Martin Dugard | Training Ground

Londres

Just back from a whirlwind weekend in London. As most of you know, my oldest is going off to college in a matter of weeks, and it seemed a prime time to get a little international father-son time. For all my travels, I have never taken any of my kids on a journey requiring a passport, and it felt like high time to right that wrong. We kicked off the journey Friday, saw the sights for three solid days, and then dashed right on back home -- even managing to score the first class upgrade on the return leg. Three days may not be much time to see London, you might say, but for us it was just the right amount of time.

There was the requisite run in Hyde Park, the long walk from Mayfair down to the Tower Bridge (passing the Tate Modern, Big Ben, and Parliament Building), and the seeing of Spamalot at the Palace Theater. I thought it was going to be this big emotional weekend, you know, father and son bonding one last time before the big send-off. And it was. But it was also an awareness that this life journey of ours is not coming to an end just because college beckons, only that it's a new phase of our relationship. The thing I've been dancing around for the last nine months has been the simple fact that my kid's getting more and more independent. That's the job of all parents, to work your way out of the total dependence of infancy until you have a child filled with the knowledge and confidence and initiative to go stand on their own in the world. That's the ideal, of course, but the truth is far more melancholy. The simple act of letting go is an acknowledgment that the ways and whys of parenting that particular child are also changing forever. This weekend I saw with my own eyes, and learned through several long conversations, that he's far more ready than I knew to go out into the world. The part of me that had resisted letting go finally found a sense of peace. The unseen yet nagging burden I have carried for these many months, as I wondered when and if I could let go, was lifted. We had our London adventure, and it was great. Now my boy will begin a series of adventures that have little or nothing to do with me, and will only be related as post-adventure yarns, the same way I told him stories about my travels when he was just a child. Feels weird, but good.

For some reason I find my thinking of Robert Louis Stevenson. Not sure why.

Onward. The California State Track and Field Championships are going to be held this Saturday at Cerritos College. Only one of my athletes will be competing, a lanky high-jumper who has gone seven feet this season. I will be attending graduation, so will have to rely on text message updates from the high jump coach as to how the competition is proceeding.

Christine Babcock of Woodbridge High School will also be running the 1600 that day. For those of you who know distance running, her 4:36 last weekend marked the fastest high school 1600 in the nation this year. She is coached by my good friend George Varvas, who has an incredible knack for peaking his athletes at the right time. That will be the focus of my 2008-2009 cross-country and track campaigns: improving my coaching abilities by perfecting that delicate balancing act between too much mileage and too little, too much rest and not enough. One of my best athletes was told early in the season by a teammate that she had already peaked, when in fact that was far from the truth. And though she went out and took five seconds off her best time in the next race, the damage was done. For the rest of the season she doubted her fitness, and became wary of pushing too hard in workouts. This sort of mental breakdown will also be something I will watch for this coming season. I admire coaches who can combine the mental and physical with all those miles of training in order to effect the perfect post-season performance. This is an area in which I am definitely lacking -- and which I will definitely do better.

On that note: Go Christine. She's still chasing that 4:35.24 Polly Plummer ran back in 1982, which stands as the fastest high school girls 1600 in America. Polly's a friend of mine, and my little sister was on that team, but I'd love to see the record go down on Saturday.

Keep pushing... always.

Travel Jones

First off, let me start by saying that it's time for everyone out there to head out to their local bookstore and pick up a copy of The Training Ground. Had a nice bump on Amazon last week, thanks to a stellar Wall Street Journal review. But things have quieted a bit the last couple days. Yes, I'm a little on the jumpy side about all this, but books are such personal things. Once you throw them to the wolves, you still want to pretend that they have a great future.

Onward. My oldest son finished his last day of high school yesterday, with graduation set to take place a week from now. I thought we could fill a little bit of that time with an adventure, so tomorrow morning I'm taking him to breakfast and laying a plane ticket on him. It's a surprise, as is the destination. He's going to be stuck spending four days with his Dad, which might be a form of torture for a teenaged boy. I'll make it as fun as I can. Suffice to say I am eager to get this show on the road.

Finally, just finished a piece for Inside Sport-Australia about this year's Tour. On the surface it seems that Cadel Evans is poised to win it all, but I have my doubts. He's not aggressive enough, and he seems to lack a vital bit of killer instinct. That, plus there's this (lifted straight from the story): Some also suspect that Prudhomme is desperate for a French champion, a fact that could work against Cadel Evans. A French rider has not won the Tour in more than thirty years. French teams have recently become the sort of middling squads that don't compete well at their signature event, climbing atrociously and time-trialing even worse. The only thing they seem capable of doing well is riding in a tight team pack and sprinting for the finish.
Well, that's exactly the sort of course Prudhomme and his minions have designed for 2008. Gone is the opening prologue, replaced by a long flat stage that favors team tactics and sprinting. Gone are team time trials, which expose weaker squads' weaknesses and open up wide time gaps. Shortened are the two individual time trials, making it impossible for a time trial specialist like Evans to open up a huge lead. In their place are two shorter time trials -- short enough, it would seem, for a French rider to stay in contention even if he rode with two punctures and no bike seat. And finally, the mountains. There are five mountain stages this year, with four mountain top finishes. This might be Evans' only chance to win, providing he rides with the sort of aggressiveness and moxie that often defines a Tour champion.

