I usually blog on Sunday while watching NFL Red Zone. The rest of the week is for regular creativity. But tomorrow is the Southern Section Cross Country Championships and I'm a little preoccupied with race strategy, the rain currently pelting Southern California, and oblique terms like “green arrows” and “tight spread.”
The official online results give a runner green arrows counting how many people they pass. Blue means you're not passing anyone. Red means you're getting passed. Green arrows are such an important goal that I should have t-shirts made.
A tight spread is the time gap between the 1-5 runners. One minute is nice but 30 seconds is better. One of Coach Joe Vigil's Adams State NCAA Championship teams put all five runners across the line almost simultaneously. Their spread was an enviable one second.
So I wrote my Substack post this morning which really wasn't writing at all — I just posted a picture of a blurb card from the legendary George Hirsch, who calls The Long Run perhaps the best book on running he's ever read. I sort of like this new Substack gig. I was all set to write a post and then it felt just fine to download an image and call it a day. For those interested, this blog is going to keep up the balance between life, writing, and anything else that pops into my head. I'm going to take readers down the running rabbit hole with the Substack, just because it's all about promoting my new book and also because I think about running and coaching runners just as frequently as I think about the written word. The commonality is process.
Anyway, I'm blogging on a Friday to take my mind off tomorrow. I'm more pensive than nervous. Coaching distance runners is not like coaching a ball sport, where you can call a timeout and make midgame corrections. Our work is done in practice. Once the gun sounds the only thing cross country coaches can do is yell loudly, not really sure if we're being heard.
So I will rise long before dawn tomorrow, be the first customer at Starbucks, then stand on the course with a large cup of dark roast and cheer for these runners of whom I am deeply fond. Boys race at 8:05. Girls at 8:55. I won't talk with them much before they race. The dispensing of strategy is for this afternoon's practice. No runner wants Coach Dugard getting in their grill just before jogging to the starting line.
My weekend's pretty much over once the racing is done. No plans. No mission. I won't write. I probably won't read anything (current books: A Bridge Too Far by Cornelius Ryan and The Siege by Ben McIntyre — history at its finest). Practicing my guitar is an option.
We are 161 days into a 169 day training evolution. This weekend and next at the State Meet have been the focus of my coaching obsession since well before that. You haven't really lived until you've watched a group of athletes with whom you've shared hour upon hour, day after day, of commitment and struggle toe the line and show how almighty tough they can be.
Think of me tomorrow morning, dear readers. Imagine a solitary man alone on the most distant portion of a wind-whipped, rain-drenched cross country course. My emotions are labile. My passion absolute. I have a stopwatch in my left hand out of habit. If anyone approaches to make small talk I will ignore them and move further away. I am powerless after months of being all-powerful. I pray without ceasing for green arrows and a tight spread.
So, yes, I am pensive. It is the absolute best feeling in the world.