The Bright Morning Sky

The three months since my San Francisco Marathon have not been the best for my fitness. More calories are going in than are burning off. Maybe a lot more. The bed sheets seem to grip me more tightly as the morning temperatures begin their steady seasonal drop. My brain seems to find every easy excuse for not doing the day’s workout and my heart has gone along.

Instead of a steady diet of five runs per week, I’ve been reduced to 2-3. Seems like Monday kicks off just fine, but by Thursday I’m saying, “I’ll start again on Monday. Really. I will.”

So far this week I’ve actually done pretty well. Monday (slow 3 miles). Tuesday (start slow, go faster, 3 miles). Wednesday (3 miles on the track, every other lap hard). This is the beginning of a good pattern that will help me achieve my goals for 2012.

If I can just stick with it.

So when it came time to get up and run today my mind searched for an excuse. Ah, there it was. The weather guy said it was raining somewhere in the metro area, which meant that anyone trying to run three miles right then risked getting wet. “Don’t go outside this morning unless you’re planning to run less than three miles,” he forecasted, “Better to get in your car and go straight to work.”

Then the alarm went off and I actually turned the TV on…

So what makes me get up and run when it’s cold, dark, and lonely? Most of the time it’s a lofty goal in front of me or the quest to stay fit for life, but sometimes it’s more simple than that.

The first half of my favorite route is to the West and it stays dark throughout that fifteen minutes or so. But when I turn the midway corner everything changes.

Right then there is enough purple to orange light in the sky to help me see, yet the moon remains bright and the stars continue to shine. It’s peaceful and beautiful and serene. There aren’t many people seeing it that way so, just briefly, the world is simple and soft and mine to behold.

Makes me want to see it again. Tomorrow.

In the Game

At the beginning of August the roster was just the right size. 17

Since you play soccer with eleven at a time, the difference of six gave us a nice, comfortable substitution margin. And, since my team has rarely had many injuries to worry about, I was optimistic about a really good run ahead.

Right before the season started one player unexpectedly quit. 16

In a casual, non-contact, inconsequential, informal, fun, summertime pick-up game one went down with a season-ending knee injury. 15

In our very first match, our keeper was lost with a season-ending knee injury. 14

But, still, fourteen is an okay number, right? Barring any further injuries or illness…

I shouldn’t have said that.

Two nights before our Columbus Day tournament I got a text message from a parent of one of the fourteen that began, “just wanted to give you a heads up…” I’m not sure in what context something good is coming next, but as a coach trying to get a team ready to play against really tough competition that start is usually a bad sign.

It’s an asthma episode. 13

Oh, and one player had already been sick all week. 12

So, I found two “guest” players from a younger team. 14

We played our first game (of three) and hung in there just fine. 14

We lost another girl to a knee injury at the very end of our second game. 13

And one of our strongest players was limping on a bruised thigh at Saturday dinner, but I didn’t even think about it much because she always, always, always bounces back way more quickly than any. other. athlete. I. know.

She didn’t. 12.

And one of our guest players had a previous commitment so she had to go back home before the third match. 11.

At the start of the last match, the referee says to me, “Coach, when you want to substitute a player just make sure you bring her up to the center line.” I humorously replied, “I would love to do that. Do you have any available?”

He said, “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to rub it in.”

We lost all of our games last weekend. We didn’t score any goals and we gave up too many. We used two players extensively who had never played with us before. We played with keepers who had little experience, but sacrificed their preferred positions to do what their team needed. We had other injuries, and headaches, and exhaustion that I didn’t even mention here.

I searched in vain for ways to defend or attack better, but there simply were no options to choose from.

And if you feel sorry for me or for my team I want you to know that I will never forget those two days because we were in every game. We didn’t have the best skills and we were smallish compared to the other teams, but we were in every game. We were dominated for the most part, but we only lost by one, by two, and by one again. We were in every game. The girls never bickered or complained about their plight, they just fought through it. We were in every game.

Except for maintaining a positive attitude, my coaching didn’t have much to do with our outcome. No, the fact that each of those last eleven could walk away from the match with her head held high comes from only one place. It comes from the heart. And if you could measure heart the championship trophy would belong to the girls in light blue.

