No Talking, No Problems

For the last year or so, I have written a newsletter for the club. Often, it's a digest of crazy stuff that goes through my mind during a particular time of the year, or a response to something I've seen or heard in the previous month...tied in with a neat article I've read or have been forwarded, results from local races and a few hey, make certain you get involved with this kind of stuff. Sometimes it goes well, other times I know I've done little more than tick off the masses. Ah, I'm the coach. Sometimes things have to be said that don't sound very nice.

This month, I told the club secretary the responsibility for writing the newsletter would be his. I promised I'd have my moment at the front and do whatever else he asked, writing-wise. I'll toss him a few articles I find and point him towards some of the many sources I've enjoyed reading over the past three or four years.
He sent me an e-mail the other day, which sounds like some of those questions I know get asked out of my earshot. I used to ask them to my coach in the past, too. Usually, when I heard the answer I felt like saying, 'Coach, why don't you explain that to them?!' But, I guess it's kind of like one of those things fundamentalist pastors are taught: Don't Answer Questions Nobody Is Asking, Silly.
Following along on blind faith is not good. Following a training plan or a coaching philosophy on blind faith is not good, either. Asking questions is a good thing.

I think most knowledgeable coaches don't mind answering the respectfully-worded question. It's the ones that sound like challenges to authority that tend to tick them off. Of course, when the question is asked, the athlete better be prepared to hear the plain, unvarnished truth of the answer.

It's not that coaches don't want to tell the truth; they might have a hard time placing the truth in a format that won't emotionally thrash the athlete. Hippocrates of Cos was right: 'first, do no harm.' Like Coach Ethan Barron of Tufts University advised, '...athletes will always sense hypocrisy. If you don't truly believe what you are saying, then don't say it.'

So, if I'm not talking, it's not that I don't love you. It's that I'm trying to find the right way to say what needs to be said.

That having been said, I'm having so much fun at this moment, standing trackside. I hate not being able to train because of this injury, but I like being able to focus my attention on my athletes, almost 100 percent. Having two or three ability levels going at the same time, as well as the occasional straggler or outside conversation, makes it tough...but I think my wife would tell you I'm laughing and smiling a lot at the track as of late.

Laughing and smiling...no talking...no problems. Right?

End Of The Month Blues

'She keeps a toothbrush at my place; as if I have the extra space. She steals my clothes to wear to work; I know; her hairs are on my shirt...' - "City Love" (John Mayer)

I'm certain this scenario would happen around my house if we were a little farther north; there wouldn't be a flannel shirt available...of course, I couldn't wear a flannel shirt into this office, anyway. For my wife and I, it's more like borrowing my running clothes. Since she works out of a house converted into an office, a mere 200 meters around the corner from our own, she's in the catbird seat. She has no commute, the option of taking our big rude d-a-w-g (a retired racing greyhound) to keep her company (and scare the bejeezus out of door-to-door lunatics stoopid enough to stop by), and (should she decide), even better, the option of stepping out the door for a 30-minute run without offending anyone with her schvitz.

Sometimes, having that 7-to-3:30 in the cubicle farm is little more than a royal pain in the @$$. However, there are days when the 'other lives' I lead can be more painful. Approaching the end of the month can be that way, since I'm looking to (at least) one set of officer meeting minutes, one newsletter, and putting the first touches on the next month's article. Add on top of that the need/want/desire of some clubs to have me do things (many of which can be done well enough by them - which means reverting to teacher once again)...and the last few days of the month can be as hectic or depressing as a week of Mondays. Sometimes they sure feel like a week of Mondays, let me tell you.

Because I lead two lives, which take up 13-15 hours of my day - I know some of you who read this have no sympathy; that's all right, I wasn't asking for any - my finger on the pulse of the world occurs usually in one-hour chunks; listening to NPR on my way to and from work, reading the print media's offerings on-line, and lunch time with what I like to call the independent, semi-corporate media. Yes, I'm blissfully ignorant, but it's been that way for a good five years. And it probably won't change until I decide to move to a town where the most entertaining portion of the newspaper is not the daily letters and opinions section.

Since when did editors feel the irrational need to allow a once-weekly religious food fight to occur on their pages? If I were a potential advertiser I certainly would not spend my money to market there...unless I was selling alcohol, tobacco or firearms.

Okay, so each one of us has our vice. Mine is physical activity and recreational chemicals...but I repeat myself. I felt much like Bob this morning after my swim workout. Thank God for my wife; she made a pot of coffee this morning when she finally got out of bed to prepare for her work (usually after I've departed to swim/spin and work). Of course, today she had to suffer without her foo-foo, the flavored and mildly sweetened non-dairy creamer she purchases by the pint. I'm a straight, hot, strong black coffee kind of guy (tubinado sugar and skim milk is for the weekend); foo-foo is for road trips, especially if I've made the supreme mistake of buying coffee at Krispy Kreme (where it's burned and reconstituted, beyond the darkest roast Starbucks could imagine in their wildest dreams) or Krystal (where half the cup is filled with grounds, as I learned in New Orleans)...and I won't even mention Circle K.

Mickey D's puts the milk and sugar in for you. Of course, the rhetorical question, WHY!? Outside of the obvious fact they are cheap b@$t@rd$ and want to minimize waste I think it's so you don't know just how flippin' lame their coffee is in the first place. Sorry, I'll be like my German friends and suffer for another half hour on the Interstate until I can get to a Starbucks (or in the case of that particular road trip, Community Coffee in Slidell, LA).

We started getting in the longer road runs on Sunday, starting last week. One of my athletes planned to do 16 miles, and I probably would have joined her, save for the fact I actually felt good and didn't want to kill myself this early in the autumn. Fortunately, she was stoopid enough to think she could handle two hours of Tae-Bo and follow it with 5,000 meters of jogging. I see a new workout video; remember Buns of Steel, Abs of Steel and all those? A two-hour Tae-Bo workout, followed by 5,000 meters of jogging, will be titled Skulls of Steel. Sorry, Stacie. I love you, kid, but I had to give you just a little more grief. I'm your coach. That's my job.

At the three-mile mark on the course we usually run, there is a long downhill, followed by a long uphill, which usually whacks all of us squarely in the @$$ and reminds us we're all stoopid. At the bridge over the bayou in between these hills there was the highly-flattened carcass of an animal; I'm not certain what species, breed or size it was (it was a big truck, though), but it reminded me of two very important things:

1. Life is short. You're dead a long time.
2. Speedwork is underrated.

Today is my last day in this particular age group (well, USA Triathlon already moved me up, since they consider your age on December 31 to be your competition age). I'm not freaking out too much about aging; usually I have a lot of introspection during this month. I tend to think long and hard on things during September because of the High Holy Days, the change of seasons, the end of fiscal years, and strange stuff like that which is out of my control. This time, however, it's been more, 'time to get moving, Coach.' And so I think I will.

As the Maori say: Kia Kaha. Stand Strong.