Songs of Experience

Today my athlete, Alex, is leaving to drive 13 hours north for the Canadian national track & field championships. I timed him on his final interval work-out last night … 5 X 200m with 200 jog done this way: 29, 29, 27, 24, 29 (steady, steady, fast, sprint, steady) … and I am reminded of Mihaly Igloi’s terminology. Igloi instructed his athletes to run “fresh” and “good” and “fast” rather than giving them times to hit. I could have told Alex I wanted two fresh, one good, one fast, and one fresh. I also use the horse term “breezing” for work-outs where I want as little effort as possible. In a true taper, all your mental and physical energy is being conserved – resting, storing, building – for the peak performance, so those last few work-outs should be effortless and easy. You almost feel like you are out of shape, it’s that easy. The hardest thing for a distance runner to master is peaking, because, IMHO, endurance athletes are addicted to fatigue. It took me years to accept that fresh feeling as a good thing, the best thing. I was fat with energy! So many distance runners think dead legs = dedication. Unfortunately, dead legs at the end of a season only equal deadication. Overtraining is stupid.

When Alex was describing his race plan for the trials, he said, “Even if my legs are dead I should be able to run 3:50 which will make the final …” “Whoa!” I interrupted, “There’s no way your legs will be dead. You’re going to feel perfect.” “Uh, okay …” Alex replied, warily.

I don’t know if he believes me, but he does trust me. There’s a big difference between belief and trust. He will know for sure around the 800m mark when he gets this irrepressible surge of energy – like a gift from God. It’s a mystical thing … power and joy and, yes, faith! … a perfect moment when your body, and mind, and soul all come together – kind of like it does for Jonathan Livingston Seagull – in the book I required Alex to read before this race. I have given Jonathan to only half a dozen or so athletes I’ve coached over the last 20 years. You have to be ready to receive its wisdom, you know?

“When you have come to the edge of all the light you have
And step into the darkness of the unknown
Believe that one of the two will happen to you
Either you’ll find something solid to stand on
Or you’ll be taught how to fly!”

. . . fresh, good, fast, sprint, fly, Alex, fly!

I plan to return to the idyllic world of shinny and the purity of sport, but let me pause to post an e-mail exchange I had with a fellow Pacer parent:

On Jul 27, 2006, at 12:37 PM, Jimmy Barbee wrote:

Hi Joan,

Hope things are going well for you guys this summer. We are heading out to the Midwest next week on our family vacation. I think that one of our stops will be the RCA dome in Indianapolis, headquarters for USA track and field. We are all getting excited about our trip. I wanted to write, just to commiserate with someone I guess. I’m sitting here at work, all depressed. I just read the news about Floyd Landis testing positive for abnormal testosterone/epiT. This just crushed me. Brad, Beth, and I became closet bike race fans a couple of years ago when we were at the beach during the Tour de France and watched Lance win #6. Every morning, we would watch bike racing instead of hitting the beach. We watched again last year for #7 and to top it off, my kids’ favorite singer, Sheryl Crow, was dating Lance at the time. This year, we would tape the morning coverage and watch after I got home from work. We began pulling for Floyd as he stayed close to the top and then died when he melted on the mountain that day. Then jubilation as he came back the very next day for an amazing victory!! This guy would be an incredible hero for my kids (and me) as Lance moves out of the competition spotlight, right! WRONG! I feel like throwing his sorry a$$ off a mountain about now. Growing up, I was a big Pete Rose fan. I am very sensitive to having your hero fall from grace. Maybe we’ll pick out some shrimpy guy or gal in some sport like curling to root for from now on. I guess I can hope that sample “B” turns out negative, but for now, let’s hope that I don’t find Floyd riding in front of me on the back roads of Hillsborough.

Jimmy

my reply:

Oh, Jimmy, I am sorry your rose-colored glasses were not only snatched from your face but smashed to smithereens on the ground in front of you. I feel so grateful to have been blissfully ignorant of drug abuse while I was competing; otherwise I would have quit the sport altogether before making the Olympics. It was rage-producing (like you describe above) when it was confirmed that Regina Jacobs and Mary Slaney were dirty their whole careers. I think Lance was probalby dirty the whole time – he was just too smart to get caught. Why else would he have frozen his sperm? It’s common knowledge that HGH and testosterone kills off sperm. I can assure you Landis IS playing on an even playing field. ALL the top athletes in the world use performance enhancing drugs. Those who don’t use in the track world are seen as lightweights or amateurs – not serious athletes. My guess is the cycling world was tired of the Americans getting away with it, so Landis was sacrificed. In the world of track & field the powers that be finally “let” Mary Slaney get caught at the end of her career – Regina too. Up until then, their star quality was too important for the sport so they turned a blind eye. Just like baseball did for years and years and football still does. I think maybe golf might be a clean sport, yes?