We will win again soon and the character the team built in this gritty, determined effort will sustain us through this challenging season. We have six matches left. Some are going to be really hard and some we might have a good chance to win. No matter what, though…

We will be in the game.

The Man in the Middle

Besides coaching soccer, I now referee a handful or two of youth games each season. My wife doesn't understand why, but I actually enjoy this aspect of the sport. Having played soccer all of my life--and having coached for much of my adult life--being in the center gives me a whole new perspective.

Even with the young ones, it's hard for me to keep up. My endurance is good, but I'm not very fast any more. Actually, even on my best days I never was very fast. Luckily, I can choose to call the small-side games instead of the ones on the full field most of the time. The three-referee system utilized for most games also minimizes the amount of running I have to do since I can rely on assistants to help call the sidelines and offsides.

This isn't actually me...

Today's game was played on a beautiful Bermuda grass field. Softer and flatter than any field I was ever lucky enough to enjoy as a player, the pace of the game was nearly perfect. It was a fairly high-level travel game so many of the players had gifts that I only dreamed of when I was young. I witnessed plays of remarkable dexterity: girls running off the ball with clear intent and their teammates finding them in stride; brilliant first touches; precise positioning; powerful and accurate shooting.

Early on, the ball went out of bounds last touched by the home team resulting in a throw-in for the visitors. A player--clearly not agreeing with my call--picked the ball up and whipped it off the field so it had to be chased down by a coach. Another time, I whistled a foul in front of the home team goal, and the same player loudly called out, "are you ever going to call anything against the other team?"

Both of these things happened in the first fifteen minutes of the match. The out of bounds call had virtually no bearing on the outcome and the foul was one of only two or three calls I had made in the whole game up to that point, so there wasn't much history to back up a claim that I was leaning one way or the other too precipitously.

Oh, and the player was a girl all of eleven years old.

There could be a lot of reasons why she behaved that way. She could just have been having an off day or wasn't feeling well. I don't know. What I worry about, though, is that a player so young has had examples set for her that suggest this is the way athletes and sports men and women act. If I had to bet, I'd say that was true. I wish it wasn't.

On the other hand--and lest you think that I'm just another person lamenting poor athletic behavior in youth sports--here's the really good news: in all of the games I've done this was one of a very few examples of anything less than grace and good behavior that I have witnessed. I believe that many people see outbursts like this one and categorically assume that it is the norm rather than the exception. My experience has repeatedly proven otherwise.

On this day, every other player I interacted with was having a blast, playing hard, testing the limits of the rules yet playing within them, and above all else competing as intensely as they could. They had the physical gifts and passion that make this such a beautiful game to play, to watch, to coach, and, yes, to referee. To be the man in the middle was an honor and a privilege, and I would do it tomorrow if I wasn't so tired...

We Did It, Coach

You can’t really say that this was a rivalry game because the teams had never met before. Between the two rosters are lots of connections from school, from recreational teams, and all stars, and tryouts. To finally meet on the field, though, they had to travel about ninety minutes away and get a lucky draw in a big tournament.

Our opponent was a well-known and respected one from just around the corner. Playing in more competitive leagues than we had for several seasons, their reputation was excellent and deserved. Ours was good, but not as good and certainly not as visible. We hadn’t yet proven we could play at the same level.

Even with the distinct advantage we had in goal, it would take everything the girls had to win this one. Our keeper has played with us for six seasons, and the other team had to use several willing, but less experienced players to fill that role. That could mean a really big opportunity for us.

But, momentum was clearly on the other side in the first half. Our opponent put lots of pressure on our goal while we sent very few tests their way. They controlled the game at midfield while we fought relatively unsuccessfully to push the ball into their end. Their skills and speed were simply better than ours. They scored, and we didn’t. 1-0, at halftime.

At the break I told the girls that they had proven only that they were not yet as good as the other team. That’s what everyone watching probably expected and thought. So no big deal, right?

Then I asked my team if they wanted to try to change that conclusion. I knew they were capable, but they had to believe it themselves and the only time to do that would be when they stepped back on the field.

For the next thirty minutes there was no quit. No won’t. No can’t. No try.

Only do.

