Daddy-daughter running diaries

Not long after I published my mushy Mother’s Day post, a good friend—and loyal blog reader—of mine pointed out that I sure as heck better write something equally sappy to commemorate Father’s Day. Of course, I was already planning to do so because (a) my dad is awesome and deserves mad props for his awesomeness, and (b) writing this blog post was much cheaper than buying and mailing a card. (Thanks for teaching me how to budget, Dad!)

My dad and I chillin' like movie stars in SoCal (Brad Pitt is taking the picture).

My dad and I share much more than just our good financial sense. From him, I inherited my charming foot deformity, my taste for anchovies and green olives, and, perhaps most notably, my insatiable desire to win at everything. As a pro football coach, he pretty much has to be competitive. And although he always emphasized sportsmanship and humility above all else, my dad definitely nurtured my innate competitive drive throughout my childhood—whether I was vying for the lead in the local children’s theatre production of Oklahoma! or a spot on the middle school math team. So, despite being raised in the age of participatory trophies and no-score youth basketball games, I developed a competitive spirit so strong that to this day, I can’t even get through a friendly game of Scattergories without a little smack-talk.

And even though cross-country was a bit outside of his wheelhouse, my dad fully immersed himself in the world of distance running to support my passion for it. If that’s not the definition of great parenting, then I don’t know what is. Here’s the “run”down (see what I did there?) of our most memorable father-daughter running moments:

A Daddy-Daughter Jog Down Memory Lane

1996 (summer) – I enter my first 5K road race. My parents also enter the race. After leaving my mom in the dust, my dad and I set out on a joint mission to conquer the eight-to-ten-year-old female age division. By the midway point, I am whining and complaining so much, you’d think it was an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras. Knowing full well that my drama queen antics are all for show, my dad risks a CPS investigation as he basically drags me through the final mile. Just as he predicts, my tears magically disappear when I see the huge throng of spectators gathered around the finish. I sprint across the line, win my age group, and receive my first-ever gold medal. From that moment on, I am in love with running.

1996 (fall) – My dad lets me race his offensive linemen in practice drills in hopes that they might be motivated by the threat of getting beat by a third-grade girl. I am oddly satisfied by my repeated victories over a group of 300-pound men.

2002 – It is the morning of my very first high school cross-country meet and I am a nervous wreck. It also happens to be school picture day, and in the midst of dealing with a Stage-5 Hair Crisis—trust me, curlers never work the way you want them to—I almost forget to pack my race bag. When I finally get to school, I make the horrifying discovery that in my rush to get out the door, I forgot to bring a sports bra. I immediately go to the office to call home. My dad answers the phone. My face burns red with embarrassment as I explain my predicament in panicked whispers. Ten minutes later, my dad shows up at school with the necessary equipment wrapped discreetly in a plastic bag.

2004 – My dad is coaching in Europe, and my family and I visit him over spring break. I am right in the thick of training for my sophomore track season. Because he does not want me to get kidnapped by a group of Euro-thugs in a Taken-type scenario—although, for the record, Liam Neeson ain’t got nothin’ on my dad—he insists on accompanying me on all of my training runs. He enacts the rule that I must stay within his sight at all times, so I end up doing a lot of back-and-forth running. This seemed overprotective and annoying at the time, but in hindsight was actually very loving and sweet.

2005 – For the second year in a row, my dad spends hundreds of dollars to take me to California so I can compete in the Footlocker West Regional Cross Country Championships. My race performance is mediocre at best, but he knows I gave it my all and offers lots of congratulatory praise nonetheless. Afterwards, he tries to ease my disappointment by devising a completely skewed, wholly inaccurate mathematical calculation proving that I am actually one of the top 50 high school runners in the United States. Also, he buys me a Tommy’s chiliburger.