I'm out. I'll check back in when I'm on the road.

Keep pushing... always.

Signings

This is an odd day, indeed. I have my first signing tonight at the Borders here in RSM for THE TRAINING GROUND. I spoke at Santiago College the other day, and had a wonderful time before a pretty diverse crowd. But bookstore signings involve a much less captive audience than a college lecture hall. There's always the crowd in line at the cash register, the folks waiting out their dinner reservation from the nearby BBQ place, and the folks who stop by for a few minutes to see what an actual author signing is all about before getting up in the middle and marching off to find the self-help section. I don't know quite what I'm going to say, but it will work itself out as it always does.

I am proud of this new book, and feel it represents a solid leap forward in my ability to write historical nonfiction. But as with any text about people dead for more than a century, my job tonight will be to convince a room full of potential buyers that guys like Grant and Lee were vivid three-dimensional figures whose lives were not musty and boring, but as adventurous and action-packed as any modern figure.

Tougher than it sounds.

Onward. At this point, I'm not going to the Tour de France this year. It will be odd to watch at home, but between my son going off to college and my cross-country team beginning some hardcore training, this seems like a better year to skip.

Makes me sad, but just a little. I could use a little break.

Besides, the month of July will be the lead-up to my new movie, which we'll be filming this summer. Top secret at this point, but details to follow.

Alright. I'm out. Time to go get pretty for the signing. If you're in the neighborhood come on by.

Keep pushing... always.

Learned Optimism

Track season is winding down, which means it's time to start planning for cross-country, even though the first race is four months away. Back when I got into coaching it was something of a lark; a way to implement the knowledge I'd gained through decades of competition and training while at the same time ridding myself of the long-held dream that I might somehow qualify for the Olympic Trials. I had no idea that I would come to see some of the kids as my own children, in a way. I had no idea that I would spend hours doing mindless bureaucratic functions. And I had no idea that I would begin a constant search for the perfect fundraiser.

No, coaching is about much more than just coaching. But it's a pretty cool gig, and even though the season ended less comfortably than I would have liked (a couple of my runners had that deer in the headlights look at Saturday's prelims, looking a little overwhelmed to be racing in front of such a large crowd), the fact is that we had a solid season and those athletes who put in the work benefited through faster times and personal success.

So why do I find myself feeling so downcast? I was thinking about that last night as I watched the Survivor finale, with the flirtatious Parvati somehow beating the comely Amanda for the overall title. I reflected to my wife that if I ever competed on Survivor I would feel as if I had failed unless I won the whole thing.

So you say something like that randomly and out loud, and the next thing you know it's nagging at you. Something like Survivor is fairly epic, as is competing in the Raid Gauloises or driving to the equator. A person should take some solace in the endeavour, rather than just the outcome.

You would think.

I am a person who rarely knows the comfort of satisfaction, and for whom only total success if enough. So when I look back on the track season I feel as if I failed utterly as a coach. I don't look at the kids who got faster or the gains in the program, but see only my flaws. Same with my writing career -- I've got a new book coming out this week, but when I read it I don't feel satisfied with a job well done, but only see the flaws: the sentence that could have been structured more simply or elegantly; the chunk of description that doesn't really belong.

It is a blessing and a curse, this constant striving to be just that little bit better all the time. I am a competitor, as are many of you. The nature of competition is winning, but it is also improvement. When we are not pushing towards being better, then we are either moving backward or not moving at all, stuck in some kind of performance limbo. And from there it's just a short step toward not competing at all, and just showing up at the races and muddling through.

Or at least that's the way I see it. Need to fix that. Need to find a way to be satisfied with the good and to shrug off those moments when things don't go as planned. I carry failure (and by that I mean anything less than total victory) on my shoulders like some static Sisyphean boulder, letting it perch there for years. My goal from now on is to drop that boulder. I want to embrace the good and learn from the things that don't go the way I'd planned. I want to shut out the critics a little better and to start hearing the compliments a little louder. And I want to find a way to compete and be my best and be happy with the act of competition rather than the outcome.

Damn... tougher than it sounds. I am the eternal optimist, however, setting my sights high and open to any new challenge that catches my eye. Let this be that one.

