Sorry for the hiatus. Last week just got away from me. Flew back east with my wife to celebrate our son's 20th birthday. Sometime in January he emailed asking for a marathon training program, saying that he had decided to run the B&A Trail Marathon in suburban Baltimore. The fact that it coincided with our trip was just a bonus. I worked up a crash program, something he could manage on an hour or so a day without interfering with his studies. I didn't inquire as to how closely he was following it, knowing that he could figure things out for himself once he had the road map. Winter interfered, of course, with Snowmageddon and the inherent roaring winds and lesser blizzards that chapped the East Coast this past January and February. The treadmill would have been the obvious resort, but so many runner moved indoors during those storms that the treadmills at his school broke down in record numbers. Anyway, he stepped to the line this past Sunday, looking about as carefree as I've ever seen a first-time marathoner look. It's something of a tradition in our family that fathers jump in an pace their sons through at least part of a marathon, and so it was that I joined him at mile 17. It was my way of carrying on the tradition, but also a great opportunity to run with my oldest son on a sunny (yet cold) winter morning. I had a blast. Not only was it special to be with Dev, but the B&A organizers have imbedded some sort of positive spark in that race, some kernel of wonder that made being on that course pure joy. Spectators cheered on the runners, the runners thanked the spectators for coming out, the aid station volunteers were champions, and the runners were a brethren, exhorting one another to keep pushing. Lots of smiles. Lots of special moments, like Dev's friends Sierra and Amy looking effortless as they powered through the miles, and that inevitable moment at Mile 22 when  Dev thanked me for the run and told me he that he wanted to go it alone to the finish. So I stepped aside and watched him run into the distance, just about as proud as a Dad could be. Callie and I drove ahead to the finish to see him come in. He kicked, which is something I've never been able to accomplish at a marathon. And then it was into the Severna Park High School cafeteria for pizza and massages, and some of that old school running enthusiasm. The post-race vibe pulsed with that casual euphoria of finishing a race in the company of strangers who have become -- if only for a few hours -- the closest of friends. 

All in all, a wondrous weekend. 

Keep Pushing... Always

I was up before the sun on Saturday morning, hoping against hope that the all-comers meet in Huntington Beach wasn't rained out. Looking out my bedroom window, all I could see was trees bent sideways and great raindrops coursing down the pane. The streets were covered in puddles and the sky was an endless cloud. And yet the website didn't mention anything about a cancellation, so I threw on my clothes, grabbed my stopwatch and pointed the Suburban north on the 405. Somewhere right around the South Coast Plaza shopping mall, the rain was coming down with monsoon-like ferocity, great sheets of water so dense that I could barely see the car in front of me. But I was certain that the heavy stuff had already passed, and pushed on.

Alas, the meet was canceled. The track was empty, though remarkably clean after all that rain. Knowing that my wife was at a kick-boxing class, I decided to drive home down the coast. The Pacific was in full roil and PCH was flooded by the Newport jetty. On a whim, I turned onto the Newport peninsula, where I lived during the four-year wilderness of my early twenties. I'm not a fan of that epoch (the four years is officially known as an Olympiad, but as these were not competitive times, I feel wrong using that term), and haven't been for quite awhile. But as I got out of car and walked along the beach by the Newport pier, I heard a little voice telling me to go easy on myself. Those wilderness years were just me trying to figure things out. So lighten up. It might be twenty years before I can write about it, but when that day comes there will finally be some self-forgiveness.

Good to know. 

Made it home in time for the second bout of rain, but by then I needed to add some physical effort to my catharsis. Put on an old pair of shoes, grabbed the leash, and took my dog for a run down in the canyon. The mud was so slippery and thick that I spent the eight miles bracing myself; by the time I was done the muscles of my thighs felt clenched and bruised. The creek was a muddy knee-high torrent, which had to be forded twice. Bella got a kick out of that. And the hills were slick as glass. I had to run them toes out, like a cross-country skier. I did not feel Olympian, but if I were training for the Olympics, I would imagine these would be the sort of bold miles that would make their way into my training on a more regular basis. 

The rain didn't stop the whole run. It only got harder. I had my hat on, the "Navy Cross-Country" cap that I wear when the sun is blazing or when the skies are falling. I washed Bella on the back porch when it was all done, then hosed myself off for good measure. 

I stood there in the driving rain, my head tilted toward the sky like a turkey who doesn't know better. Some sort of burden slipped from my shoulders. I let it go. I was spent, but fortified. 