2007 – It’s my freshman indoor track season at the University of Montana. I’m set to run the 800 meters in a meet at the University of Idaho, which happens to be in the middle of butt-effing nowhere. My dad doesn’t even think twice about making the five-hour trip to Hick Town, USA, to watch me run for two whole minutes. In his rush to get there in time for the race, he neglects to fuel up and runs out of gas midway through the drive. Without a moment’s hesitation, he gets out of the car, and—dressed in jeans and a leather jacket—begins jogging down the interstate toward the next exit. A nice young man takes pity on him and gives him a ride to the closest gas station. He makes it to the track just in time for the 800. A local sports writer is so impressed by this story that he later pens an entire column about it.

2010 (spring) – I’m set to run the 800 in one of the most competitive track meets of my college career: the Rafer Johnson/Jackie Joyner-Kersee Invitational. The meet takes place in Los Angeles—my dad’s old stompin’ grounds. I’m pretty sure my coach has fudged my entry time so I can run in the fast heat. To get myself in the psychological state necessary to compete against women with thighs the size of my torso, I repeatedly tell myself that (a) I am a badass and (b) as such, I can definitely keep up with these chicks and their massive quads. Once I hear my split at the 200-meter mark—27 seconds, the fastest I have ever run 200 meters, period—I realize that my plan is effed. I blow up hard core at 500 meters and finish dead last. My dad commends me for taking a risk and tells me it’s good experience to race against such a competitive field. Also, he buys me a Tommy’s chiliburger.   

2010 (fall) – It’s my senior cross-country season at UM, and we’re on our way to one of the biggest meets of the season: NCAA Pre-Nationals. For some odd reason known only to the NCAA and possibly Dr. Phil, the Division I cross-country championship course was built in the boondocks of western Indiana and is only accessible by a series of windy backwoods two-laners. My dad has traveled all the way to the Hoosier State to watch me compete. I have no idea how to direct him to the course, so I suggest that he follow the team van. He is staying at a hotel a few miles up the road from ours and plans to jump on the freeway as we approach his exit. Despite my moronically vague descriptions of our location—“Um, we’re, like, on this road that is next to, like, another road...oh, and the roads have lines on them!”—my dad somehow manages to perfectly time his freeway entrance, sliding right in behind the team vehicle in the legendary maneuver that forever will be known as “The Merge.”

2013 – I’m now a full-blown has-been, and I’m running in my latest community road race—a 10K in Polson, Montana. When I pick up my race packet, I find out that the 10K course is actually just two loops of the 5K route. I also find out that there are approximately six people registered for the longer distance, half of whom are men over the age of 50. After the starting gun—er, whistle—goes off, I am running alone within seconds. To help me deal with this double-whammy of monotony (repetitive course + no competition), my dad drives the car alongside me at various points throughout the race. He and my mom cheer just as enthusiastically as they would if I were pulling ahead of Kara Goucher in the Olympic Trials.

So Dad, thanks for always being there to cheer me on no matter what. I can always count on your congratulations, encouragement, and support—whether I win a major award or just a participatory trophy (although for the record, I hate participatory trophies and think they are slowly destroying America). Love you! 

Not a chance in hail

The UM track and field team hosted its home opener (the Al Manuel Invitational) yesterday in Missoula. I attended the meet and, in true has-been fashion, mingled with fellow spectators and offered them my (usually unsolicited) opinions about the day’s performances. I even used introductory phrases like, “You know, back when I was running for the Griz…” and “Well, in my day…”

I sounded like one of those old-timer track junkies who creep around at local meets, stalk the athletes, and try to talk strategy with them before their races. I’m glad I caught myself before I started rambling about my days of running the 440 on a dirt track.

I had left the house that morning fully expecting to have an emotional breakdown at some point during the day. I pictured myself totally losing it as the mid-distance girls lined up for the 800 meters. And yes, I will admit that my eyes were a little misty when the starting gun was fired. But it was the high-speed, hail-speckled gusts of wind—not lack of emotional control—that caused my eyes to well up involuntarily.

I bumped into my former coaches at several points throughout the meet. When I stopped to chat with the head coach, he asked me if it was hard for me to watch and not compete. I assured him that I was decidedly not jealous of the 800 runners who had to deal with a nasty headwind laced with tiny ice shards as they fought their way down the homestretch.

“Ahh, come on,” he teased. “There’s a little part of you that was just dying to be on that starting line.”