Now, on to cross-country.

The Training Ground - Prologue

Hey All --

The new book is coming out May 14. The Training Ground is already available online at Amazon.com. Click on the link for a look at the cover and for a detailed description. In the meantime, here's a taste of the book.

Appomattox

It was Palm Sunday, 1865 when General Robert E. Lee rode forth to surrender. He had struggled with the decision for two days, but now the time had come. His vaunted Army of Northern Virginia, which had bewildered and frustrated its Union opponents throughout the Civil War, was camped just outside the village of Appomattox Court House. A 60,000 strong Union force hemmed them in on three sides. Rather than try to fight his way out one more time, Lee decided to avoid further bloodshed. It was time for the war that had divided America to come to an end.
The home of a man named Wilmer McLean was chosen, somewhat randomly, as the site where Lee would meet with Union commander Ulysses S. Grant to lay down his sword. McClean had once lived near the place where the Battle of Bull Run was fought, and had moved to get away from the war. Now it had found him once again.
Lee arrived first, resplendent in polished black boots, a pressed gray uniform, an expensive ceremonial sword, and a clean yellow sash. With him were Colonel Orville Babcock and Major Charles Marshall. Lee was a stately man who had been a soldier his entire adult life. To show up for such a momentous occasion in a uniform that was less than his very best would have been out of character, and so he preferred to dress immaculately for this heartbreaking occasion
Ulysses S. Grant, who rode thirty-five miles on horseback through April mud to be there that morning, wore spattered boots and a private's uniform on which he had sewn the stars of a lieutenant general. He wore no sword or sash, and one coat button was in the wrong hole. With him were his staff and a number of his high-ranking officers, including General Edward Ord.
Grant later told friends that as he walked up the courthouse steps to accept Lee's unconditional surrender of his Confederate forces, he felt a sudden embarrassment. Grant was fearful Lee would think his appearance was retribution for a long-ago rebuke.
"I met you once before, General Lee," Grant began their conversation, "while we were serving in Mexico, when you came over from General Scott's headquarters to visit Garland's brigade, to which I then belonged. I have always remembered your appearance, and I think I should have recognized you anywhere."
"Yes," Lee replied, setting Grant at ease. "I know I met you on that occasion, and I have often thought of it and tried to recollect how you looked, but I have never recalled a single feature."
Then, for the next few minutes, before getting down to the business of surrender and the end to the Civil War, Grant and Lee spoke of Mexico, the war where their uniforms were both blue and where they first learned how to fight.

LR3

Here I am at McCarron International in Las Vegas, my whirlwind three-day Land Rover/Nevada Passage adventure coming to an all-too-short end. It has been eye-opening to say the least, particularly for someone who doesn't do much in the way of offroad driving and who thought of Nevada as comprising just two distinct entities: Las Vegas and desert.

No, there is much more to the state than all that, and the past thirty hours showed me in vivid detail. I'm here for the Land Rover G4 Challenge, a team competition twining endurance sports with offroad driving. At the crack of dawn yesterday, the ten two-person squads drove out of Vegas in their LR3's, a sensual yet rugged beast that handles the most rugged roads with great ease. There was a trail run after that, along the bathtub ring that now defines Lake Mead's depleted shoreline. This was followed by a bout of kayaking, and then a punishing drive straight into the heart of Nevada's rugged countryside. I followed along at the wheel of a press LR3 as we veered north across Highway 15 and then picked up a dirt road. What followed was eight hours of ass chapping four-wheeling, driving past herds of grazing cattle, wild horses, a single desert tortoise standing alongside the road, and too many small gray bunnies to count. There were mountain ranges and wildflowers that marched up the hillsides like a sort of floral wildfire. There were moments when the road disappeared altogether, and the LR3 became a lifeboat of sorts, making sure that we would not topple off the hillside into the ravine far below. I stood atop mountainsides abundant with pinon and pine and burnt out husks of Joshue Trees, their grotesque torsos still showing the results of a long ago fire. And, just when it seemed like all this diversity was a mighty slap in the face to my preconceived notions about Nevada, we saw a pair of A-10 fighter jets blasting low and fast above a bone white alkaline dry lake bed, hurling themselves into the night.

That's right. Night. We drove through the hot afternoon and into the night, arriving at our Hell's Half Acre campsite at around 9. The teams had already arrived, and -- this being Land Rover, and having a reputation to uphold and all -- a catered barbecue dinner with Sierra Nevada's and a fine pinot was served. I made it a point to pitch my tent before drinking, thinking that assembling a tent in the dark was already difficult enough without that sort of impairment.