Keep Pushing... Always

There is a Biblical admonition to let one's gentleness be evident to all. In this, the best week I have known in many a month, I think we'll all agree that I've been anything less than gentle, lambasting the figure skaters and the mainstream media, and generally behaving in gruff fashion. So forgive me that. It may come as a surprise that I even wept during the ice skating events. The emotion of the Olympics means that even the events which I disdain cause that effect. And of course, the playing of our National Anthem gets me all misty, too. I will miss these Olympics when they are done. The black pall of an Olympic-less television night will make the regular viewing seem mundane and a tad uneventful. It's always such a sad day when they snuff the torch and we all go back to our regular lives. Thank goodness this is the best season of Survivor on record. 

Onward. We are in track season now, and I am experimenting with yet another training regimen for my athletes. This coaching thing is such an evolving science. Just when you think you've got it all figured out there's another variable to figure in. I added tempo work, lactate threshold runs, and some short alactic training during cross-country season. Now, after reading about the Kenyans' affection for the hill repeat, I'm increasing the weekly dosage of vertical. What am I looking for? A few things. The first is competitiveness. I coach at a relatively small school, but am convinced that if I can become a good enough coach we will be able to run head-to-head with any school of any size, anywhere. The second is knowledge. There is something invigorating about learning a new subject. Long ago I was of the mindset that my education was completed the day I got my college degree. Then I tiptoed back into the library when I began writing history books and soon found myself wallowing joyfully in the minutiae of various lives and centuries. The new knowledge kept me from getting stale or stuck in a rut. Now, as I research and write a new book, I also immerse myself each night (the days are for historical research, the nights are for running research) in the physiology of crafting better young runners. I have become a fiend for logging workouts and comparing the effects of past workouts on performances. Am I becoming a full-blown geek? Definitely. 

By the way, the McMillan Group offers a nice overview of the training modalities that make a great runner. It also works for cyclists and pretty much any endurance athlete. The trick is to tap into the body's various physiological systems. Many Tour de France riders, for instance, have become devotees of lactate threshold training. See Joe Vigil's Road to the Top and Jack Daniel's Daniel's Running Formula for ways to apply them. 

The third thing I'm looking for is that gentleness we spoke of at the top of the missive. To know me is to know that I appear laid back and non-judgmental. We all know that's a facade. I drive my runners as hard as I drive myself, asking them to run so hard that they will never know the regret of not pushing to their limits. I strive to do that in an upbeat, praise-oriented environment that makes everyone feel like a success at workout's end. But "strive" and "accomplish" are two very different things. Sometimes I get a little cranky. Not that cranky is a bad thing, but a little more Zen might go a long way. On the other hand, I'm not good at Zen. I am mercurial, impulsive, passionate, and driven. I like to win. I like to know that at the end of the day, I pushed my limits. I am not manic. At least not that I know of. And I am not obsessive or mean. But I just know that everyone gets a big smile and sense of satisfaction from striving just a little bit every day to be the best they can be. Sometimes that's physical. Sometimes that's spiritual. Sometimes that's emotional. The trick is putting them all in one package. Usually when I'm succeeding at one, the others are slipping. Then again, I'm hardly a perfectionist and I'm hardly perfect. I guess that one of life's great struggle is balancing the physical, spiritual and emotional. And financial. And educational. And professional... 

Anyway, like I was saying. It's track season. In less than two weeks the racing begins, which means a near-perfect segue from the Olympics. So maybe the post-Olympic void won't be so bad this time around. 

Keep pushing... always

I'm not sure how this is going to look. I think I need to learn more about uploading photos. Anyway, this was my attempt at an artistic photo of the guy holding the dolphin (I am assuming that was Poseidon), and then the bus came along and added a splash of color. Ah, well. I'm still learning this photography stuff. I'm much better at absorbing a scene through osmosis, then writing about it after I've sifted and sorted the odd emotions. There are writers, and there are photographers. There are writers who think they're photographers (not me) and photographers who think they're writers, but I don't believe you can do both. I mean, it's physically possible, but the merger dilutes the excellence. 

So the subject is the Olympics. For starters, I have to say that I loved Chris Del Bosco's wipeout. Not the fact that he crashed, but that he had a bronze medal sewn up but continued pushing his limits because he wanted gold. The crash was beside the point. I think he may become more well known for putting it out there, than if he'd actually won. I hope he comes back in four years. 