Well, maybe a little, teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy, Ryan Seacrest-sized part of me. For the most part, though, I was surprisingly content to stay dry and (sort of) warm underneath multiple layers of clothing as I snapped photos for the Montana Grizzlies website.

After scrolling through my shoot this morning, I breathed an audible sigh of relief at not seeing my own agony-distorted face somewhere among my hundreds of race photos. Maybe I’m just trying really hard to cope with the loss of my status as a hail-fighting-renegade-badass. But seriously, would you be dying to trade places with any of the following athletes?

BEA: Bagel Eaters Anonymous

You know the last paragraph of Norman MacLean’s A River Runs Through It? It’s the one that’s like, “Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut…blah, blah, blah…basement of time…yadda, yadda, yadda…timeless raindrops….” It ends with this little nugget: “I am haunted by waters.”

If I could rewrite that last line to apply to my life, it would look like this:

“I am haunted by bagels.”

Why bagels, you might wonder. How could a chewy, baked ring of dough possibly cause such spiritual torment?

I’ll tell you how.

It starts innocently enough. You are a time-pressed college student with a limited food budget (because geeze, beer is expensive and you can’t drink Keystone all the time). You need a quick, cheap, satisfying lunch. You are also a long-distance runner with a sensitive stomach and a punishing afternoon workout to complete.

As you peruse the aisles of the market in the student union, you grow frustrated with the lack of options. Unless you want to spend $6.50 on an organic peanut butter and jelly sandwich, you’re pretty much S.O.L. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot it: the bagel tower.

You marvel at the sheer quantity and variety of bagels. You get even more excited when you realize that you can purchase a bagel and cream cheese for just over one dollar. It seems too good to be true. I don’t want to burst your bubble—scratch that, I actually do want to burst your bubble, obliterate your bubble, in fact, into tiny pink bubble smithereens—but hear me now: it is too good to be true.

After consuming that first bagel—the gateway bagel, as I like to call it—you feel full and energized. Your stomach has accepted the task of digesting the bagel with little protest. At practice, you feel fit, fast and light on your feet, plagued by neither the pangs of hunger nor the bloat of overindulgence.

You have a bagel for lunch the next day, and the day after that. Three weeks later, you can’t remember the last time you didn’t have a bagel for lunch. So what, you think. It’s not like I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. I could stop eating bagels any day of the week.

You don’t know why you’ve suddenly become so defensive about your bagel habit. A few weeks later, on your way to the market to buy a bagel, you pass by a pizza fundraiser. Three dollars for two slices. By this time, you’ve become a little bored with your usual lunchtime fare, and hey, you don’t have practice today, so why not? You scarf your slices of meat lover’s with gusto.

Your stomach totally rejects the cheesy, saucy, meaty meal you’ve offered it. As your stomach churns, you swear you hear it mutter the word “bagel” amidst the bubbling and gurgling. All you can manage to keep down for the rest of the day is a bottle of apple juice and 12 Rolaids. You go to bed hoping the worst is over, but your sleep is constantly interrupted by night sweats and involuntary muscle spasms.

Concerned for your health, you log on to WebMD to research your symptoms. You scroll through the list of possible causes: menopause, AIDS, cancer…withdrawal. Bingo. This is your moment of revelation. Suddenly, it’s as if the clouds have parted and the sun has risen from the depths of eternal darkness. You realize that you, a perfectly sane and rational person, are an addict. A bagel addict.

Okay, it is possible that this story contains traces of embellishment for dramatic effect, but the take-home message is 100% true. Runners tend to be creatures of habit. Once we find something that works, we stick with it. That’s why I’ve owned 47 pairs of Asics Cumulus(es?). That’s why I’ve worn my lucky underwear for every race since ninth grade. And that’s why I’ve eaten a bagel for lunch almost every day since the beginning of my college running career.

Which is why, after turning in my uniform and sweats for the last time, I marched straight to the market to buy…a cinnamon-nut croissant. Yes, I realize that a croissant is basically a French bagel. But it had cinnamon. And nuts.