And it was a thing of beauty. They won balls they had been losing. They increased pressure everywhere. They were just a half step faster than they were before halftime--which was still a half step slower than some of their speedier opponents. But it was enough, and gradually the tide turned.

Some might look at the final score, 3-1, and say that we won easily. Some might say that this win was not significant because the other team was at a disadvantage. Whatever anyone else wants to say is okay with me because I know something special happened. I know different.

At game end, when I walked on to the field to greet my tired, but satisfied team, I saw Steph’s face and Holly’s face and Anna’s face. The look on each was the same and, well, athletic and mature. No longer a child-like countenance, but a competitor’s stare. Too exhausted to smile, they looked me right in the eye as if to say, “we did it, Coach.” And then we slapped hands and bumped fists. No words exchanged.

That was the winning moment, They didn’t overly celebrate, but they were happy. They didn’t strut or show off, but they walked with confidence and poise. They went through the traditional post-game line and shook hands with each of the opposing players and coaches. “Good game,” they said. And they meant it. All the way around.

“We did it, Coach.” Sounds about right.

The Day the Earth Didn’t Stand Still

Among my bucket list items is this one: experience an earthquake. No kidding. Not one that does terrible damage or injures anyone, just one that makes me understand what it feels like for the ground to move under my feet.

I also want to know what I would do in such circumstances. I never really thought this would be me, but George Costanza—yelling “fire” and knocking people down so he could be the first one out of the building—crossed my mind.

[Full Disclosure: At William and Mary, legend had it that you could feel unexplained underground vibrations at the local cemetery if you were there at the right time of night. In the dark we went, and we waited, and we listened, and someone said they felt something, and we all ran away. I never really thought that story was true, nor did I get any sense that something ethereal was afoot, but I ran just like everyone else. Fast.]

As of two days ago, got earthquake. Been there. Done that. Check.

I live and work on the East Coast, not all all that far from Tuesday’s epicenter in Mineral, Virginia. Sure, I’ve heard locals say that they have felt an earthquake here before, but I don’t think I really believed them because I didn’t experience it myself.

But I felt this one. At first I thought that a truck hit the building. Four stories up, my office overlooks a loading dock. The dumpsters get banged around a lot when they are emptied, but this felt like a big truck banging a big dumpster against the side of the building for what seemed like a big minute. I quickly knew that if it was a truck it would have to be Optimus Prime.

And here is what I did. I went to find my wife. Yes, while the building shook around us all I could only think of one thing to do. I didn’t panic. I didn’t yell, “earthquake!” I didn’t run out of the building. I didn’t station myself in a doorway. I simply found a path to the only thing that matters.

Where was she? Well, the logical and smart side of our marriage wasn’t walking around like I was, but she didn’t appear to be in her office either. And when I called out to see if anyone knew where she was, a familiar voice replied, “I’m under here.” My tall, lanky better half was neatly curled up under her desk and there she stayed until the shuddering stopped. Had there been room for a less-lanky gentleman to join her that’s where I would have been. Instead, I stood in her doorway so I could see her, and waited, too.

I didn’t like the way it felt. If there is anything in the world that you can depend on it seems like the earth as a stable platform is a good candidate. You can count on it. Mostly.

Even after the shaking stopped my legs felt wobbly. Outside in the parking lot where everyone gathered the look of choice was disbelief, not fear. I must have looked that way, too. I would later learn that this earthquake was amazingly widespread. The earth’s plates on the West Coast are more fractured resulting in localized events of greater intensity. Ours was mild, but affected a huge swath of this part of the country. Amazing.

So, if you can’t count on the earth standing still what can you count on?

That’s easy. Look under the desk.

I Can Do Better

In my mind, crossing the finish line of a marathon can never be called a failure. To get to that point, there’s just too much energy and effort invested to say that it was wasted on not achieving a time goal.

Running several hundred miles in four months is no small feat, and as I’ve said before, that kind of dedication is in and of itself a huge accomplishment.

A few weeks hence, though, I’m convinced that I can do better than I did in the San Francisco Marathon. When I finished in under their six-hour time limit, it was with just ten minutes to spare. I hit an early wall at Mile 14, and a big one at Mile 21. Only switching to a run/walk plan for the last five miles enabled me to finish. Had I kept trying to run the whole way I think I would actually have been slower and may have missed the time limit.

