The chemo ward is open on Labor Day, which is probably a good thing for my cross country teams. I might have said some things I regretted, were I with them at this morning's practice. Instead, I'm here with Callie while they go through an early morning workout on our league course. It's going to be hot today so it's important to get it done early. That, and the fact that Central Park in Huntington Beach will soon be overrun by all manner of picnickers, including a volleyball league fond of setting up their nets right in the middle of our course.
We ran OK in our first meet on Saturday. Not great. Not bad. Just OK. We hadn't raced or even run a time trial all summer. The first race was about shaking off the rust. But it was hard to see it that way because I wanted much more than OK. So in the 48 hours since, I've done the Kubler-Ross grieving cycle: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. Through a weekend that saw ample time with my guitar, the neighborhood fantasy football league's draft (I took Ja'Marr Chase at #1 and Aaron Rodgers as the last and final pick in a quiet homage to what he once was), and an NCIS marathon, I obsessed about OK.
Denial came and went quickly. Anger held court for a very long while. Bargaining began when I took a look at the training log and saw what changes need to be made. Depression ran riot as I tried to fall asleep last night. I kept mourning the season before it really even began, realizing it's going to take a whole lot of work to beat some of the top teams in our division. Acceptance hit this morning as I gazed up at Orion in the early morning southern sky. Orion doesn't appear over California until this time each year — just in time for the start of cross country season. The two are synonymous in my mind.
You might say this is only high school cross country we're talking about. But as you'll soon read in The Long Run, this sport is my earliest and most powerful connection to running — and, in many ways, who I am as a human being. I can take or leave track season (to some extent), but cross country surges through my veins with an emotional current. I think about it when I'm not even aware I'm thinking about it, plotting new workouts and trying to build a stronger team culture when I'm writing a book about the Battle of Midway and especially when I'm writing about the 1970's running boom. So if we have an OK day when I expect something magnificent, it's not unreasonable that I am plunged into the Princess Bride's legendary Pit of Despair. There was even a moment between Bargaining and Depression when I wondered if it was all worth it. Maybe I shouldn't coach anymore. Wouldn't autumn be better spent traveling someplace fun? Maybe a mileage run with my buddy Chris Teske.
Of course, that's nonsense. I could no sooner quit coaching cross country than stop listening to Bruce Springteen. I think of myself as a really good coach. Not OK. Really good. What kind of example would I be setting for my runners if I abruptly quit just because one meaningless early season race didn't go perfectly? To be honest, OK was my fault. I failed to see a few tweaks our training needs at this point in the season.
After Acceptance came a new addition: The Bargain. Nobody knows about The Bargain but me — and now you. The Bargain is that I will give my teams every bit of running knowledge, positive energy, enthusiasm, and even love that the daily process of rising above mediocrity requires. Their successes are their own and I make no claims on their team and personal victories. In return, I get the fulfillment of interacting with them every day. Just being with them keeps me honest, makes me feel ageless, and gives me a deep well of strength for this fucking bullshit cancer roller coaster that will sap every ounce of positivity and hope if you let it. Frankly, I feel I get the better side of the bargain.
Now, on to the season Thirteen weeks until State.