Listening to The Dan Patrick Show this morning, he asked a legitimate question: at what point does a Team USA hockey game get shown in prime time? More to the point, which figure skating event gets bumped for this game? He was referring to the USA-Canada game being shown on MSNBC rather than the big network, which gave us the usual endless sequins on ice. Last night it was ice dancing, which is why my wife was waking me up at 10:30 to go to bed. After the wonder of Bode Miller's victory, and the earlier joy of watching that hard-hitting USA-Canada game, I got so bored with all that endless ice dancing that I almost committed the heresy of turning off the Olympics (!) to watch the SURVIVOR episode I missed last Thursday. Instead, I tried very hard to appreciate the ice dancing, only to give in to the comforts of my big leather chair and the land of Nod. Tonight, and perhaps later in the week when women's figure skating comes on, I will opt for the DVR list. 

Ah, but Bode. I love Bode Miller. I love his iconoclastic ways. I love that he believes in the purity of competition and the pursuit of individual best. I love that he told Matt Lauer this morning that he took the governors off when he raced yesterday. When Matt Lauer asked if the governors would be re-applied for the evening's celebration, Bode calmly replied that once they're off, they're off. I think the question was an attempt to capture a more settled and mature Miller, and the answer assuredly reminded one and all that Miller marches to his own beat. Call me crazy, but I love that. It's a deeply held belief in sentiments like that and the power of individuality that made me such an awful corporate employee. Anyway, I'm a sucker for redemption, too. For Miller to come back and win after being lambasted so deeply four years ago in Torino is nice to watch. 

An aside, but I have noticed that women friends of mine either align themselves in the Bode Miller camp or the Apolo Ohno camp. My wife is a Bode girl. Her sister is an Apolo girl. Noonan, determined to upset my theory, is a Shani Davis fan. I guess everyone has a type. Just interesting to note the distinction. 

And finally, this is my last dispatch from my beloved PowerBook G4. After five years of diligent service that saw three books, as many Tour de Frances, hundreds of dispatches, and thousands of emails, the folks down at the Genius Bar tell me it's time to put her down. Something about the logic board. A writer and his laptop have a deep bond, and I will miss the oddities such as "a" and "s" which have almost been rubbed off by the years of tapping on those keys, the right arrow button that doesn't work at all, and the annoying way she puts herself to sleep at random and often maddening times. Sort of like me, watching ice dancing. I will be buying a new laptop today, moving all my data on over, then handing this one off to my twelve-year-old as a starter laptop (I should note that this may not work for him. Like any modern child, he's technically light years ahead of me. This laptop may not have the juice for the more advanced applications he favors. But then again, that's what hand me downs are all about). 

So off to the Mac store. 

Keep Pushing... Always

Whether by fate or divine intervention, I tend to find myself in London the first few weeks of February. It has become an accidental transition, a clearing of the breath before the next big undertaking. Monday I start writing a new book (I just completed a series of running essays, some of which appeared on this site. My agent is giving them a read to see the next step. Stay tuned) and track practice is in full swing. Somehow I was invited to London at this precise time, when I least expected it. Nice. There is nothing specific that happens when I arrive in London: a little research, a lot of walkabout, a visit to the National Gallery, Hyde Park, and Foyle's. Breakfast is always the Russian place. Thew nights end early, if only because I am alone and there's something odd about a lone man lingering in pubs until final orders.

It is raining lightly. Actually, it is now dark and raining lightly. For the first time in two decades of international travel, I've brought a camera. This is a new habit, and I'm just getting used to it. So far I've taken four pictures. That's not much, considering allt here is to see and do here.

Couldn't sleep last night because I was still on California time. Passed hours watching BBC Olympic coverage. I have to admit that I never realized how much of the WInter Olympics is subjective, with judges and politics controlling the action. They even managed to much up something as simple and pure as men's cross-country skiing. So I am necessarily revising my belief that subjective sports don't belong in the Games. I had way too much fun watching snowboarding to think otherwise. I am, however, not rescinding my no-sequins dogma.

I would ask, politely, that Susie B post an actual picture of herself on Facebook. I like to know who's slapping me around.

Speaking of snowboarding, I know absolutely nothing about boardcross, but it seems to me they could go a scoche faster if they wore speed suits instead of parkas. Call me crazy. And, yes, I know that speed suits would look as out of place as tuxedoes on snowboarders, but I'm just saying.

I am going to attempt to post some of my photos tomorrow. Technology is catching up with me.

Hey everyone, enjoy your Olympic coverage, wherever you may be. London is a mighty fine place to be, if only for a day or two. This is that pause to reflect before the hurly-burly of effort and hyper-focus. I am awash in the grace of wandering aimlessly about this city in the rain, utterly content amd duly fortified.

Keep Pushing... Always