Olympic Village in Munich (credit: Sandro Halank, Wikimedia Commons)
I got on the subject of coaches’ wives with my good friend Sean Zeitler this morning. Coaching is such an all-consuming passion that not only do we spend countless hours obsessing about the athletic performances of other people's children, we bring it home. It becomes dinner table conversation, morning coffee conversation, and one of those narratives that always lingers in our subconscious waiting to launch into a discussion.
For instance, I told Sean, "When a woman consents to spend a good portion of a European vacation touring a 50-year-old Olympic stadium for three hours so her husband can see the track — and then suggests we go drink beer where Steve Prefontaine drank beer after his Olympic race — that's a keeper."
I'm referring, of course, to Calene.
So this is an appreciation of coaches’ wives everywhere, in particular my Queen. She's also an obsessed author's wife, which gives her extra sainthood. Last week's blog was Part One of our Europe trip. Now we get to the meat and potatoes of our journey: Munich.
A big part of The Long Run, as the new book is titled, revolves around the 1972 Munich Olympics. I am getting to the end of this very satisfying project and considered leaving out a necessary research trip to this pivotal city. But it just wouldn't have been right or thorough, so we made the trek.
The train south from Copenhagen through Hamburg was splendid but delayed. Temps were in the high 80's when we arrived in Munich early evening. To revisit the coach's wife theme, bear in mind that our sole purpose of being in Bavaria was a long-ago track meet. No museums or cathedrals. No real sightseeing of the conventional sort, sitting in an outdoor cafe to people watch. We rode the underground to the stadium and paid three euros to wander aimlessly.
It is impossible to enter those grounds without being reminded of the Israeli massacre from those games. The low white profile of the Olympic Village rises across the highway from the stadium. A vivid memorial demands attention. So it was sobering to follow this path from the station. Thought provoking.
Once we got inside the stadium we could go anywhere except onto the track. We eventually sat up high on the press box side in the green stadium seats. Looking down on the crimson all-weather track, I pointed out where Frank Shorter entered the stadium at the end of marathon, Jim Ryun fell in the 15, Dave Wottle won gold in the 8, and Prefontaine made his two powerful attacks.
Calene indulged me when I brought up the men's 5000 on my phone and we watched Pre's final mile together, alternately looking at the race then down onto the track where those runners raced so long ago. Pre finished fourth on that day, outkicked in the last fifteen meters.
When I told Calene he and the British runners later met at the Hofbrau Haus in Marienplatz, she suggested it was the logical next stop in our tour. Mind you, Calene doesn't drink, let alone beer. But she well knows a good bratwurst and a cold liter of lager in the name of Steve Prefontaine is very much something I would enjoy. So we hopped back on the underground and made this final stop.
Calene and I have been married almost forty years. This writing gig and the coaching that now exists side-by-side weren't in the cards when we first met. We have traveled the world as I've researched my books. That visit to the Olympic Stadium is tame compared with the battlefields we've walked, World War II bunkers we've wandered into, and questionable hotels we've spent the night in the name of writing history. Combining writing with track and field was a fine indulgence, for which I am devoted and thankful.
Now it's on to the last week of the book and then cross country season. Huzzah!