Sport today is all about money and fame; who gives a crap if doing drugs is illegal or immoral or unhealthy?! As long as you’re making money and getting endorsements, anything goes. I don’t even think death is a deterrent. Look at Flo Jo, dead – leaving a daughter with no mommy – but it didn’t stop most of the American sprinting women from shooting up with testosterone, HGH, EPO, insulin, and “The Clear.” Marion looks bigger than Justin Gatlin right now. And don’t get me started on all the dirty American distance runners. When we finally start catching up with the Africans it will be for one reason only – drugs.

It all makes me sick.

from Jimmy again:

It is an incredible shame. In a cruel bit of foreshadowing, I heard Bob Roll (former American cyclist, who raced clean his entire career and was average because of that fact probably) comment about mid-way during the Tour that he was disillusioned with sport today because he didn’t know when he was watching greatness. He was talking about all the cyclists exposed before the Tour and Barry Bonds in particular. I feel the exact same way. When I was a kid and “blissfully ignorant”, every great sports moment was just that, a great moment, never to be tarnished. My kids have to wait a few weeks to see if the test comes back clean to determine whether or not it was a great moment or just a cheater showing off. When you always have to wonder if that incredible performance that you just witnessed was clean or not, is it really worth putting the emotion into it?

***
Which one are you, George?

Shinny, definition
from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Shinny is an informal type of hockey, either on ice or as street hockey. There are no formal rules or specific positions, other than the goaltenders, and the goals themselves may be marked simply by found objects. Bodychecking and lifting or “roofing/reefing the puck” (shooting the puck so it rises above the ice) are often forbidden because the players are not wearing protective equipment. It is often called pick-up hockey.

Shinny was informal enough that the pucks and sticks were often makeshift. During the American Great Depression, for example, northern boys used tree branches or broomhandles as sticks, and a tin can as a puck. (After many games, the can would begin to resemble a metal ball.)

I had a thought this morning about why some people choose running for life. It’s as if all the orphans of the world gravitate toward the family of runners. I didn’t become a “serious” runner until high school and it is no coincidence that I had just transferred schools, had no friends, and was extremely rebellious (inwardly, that is; I still made straight A’s and kissed my parents good-night every night). I was on the prowl for a renegade group.

I was no innocent like Oliver and my high school coach was certainly no Fagin, but life on the East meck. Eagles high school cross-country team was eerily like that of the street urchins in Oliver Twist. We runners would do anything for our coach and “the team” was always together – staying late after practice, talking … stalling, becasue we didn’t want to leave “home.”

This orphan mentality continued on in college for me, made laughingly evident when a teammate commented on my mom and dad showing up for XC regionals my senior year, “I never thought of you as having parents.”

I hate to think of my own children disowning me thus. But it’s natural for everyone to seek out their own kind. My oldest girl is already showing her renegade colors – craving life after school with other theater rapscallions. When her drama teacher yells at them, “It’s a good thing, ” says Sarah Jane, “because it means she cares.” If only moms could receive such a dispensation!

I continue to seek out my orphan runner family. My trailheads brothers, my seejanerun sisters, my CC Pacers children … my internet cousins … all keep me coming home to running.

Eric asked me what I left on my brother’s machine, but I don’t have a photographic memory (is there a word for ear memory – autogenic? phonographic?). Anyway, I can’t say exactly what my definition was, but it went something like this:

“Existentialism is a philosophy that originated in France in the early 20th century, made popular by Sartre and Camus. It was much more than a philosophy of thought; it was a way of life. Existentialists believe that there is no God and no afterlife and that all we have is the here and now of our existence. It is up to every individual to make the most of that existence, even in the face of total extinction. Some see existentialists as nihilistic and depressing, but I see them as brave.” beeeeeep!

I never made it to the part about essentialism being the counterpoint. Some (myself among them) believe we human beings are more than mere flesh and blood existing in time and space; we are also spiritual beings with an essence that will live on after our corporeal death. Essence precedes existence.