Throughout the day, I shared driving duties with my old friend Jim Garfield, with whom I have had many adventure around the world. There was a moment about midway through the four-wheel segment, when the sun was still high in the sky and we were sure the campsite had to be near, that a voice on the radio informed us that we still had more than 60 miles to drive -- which, at 10-20 miles per hour, meant more and more hours in the saddle. Our hearts sank along with the sun (I know, that description is a little too pat, a little too trite, but I'm writing on deadline, so work with me, people). We had been listening to a great blues station on the satellite radio, lost at first in the disconnect of being able to listen to the radio in the middle of pure wilderness, and then lost in a sort of bluesy funk all our own. There was another fellow in the car, a new friend with a fine wit, and a chatty woman who seemed to know all there was to know about Nevada. Which is nice, when you need to find a way to pass the hours.

Anyway, as we saw those wild horses on a hillside looking down upon us (regal beasts, not at all flea-bitten or mangy), and then the sunlight left us, it all got a little much. The conversation ceased. The blues station was replaced by the sturm and drang of the classical station, if only because words were almost repellent in that luxurious little jail of a car. A lot of road trips are like that, we all seemed to remind ourselves at the same time. It was an antsy moment of reflection, made all the more despondent by the knowledge that cold beverage and flame-broiled chunks of meat were waiting at our destination. So we road through the fine desert dust in almost total silence those last few hours, our butts getting numb and the concept that we might soon arrive feeling like some sort of joke. But we made it. The food was great and I slept like a stone under a black mountain sky shot through with stars. And this morning as I awoke and reveled in that serene moment where you unzip your tent and step into the calm morning air, those long hours in the car were as forgotten as the pains of competition upon crossing the finish line. It had been good, all of it, a journey-means-more-than-the-destination triumph of driving and scenery and sturdy backsides. There was more competition today -- a trials course, mountain biking, and orienteering -- which I watched while reclining atop a brown boulder before jumping in the LR3 for the two-hour drive to the airport (somewhat cruelly, there was a paved highway very near to our offroad path. Could have shaved hours off that long day. Ah well. The road less traveled and all that). There are two more days of racing, which will be covered by a second shift of journalists. It's home now for me. And now to catch that plane...

The Training Ground

Been awhile since I posted. Nice to be back. The Training Ground comes out next week, finally. You can buy it on Amazon already, which is cool, but I'm looking forward to that magical day when it first arrives in bookstores. There's something really cool about walking in and seeing a new book on the shelves. It makes all the years of hard work and rewrites fade away like smoke.

Also, for those who missed it, here's the Tough Guy piece that ran in American Airlines inflight. Chad Windham did the photos, which I thought were amazing.

Just arrived at Lake Las Vegas to watch the Land Rover G4 Challenge. They're putting us up at the glorious Ritz Carlton, with its luxury spa and splendid mountain backdrop. I came here a few years back with my wife for our anniversary, and managed to find some fairly great running trails. I can see one of them out my window now, snaking up the side of a red-rock desert peak. At the top you can look out across the miles of desert and see clear to the Strip, which is a particularly nice view at sunrise and sunset. There's a media lunch in a little bit, and if I don't gorge myself too much and wind up napping away the afternoon, I aim to get out there and run a few desert miles.

That nap thing does sound awfully inviting, though. I am at the most unusual place career-wise, in that I have just concluded work on several major projects and have absolutely nothing to do. I am taking a break, which is something I never do. Oh sure, track season continues, as several of my runners moved on to post-season competition after last week's finals. But writing-wise, I'm getting a little mental health break. And to be invited by Land Rover for a couple nights at the Ritz in the midst of all that... well, it doesn't get any better.

Actually, it would get better if my wife were here, but she's at an NICU Social Worker convention in Indianapolis all week. Not for the first time in my career, I am at a romantic hotel all alone, destined to connect via text message and phone calls rather than over a candlelit dinner table. Ah, well. The price one pays.

And though Calene is not here, I am most definitely surrounded by old friends. My good friend Jimmy Garfield, with whom I raced the Raid Gauloises and participated in dozens of other adventures around the globe, arrived on a flight five minutes after mine. Not only that, but Janet Clarke and the gang from Team Unlimited, whom most of you know for the Xterra Series, are helping to coordinate this junket. In the morning, teams of competitors will set off on a mad dash across Nevada, both auto-powered (hence, Land Rovers) and trail running and mountain biking. The winners of this G4 Challenge will go on to compete at the world championships somewhere in the world later this year. I would tell you the exact location but I don't have my press kit yet. Suffice to say that it will be someplace with mud and vigorous terrain.

Now, let me a share a secret with all of you: for years, I've been trying to get the Land Rover folks to loan me a vehicle to drive at the Tour de France. I figure that the car is always a part of my daily writing, and that they'll get plenty of exposure. For some reason, it's never gotten off the ground. Maybe this week could change all that. Stay tuned.