I left the meet at 11 p.m. Long, solitary walk to the farthest realm of the parking lot. Footsore from 17,000 steps. Hungry. Thirsty. Satisfied.
Woodbridge is the biggest high school cross country meet in the country — some 16,000 runners strong. Fifty-two races spread over two nights. The best runners in America. Flood lights, drum lines loud as beating hearts, pure unmitigated speed. Food trucks, hundred thousand spectators, subdivision of team canopies lining the course. Woodbridge is Disneyland, the happiest place on earth for runners who've trained in solitude through a long hot summer. It's raw and loud and exciting and way too crowded. Concrete and flat grass. The hills and dust of real cross country are coming soon, but the phenomenon that is Woodbridge owns these two nights in September.
My boys team competed Friday night and won their race. They ran with the certainty of men on a mission. I love these guys.
The girls raced in the Sweepstakes race on Saturday. Start time: 9:45 p.m. I didn't leave the house until almost 6, delaying the inevitable traffic jams and overflow parking. None of the girls had arrived when I got to the team canopy, so I went on walkabout. Wove my way through the throngs of spectators, trying to soak in the emotions and sounds.
I'm told I've been cranky and checked-out lately, always lost in thought, so I did my best to be mindful. Not much coaching to do on race day. It's all up to the runners. I walked to calm my worries about things that could go wrong. I'm reading Rick Rubin's excellent The Creative Act right now. I took his advice as I walked, soaking up a night of Woodbridge in hopes it would work its way into my subconscious, there to be summoned during some future writing day.
The girls were all under the canopy by the time I got back. They lazed on the ground, a vision of anxious boredom. When a freshman runner joins the team for their first year of competition, they need to be told everything on race day: what to eat, when to warm up, when to switch from training shoes to racing flats, when to go to the line. By the time they run varsity, my girls know all that by heart. So it was like I wasn't there.
I said a few perfunctory things, the usual words about getting out fast and ABP (Always Be Passing). They nodded, then got down to the business of preparing to race. Quiet chit-chat. Laces. Hair ties. One last trip to the porta potty. So professional in their demeanor.
I left and walked to the line to select a start box. They arrived shortly afterward. We had another short conversation, a reminder to stay wide on the first turn.
Then it was time to get out of their grills and let them race because I could see them tuning me out. I looked down the length of the line as I walked away. Almost 300 girls awaited the start, bouncing in place and slapping their thighs to activate quads and hamstrings. Then everything went quiet as the starter in his red sports coat raised the gun.
It's easy to be mindful when coaching a cross country race. Every sensation is heightened. I yell louder, think quicker, ride the roller coaster as runners race faster or slower than I had hoped. I never want to see film of the maniac I become. I run the course with them, taking shortcuts to see my athletes in three or four different places between start and finish. Artificial lights line the route. Darkness bathes everything in between. Bedlam and exhortation. Moms and dads and coaches and grandparents cheering for their runner. Adrenaline buoys me. It's exhilarating. I'm wrung out the instant it ends.
The girls ran out of their minds. I can always tell if they're happy with their race. They just look so jubilant once it's done. It was that way Saturday night.
I told them I was proud of them, then told them to cool down with three easy miles before someone turns the lights off. Said I'd see them Monday morning for practice but to take Sunday off. Then I broke down the team area, folded the canopy, made the long walk to the parking lot and threw it in the back of my car, began the ten-mile drive home. I stopped for a late snack, sitting with a beer as I broke down results on my phone. Calene was asleep when I got home, so I spent a couple more hours looking at split times and finish times of my runners and other teams from every different angle.
I went to bed around two, the creative act of coaching having filled me to overflowing.