Jung, for instance, is a philospher I would say is an essentialist (though I don’t know if he is classified as such). I had a perfect Jungian, synchronous moment right after I hung up the phone on my brother’s anwering machine. I was in the middle of watching The Waking Life (two thumbs up!) and the very next segment was on existentialism. No lie.

So, Eric, here is a definition for you straight from the essentialist cosmos:

Philosophy Professor: “The reason why I refuse to take existentialism as just another French fashion or historical curiosity is that I think it has something very important to offer us… I’m afraid we’re losing the real virtues of living life passionately in the sense of taking responsibility for who you are the ability to make something of yourself and feel good about life. Existentialism is often discussed as if it were a philosophy of despair, but I think the truth is just the opposite. Sartre, once interviewed, said he never felt one minute of despair in his life. One thing that comes out from reading these guys is not a sense of anguish about life so much as a real kind of exuberance, of feeling on top of it, its like your life is yours to create. I’ve read the post-modernists with some interest, even admiration, but when I read them I always have this awful nagging feeling that something absolutely essential is getting left out. The more you talk about a person as a social construction or as a confluence of forces or as being fragmented of marginalised, what you do is you open up a whole new world of excuses. And when Sartre talks about responsibilty, he’s not talking about something abstract. He’s not talking about the kind of self or souls that theologians would talk about. He’s talking about you and me talking, making descisions, doing things, and taking the consequences. It might be true that there are six billion people in this world, and counting, but nevertheless -what you do makes a difference. It makes a difference, first of all, in material terms, to other people, and it sets an example. In short, I think the message here is that we should never write ourselves off or see each other as a victim of various forces. It’s always our descision who we are.”

from,

My brother phoned yesterday to ask me the definition of “existentialism.” I wasn’t home, but his message said, “I need to know tonight, so if you call back and I’m not there, leave it on the machine.” Now, what kind of person finds needing to know the definition of existntialism an emergency?! My kind of person, that’s who.

He – and all of us Nesbits – are about one degree shy of certifiable (whose dictionary definition, I am tickled to discover, reads “fit to be declared insane”). I prefer the word “passionate” over crazy. We are not manic; we’re high energy. Not obsessive or complusive, but thorough. Yes, thorough, paying great attention to detail. Ha.

I once participated in an “elite distance runners” study down at Georgia Tech – along with a dozen other top female runners in the US. We were put through a barrage of tests like VO2 max. and body fat percentage and treadmill running to measure our foot plant (I mentioned this in my about me section of SoE). They also had us fill out an extensive psychological questionairre where the graph had me measuring “off the charts” (another delightful euphemism!) for VIM … as in vim and vigor. My red vim line had this huge spike that literally went off the chart.

So, of course, I left the definition on my brother’s machine. It beeeeeeeeped right before I got to the difference between existentialisman and essentialism. 30 seconds just isn’t enough time no matter how much VIM you have!

p.s. after searching for a link to the results of the study, I could only find the one they did with the elite distance men in the ’70’s – called Once Upon a Time.

After a month off writing, I feel silly posting again … but I just uploaded our vacation photos, so I thought I’d share! By the way, I still don’t really know the difference between uploading and downloading, except that it has something to do with the direction of the exchange of information. It’s like greater than and less than in math; I always had trouble with those pesky > and < than signs. If 10 > 5, the arrow points to the lesser one (5), right? 10 is greater than 5 …. but I wonder, if 10 is so great, why isn’t the arrow pointing at him?

Let’s just say I’ve “loaded” this photo:

This was our first-ever family camping trip. I was worried about my techie husband in the woods without wireless, but after a few days he was the first one up – building the fire and making camp coffee … reading God’s bloglines (the deer, the dew, the baby sun streaking through the trees). If I was very quiet, I could sneak out of the tent … un-zzzzip ever so slowly … without waking the three girls and join him by the fire with my book and my tin cup of chewy, boiled coffee (only delicious when camping – its a mystery). Those mornings were heaven.

When I heard the first stirring inside the tent – little camp-girl chirpings, like morning birds – I thought, “Shall we have marshmallows for breakfast?”