As I start planning what to do next I am building a four-pronged plan of attack:

1. Run faster.
2. Run shorter.
3. Run lighter.
4. Run Stronger.

Although it’s true that as you age you inherently slow down—and I have significant experience to prove it—I don’t believe that I should be THIS slow already. I’m an older guy, but when the *much* older guy running next to me has completed over 100 marathons—and is running faster than me—well, there is clearly room for improvement.

Many years ago (about 1990) I ran the Cherry Blossom 10-Miler in 70 minutes, but I’m not going for that pace. I think that I can get to running a 5k or 10k at eight minutes per mile again. I’d be quite satisfied with that, and achieving that goal would give me confidence that I could run a marathon faster—if not quite that fast. I will run faster.

For at least the next 8 months I’m going to concentrate on shorter runs (5k, 10k, 10 miles) up to half marathon distance (13 miles). I jumped right into marathons in 2009 after not having run much for more than fifteen years. By building and solidifying my power and confidence at shorter distances I can achieve more athletically. I will run shorter.

In preparation for San Francisco I didn’t do a good enough job of managing my weight or overall nutrition. I feel into the trap of consuming lots of calories under the assumption that I was burning way more than I was eating. As a result, I will focus on overall fitness for the next fourteen months to see if I can stay strong for more of the marathon than just  the first fourteen miles, which is where I have consistently started to fade. I will run lighter.

My San Francisco plan called for strength training and cross training each of the eighteen weeks, but I largely ignored that after the first third of the program. In hindsight, that was a mistake and cost me dearly during the race. I had the power to climb all of the hills (the first 20 miles), but nothing left when they were done (the last six miles). I will run stronger.

So watch for my progress over the next year as I try to achieve:

1. 5k in 24:00.
2. 10k in 50:00.
3. 10 Miles in 1:30:00
4. Half Marathon in 2:00:00

After that, I’ll see you at the Chicago Marathon in October 2012.

I can do better. I know it.

Growing Up Fast

Last night I held a “speedwork” session for the soccer team I coach. This practice was not about kicking, shooting, passing or heading. Nope, this was about running. Fast.

Since it’s still vacation season I expected a small turnout, and that’s what I got. Just four girls plus one sister.

It was a beautiful, clear, relatively cool and humidity free, spectacular, late summer evening. Perfect for just about anything—including running on a track. The girls are headed into their U16 season in a new (to them), more competitive, league so fitness, speed, and agility are at an even higher premium.

I was able to find a wealth of drills that I could use to help improve speed with repetition. Some of the exercises were kind of goofy, and it wasn’t immediately obvious how they help. You sort of have to trust that they will.

After stretching, I sent the girls off on a few easy laps. This was the first time I could just watch them run. In fact, when I thought about it, I very rarely just get to watch them do anything. At practice and games, my mind is constantly adjusting, thinking, planning, strategizing, and wondering how to get all of the moving parts into a functional whole. Just watching, and enjoying, is one of the last things I get to do.

Their strides, seemingly effortless and free, were beautiful to behold. Not perfect, but pretty close. Okay, I’m biased by love and I sometimes (often) have a hard time seeing their flaws. But, still, they looked awfully good to me. I can remember when they were ten years old and they ran on short little legs that couldn’t get them very far very quickly. Where did these powerfully athletic young women come from?

Perhaps in comparison I was also thinking about my own heavy gait as opposed to their graceful movement. I don’t care. I could have just stopped then and there and called it a good night, but we had work to do.

In front of the setting sun they stayed focused and did every weird thing that I asked them to do. Hopping on one foot then two, marching with stiff legs, skipping low and high. Falling start. Seated start. Lying start. Almost everything as fast as they could. Few complaints. Plenty of smiles. Camaraderie. Too quickly, we were done.

They finished with three more easy laps. And I watched these beautiful, graceful athletes run again. Proud of them. Proud of their effort. Wishing that they wouldn’t grow up so fast.

Oh, wait, this is speedwork. I want them to grow up fast, but not quickly.