Since then, I’ve slowly integrated more food groups into my lunchtime diet. Fruits. Vegetables. Poultry. As I check off more and more bricks in the food pyramid, I feel, for the first time in a long time, hopeful that I can free myself from my bagel dependency once and for all.

Food Zoo part two: chickening out

I began my cross-campus walk to practice at approximately 3 p.m. MST. The unignorable sound track of gurgles and rumbles emanating from my abdominal region left me with a great sense of foreboding. My feelings of uncertainty quickly snowballed into full-on panic. What had I gotten myself into? How could I be so stupid as to think that I could ever achieve the ungodly intestinal fortitude of the great Steve?

I ducked into the locker room and tried to formulate a plan. Using my rudimentary skills in logic and human biology (remember, I majored in journalism), I surmised that: A.) The chili was not fully digested, B.) Intense physical exertion diverts blood away from intestinal activity, C.) I was about to engage in some intense physical exertion, and D.) I was screwed.

I could only hope for a relatively mild workout. Perhaps I could persuade my coach to adjust his plans based on the potential for semi-inclement weather that afternoon. I was pretty sure I had seen some ominous clouds in the distance earlier that day. How could we possibly complete a full workout with the impending threat of a dangerous electrical storm?

I knew I had to act quickly if I was going to convince my coach to stray from the scheduled workout. He planned our training schedule for the entire semester months in advance, and talking him into changing it would be like talking Flavor Flav into ditching that huge, ridiculous clock.

I put on my best salesgirl face and tried not to think about the fact that I sucked at selling stuff. Case in point: I was the lowest-selling member of Brownie Troop No. 227 during Girl Scout cookie season. I’ve never really gotten over that. Tagalongs still taste like failure to me.

Anyway, I approached the practice meeting area as nonchalantly as possible. I kept an eye on my coach as he chatted with the team and went through his stretching routine. Just as he stood up and prepared to address the team, I moved in for the kill. Here’s a rough sketch of my sales pitch:

Me: Hey coach, what’s on the docket for practice today?

Coach: A seven-part uphill interval ladder on the Rattlesnake main trail. Didn’t you look at the schedule?

Crap, I thought. Of course he would expect that I had looked at the schedule. I launched into a recovery effort, hoping I hadn’t fudged up too bad with my stupid opener.

Me: Oh yeah, I was…um…adjusting my times from Monday’s workout for altitude, and I was so preoccupied that I totally forgot to check the schedule.

Coach: Okay, well, it’s about time to get everybody loaded up and ready to go.

As he waved to the assistant coach, indicating that it was time to get going, I realized that I was on the brink of losing this battle and thus being subjected to excruciating intestinal agony. The failed Girl Scout inside me was suddenly awakened, and there was a fire in her eyes.

Me: Wait, wait…I’m just, um, a little concerned about running up in the Rattlesnake today.

Coach: Why is that?

Me: Well, I heard that there could be some really nasty thunderstorms this afternoon, and seeing as the Rattlesnake is a hilly, heavily wooded area, I don’t think it would be safe for us to go up there.

The look he gave me made me realize that there was, indeed, a reason that nobody had ever asked Flavor Flav to get rid of his clock.

Coach: I just checked the weather report before I came down here, and it said there should be a high of 62 degrees this afternoon, with a 20 percent chance of precipitation and a UV index of three. So we’re probably best off to just stick to the schedule.

Damn. Of course he had memorized the afternoon forecast. What was I, an amateur? Coach would stop at nothing to adhere to a plan. His travel itineraries typically included multiple pages covering even the most minute details of the trip. God save your soul if you decided to eat breakfast at 7:38 instead of 7:41.

So, in a last-ditch effort to save my stomach and my pride from the anguish both would endure if I attempted the workout, I quickly devised a sound, fail-safe solution: faked injury.

I rejoined my teammates and we moseyed on over to the vehicles. One by one, they climbed in. Coach scurried around to the driver’s side and opened the door. I prepared to step up, and, with impeccable timing, purposely slipped and lost my balance, taking a dramatic tumble to the ground. Everyone looked down at me, a pathetic mess of spandex and clumsiness, as I feigned a struggle to stand.

Coach: Are you okay?