*
This morning at 10:00 – already blazing hot in North Carolina – my masters relay teammates and I toed the line for our first 800m time trial in preparation for the 4 X 800m on August 6th. Our hope was for each of us to be within 4-5 seconds of our goal times. As a coach, I have always advised my athletes to name three goals going into a race: a radical goal (which is the time/place you want if you are having an absolutely perfect day), a moderate goal (about where you should finish), and a conservative goal (the if-you-don’t-beat-this-time-you-should-quit-running goal). I’ve actually scared athletes into running faster by threatening the consequences of not making their conservative goal. And, once, I even outright lied to a freshman runner when I saw that he was going to run slower than his “you should quit” goal. I started calling out splits that were faster than he was actually running and then told him he ran a PR when he didn’t. No harm done, right? I was afraid he would give up on the sport unless he had something positive to take home for the summer. I didn’t tell him about my little white lie until many years later. It’s a good story – maybe he’ll write in and tell it (McKeeman?).

Anyway, thank God, I made my moderate goal today. I don’t want to quit. I ran a decent 2:23 (with no taper – so please, Mr. Nemesis, don’t write in to comment on how slow I am!).

Fat Charlie’s “how the mighty have fallen” has me thinking of Jaques speech in Shakespeare’s As You Like It:

“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail,
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad,
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.” (II.vii)

Sans leg-speed.

The guy I started coaching in February, ran a 2.5 second PR in the 1,500m last week … 3:44.1
His final race of the season will be the Canadian national championships on August 4th. We’re hoping for a 3:42 and because of the following work-out, I think he will get it:

10 X 300m with a 100 jog (never more than 60 seconds) in
42, 43, 43, 44.1, 44.1, 44.2, 43, 44, 43, 42.8

The reason this session hurts so much is the extremely limited recovery. I am a big believer in speed-endurance, but nobody even uses that term any more. What do you think?

I ran a race on July 4th but it wasn’t the Peachtree road race in Atlanta, Ga. Last year my husband and I swore we’d never participate in that broiler-oven death march again … especially now that we’re slow. I used to race for prize money (hell, I even WON Peachtree once) but now I’m happy to win the coveted top-25,000 tee-shirt [not really, but that makes a better story]. The race I did run on Independence Day was called the 4 on the Fourth. Local. No pressure. Shoe store gift certificates for awards. I needed a new jog bra so I signed up.

At about the half-way point, a young gal passed me with ease … as did all the local old guys I used to duke it out with in most of the area races. I smacked my former nemesis on the butt as he cruised by and said, “Go get Hinton!” [ha ... he'd never catch the old man ... not in this lifetime anyway]. I could see him weaving his way through the front runners, leaving me in his wake. WAY back in his wake. That’s okay, I thought, I’m still holding 6:00 pace – through 2 miles – then, ugh, I slipped to 6:30 … then, what the?!, the girl in front suddenly stopped running. She stepped to the side of the course, started walking, then took a glance back at me before deciding to resume.

What did she see in my eyes, in my gait, that told her to carry on? What DIDN’T she see, rather? In my younger, swifter days (my salad days, if you will) I would have siezed the opportunity to capitalize on that girl’s weakness. I would have gone for the jugular. I would have pounced on the pace with the eye of the tiger .

But today, I was no threat. When she glanced back she saw no savage eye of the tiger. Instead, I gave her one of those “what’s up?” or “’sup?” jock nods that everyone does in the hall at highschool. “It’s all yours,” my nod said. I was content to ride the nearly-jogging wave all the way to the finish … at least I was until Mr. Nemesis came up to me afterward and said, “You’re really slow now.”

Yep.

“Ma, can’t we get out and run behind the wagon? My legs are so tired.”
“No, Laura,” Ma said.
“Aren’t we going to camp pretty soon?” Laura asked. It seemed such a long time since noon, when they had eaten their lunch sitting on the clean grass in the shade of the wagon.
Pa answered, “Not yet. It’s too early to camp now.”
“I want to camp, now! I’m so tired,” Laura said.
Then Ma said, “Laura.” That was all, but it meant that Laura must not complain. So she did not complain any more out loud, but she was still naughty, inside. She sat and thought complaints to herself.”

from, Little House on the Prairie
by Laura Ingalls Wilder

” . . . the ancient Egyptians believed there was a judgement after death and the initial step was to weigh the heart. Is seems so true. The heart is the measure of our energy, our courage, our intuition, our love. It is the measure of our days, of what we have done, of who we are.

Was I ready, then, to have my heart weighed?”

from Seeing, by George Sheehan

Not yet, George, but I’m working on it.

Dear Readers,
After a considerable break (egads, my last entry was June 7th) with ample time to stew, I have decided to return to blogging.
Stay tuned for Songs of Experience, Chapter 2.

Turn the page.