do). And it reminded me just how good it is to be able to do this as part of my (nearly) everyday routine. Chuckie "V" had this to say this morning:

I propose that if we were all born without worries of survival (financial and emotional stability and such) and all we had to do all day---indeed, wanted to do all day---was train, only then might we start to reach our athletic potential. Potential is impossible to measure, of course. When I lived at the Olympic Training Center, the physiologists tried to measure it through a nonstop series of tests: VO2 max, muscle biopsies, and the like. But yet we know that such tests don't really do the trick. No numbers can. Heart-rate monitors cannot measure heart. Power meters cannot measure will power. Potential is what you make of it. You're close when you believe you are.

Chuckie was inspired by something Kevin wrote, and in turn has inspired me. So I'm going to steal from Chuckie's blog today, in the hope of inspiring you. This isn't plagiarism, even though we shamelessly borrow from each other. It's research...or when you shamelessly borrow from multiple persons rather than just one. At least that's what they used to tell me in college. While we all rejoice and curse the same sun, Solomon reminds me - whether he wrote it or had someone do it for him; the demands of a hundred wives can take away what little time you might have to write profound thoughts - there is nothing new under the sun.

So no number, or means by which we people can measure things will provide the true measure of a person's greatness or of their potential. Maybe that's why all parents think their child will grow up to be president. There's more inside us than viscera, Vicodin, Valium...and in many cases Viagra...that makes us what we are.

See you at the track. Bring your potential with you.

Roles To Play

Honestly, the role of a coach is not to eat all of the doughnuts.

I started to slide into deep thought at the end of yesterday afternoon's long (ish) run; much of it caused by the amount of quiet around the house. Fortunately for me, the d-a-w-g has not learned human speech, nor has he developed his remote control operation skills. So, I'm still in charge while Suzanne is out.

If one ascribes to the belief - sport is religion - here are some parallels for running and multi-sport enthusiasts:

Sacraments - Races. As in most religions, there are sacraments performed on a more frequent basis (the local Rancid Possum 5K or Friendly Neighborhood Sprint Tri/Du)...others, are (ideally) once-per-lifetime experiences, your Boston Marathon or your Kona/Clearwater Ironman/70.3 World Championship. Preparing for the sacrament usually consists of a period of trial in order to prove ones' worth. Completion of the sacrament ensures membership into the select or chosen. Ask any Boston or Ironman finisher - some IM finishers will be easy to spot by their paraphernalia; the rest will have to be identified by their tattoos ("Dixie," I'm still jealous, brother...).

Prophets - Research physiologists, physicians and coaches; the ones who wrote the good books. In my humble opinion, there is a canon of literature every athlete should have at their disposal. Timothy Noakes' Lore of Running, anything written by Lydiard, research performed by David Costill, Jack Daniels' Running Formula are high on the list. Humble opinion - any text that has 100 pages of bibliography separate from the book (in re Noakes) is meat for the athlete.

Saints and Martyrs - The great athletes from years gone by, whose exploits become more great in light of being performed in low-tech circumstances; in Speedos, on non-aerodynamic bikes, in kangaroo leather spikes on cinder tracks, and most importantly...without benefit of altitude tents, Gatorade or (heaven forbid) performance-enhancing drugs. Most can be named with a single recognizable name - or diminutive version of it.

Dogma - refer to Prophets. For as many persons who wish to test the limits of their heart, there are as many paths (seemingly) up the mountain from non-athlete to athlete. Wasn't it Chairman Mao who said, 'let a hundred flowers bloom, let a hundred schools of thought contend?' At this point is where great schisms lie, especially in the world of running and runners. Triathletes, however, come from a history of being rebellious, self-coached, risk-taking loners and thus appear to the untrained eye to be less dogmatic. However, the sport has only existed for three decades; provided enough time it could happen there, too.

Preachers - Coaches. Some are willing to provide their credentials whether (or not) you decide to ask. Others feel a calling and take up the vocation in much the same manner as the local storefront preacher learns his trade; slogging away at his/her 8-to-5, Monday-through-Friday and standing trackside once the whistle blows. They try to be like (or better than) their master, despite suffering slings/arrows from those who would say 'isn't s/he the brother/sister of (blank), who we've seen running around here all this time?' The good ones rejoice when the individual athlete rejoices, and weeps when they weep. More often than not, they resist the same temptation as their athletes to find the easy, soft, graded, gentle downward-sloping path. Sometimes, though, it's hard to transmit the message that this stuff can be hard. If it was easy there would be more people out doing it.

So go do it. Prepare so you can show yourself worthy before the unwavering measures of time and distance.

(Someone needs to switch me to decaffeinated, methinks. And quickly.)