Me: [rising slowly for maximum dramatic effect] Uh, yeah, I should be just…[grimacing as I take a step]…oh man, my knee…I think I might have tweaked that darn IT band again.

Coach: Oh, well then I guess you should probably stay here and cross train.

Me: Really? You’re sure I shouldn’t try to do the workout?

Coach: You better not—it’s a lot of uphill running, and your next race is only four days, 18 hours and 32 minutes away.

Me: Okay, I guess you’re right. Better safe than sorry. You guys have a good run.

Wow. To my complete amazement and disbelief, I had successfully averted a potential crisis situation. I also learned a valuable lesson about the consequences of impulsive decision-making. Which is why, with the exception of one relapse episode involving a ham and cheese omelette, I remained steadfastly faithful to the bagel-before-practice diet plan.

OK, today this blog really is about chicken

Ahh, chicken strip day at the Food Zoo. Every UM freshman’s favorite day of the week—except, of course, for the freshmen who happened to be on the cross country team.

Yep, we were the kids who, in addition to being skinny and socially awkward, could be spotted in the cafeteria eating bagels and saltines on the day that everyone else ate luscious strips of farm fowl. I remember chewing my dry, flavorless bagel with rancorous deliberation as I watched the chicken strip line grow and snake around more and more tables. Each breath I took reeked of fried heaven. I couldn’t help but hate the other kids, just a little, for their freedom to chow down on crispy yard bird and hot, tasty French fries while I was stuck with a cold lump of refined carbohydrates.

But, alas, it was usually a workout day and I was not willing to risk suffering a nasty bout of mid-interval diarrhea. I had been there, done that when I indulged on Cajun catfish day after convincing myself that I would probably be fine, as it was “just a tempo run.”

There were, of course, freaks with freaky stomachs who could eat whatever they wanted without consequence—freaks like Steve. He was a tall, ringlet-headed waif with a stomach of steel and a taste for variety. That kid would eat his way around the Zoo on a daily basis, beginning with the main line and continuing in a rectangular path that hit the vegetarian line, the burger and sandwich bar, the pizza line and the pasta bar. Sometimes he even had room for a bowl of Marshmallow Mateys to top everything off. (FYI: Contrary to what the folks at Malt-o-Meal would have you believe, Marshmallow Mateys are not in any way comparable to Lucky Charms. Period.)

I wanted so badly to be like Steve—to be able to eat whatever my little tummy desired and still kick ass in workouts. How did he do it? I had to know his secrets. One day, when there was a lull in normal lunchtime chatter, I casually brought it up. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Hey Steve, I couldn’t help but notice that you tend to consume massive quantities of food prior to workouts, yet suffer virtually no gastrointestinal repercussions. How is this possible?

Steve: Well, [pauses to finish chicken wing and lick barbecue sauce from fingers] I just tried to get myself used to it over the summer. I would, like, eat a bunch of hotdogs and then go out for a long run.

Me: Didn’t that make you barf?

Steve: Sometimes. But eventually, my stomach got used to it and now I can eat pretty much anything before I run.

Me: So it was worth it?

Steve: Do you like eating bagels for lunch every day?

He had me there. No, I did not like eating bagels for lunch every day. In fact, I had come to hate everything about bagels except for the fact that they provided me fuel with no stomach cramps. I decided to be an adventurer and give Steve’s methods a try.

Without a word, I got up and marched to the soup section. If I was going to do this, I was going to really do it. I was making a serious commitment, which is why I ladled myself a sizeable bowl of spicy Food Zoo chili. With sour cream. And cheese.

I returned to the table and sat down slowly, staring at the giant gut bomb in front of me. I immediately felt substantially less bold than I had been during my confident stride to the chili pot. Everyone else at the table went on discussing the day’s events like nothing had happened. They hadn’t even noticed my potentially groundbreaking foray into the study of pre-workout nutrition. I resisted the urge to announce my intentions. Instead, I quietly finished my bowl of chili, cleared my dishes from the table, and returned to my dorm room to wait.

Tomorrow: the thrilling conclusion to this story and free popsicles for everyone! Just kidding about the popsicles.