Jeans are not waterproof (and other things I learned from my first track meet as a coach)

You know how they say you’ll never fully appreciate everything your parents did for you until you become a parent yourself?

That’s kind of how I feel about coaching (minus the poopy diapers and college tuition).

When I was in high school, I secretly harbored a tiny bit of resentment toward the track and field coaching staff. In my world, a track meet was an eight-to-ten-hour rotation between being so nervous I could vomit, running so hard I could vomit, and actually vomiting. In their world, a track meet was an all-day party where they could eat junk food, get a tan, and occasionally yell stuff.

So when I showed up to my first track meet as a coach, I expected to walk in, grab a clipboard (which, truth be told, I had no intention of actually using) and make a beeline for the concession stand. Then, licorice rope in hand, I would find my athletes and offer them a few words of sagely advice before finding a comfortable spot to watch them take my golden drops to heart and kick ass.

Here’s what really happened: I walked in, was immediately assigned to finish-line duty and, for the duration of the meet, alternated between pulling up my soaking wet jeans and struggling to record names and times on a sheet of paper that was literally disintegrating in the rain/sleet/snow/hail/[insert desired precipitation here]. Because in Montana, we believe the true measure of a state’s worthiness is its refusal to cancel an athletic event due to weather.

But, as every good coach knows, each meet is a learning opportunity. So what did I gain, besides a renewed appreciation for dry underwear? The answer: a renewed appreciation for the volunteers who count laps for the 3200 in a blizzard so that athletes can run the 3200 in a blizzard.

To better explain my drastic change of perspective, I created the following T-chart:

What I thought I knew before	What I know I know now
Finish line workers are people who volunteered for the meet on their own accord.	Finish line workers are rookie coaches who were volunteered against their will.
When the starter says, “Sweats off!” it’s OK to take another stride or two and delay removing your sweats until the last possible moment in order to conserve muscle warmth.	When the starter says, “Sweats off!” it’s time to take your damn sweats off.
Varsity runners should always have their own heat so they don’t have to deal with all of the slow JV kids.	When it’s raining sideways and there are no adult beverages available, nobody gets their own heat.
What do coaches and meet officials have to complain about? It’s not like they have to run in this crap.	I would rather run three-straight 3200s in this crap than be stuck standing here in wet jeans. (Seriously, is there anything worse than wet jeans? If I were a judge, I would make all prisoners wear wet jeans all day, every day, as part of their sentence.)
When the weather gets really bad, they should cancel the rest of the meet.	This is Montana, and we would sooner flush a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon down the toilet than cancel a track meet on account of a little rain.

Stage fright

Every time I come back from an extended stretch of involuntary cross training, I must pass through the same series of stages. Experience doesn’t make the transition any easier; in fact, it’s almost worse to know what’s coming.

So consider this your warning. If you’ve never been injured (you lucky bastard), you might want to stop reading here. If you’re like me and have survived virtually every running injury ever, then you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.

Stage 1: It’s your first day back on the roads. The cold, gusty air is full of sharp bits of freezing rain that are stabbing you in the eyes. But you’ve never felt better. Your legs are fresh and pain-free. You are so happy to be breathing in fresh air that you don’t even notice the thin stream of half-frozen snot sliding down your face. You find yourself running to the rhythm of songs like “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” and “Celebration.” You would probably smile if you had remembered to brush with Sensodyne this morning.

Stage 2: Approximately 2.5 miles into that first run, you notice that your legs are feeling remarkably less springy. Your stomach hurts, your lungs are burning, and that happy-go-lucky soundtrack in your head has faded into a playlist of Rage Against the Machine and Nirvana songs.

Stage 3: You return home exhausted and unsure of how you ever did this on a daily basis. You stumble into the shower, where you stand motionless for five straight minutes, letting the hot water run over your cold, achy body. You momentarily consider going back to pool running—permanently. Then you slap yourself in the face for being so stupid.

Stage 4: You wake up the next morning feeling like you spent the entire previous day at a Jackass tryout. Getting out of bed hurts. Going down the stairs hurts. That box of Apple Jacks on the top shelf of the pantry? Fugetaboutit.

Stage 5: Against your better judgment, you somehow force yourself out the door for another run. You proceed to slog through four miles of pure hell. You’re pretty sure Paula Deen will start cooking with olive oil before you’re back in shape again.

Stage 6: The next day, you are able to put on your socks without audibly groaning. You are flexible enough to reach the peanut butter on the second-highest shelf in the pantry. You experience the vaguely familiar desire to hit the road. Instead of focusing on not vomiting, you are able to shift your concentration to your usual mid-run topics of thought: What should I make for dinner tonight? Is it “gray” or “grey?” Is Mitt Romney’s first name short for something? What is Tang made of? Before you know it, you’re back at your front doorstep, feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. After a quick swig of water, you are inspired enough to bust out a few sets of planks.

Stage 7: Over the next few days, you gradually begin to incorporate other elements of your normal fitness routine—weightlifting, plyometrics, hot yoga. (Note: I’ve never actually tried hot yoga, and it sounds pretty disgusting if you ask me. But I’ve heard that lots of people enjoy it, so I thought I’d throw it in to show how culturally tolerant I am.)

Stage 8: Your injury is now a distant memory of a very dark time in your life. Unfortunately, since the sun now sets at approximately 4:30 p.m. and rises at 8:30 a.m., most of your life these days is, in fact, dark. So in the grand scheme of things, you’ve really only broken even.

Exhalation inspiration

There’s nothing worse than a cold, rainy Memorial Day weekend.

Scratch that—there’s nothing worse than running on a treadmill on a cold, rainy Memorial Day weekend.

Wait, it gets worse—there’s nothing worse than being stuck next to an old guy with bad breath while running on a treadmill on a cold, rainy Memorial Day weekend.

You know what I’m talking about. We’ve all been there at one time or another. But just in case you’ve somehow avoided this treadmill rite of passage, take a moment to imagine yourself in the following scenario:

You’ve just passed the halfway mark on a grueling five-mile pace-progression run.

Your breathing is growing increasingly labored as you struggle to convince yourself that hey, it isn’t so bad. At least you pretty much have the joint to yourself, since everyone else is out trying to light their barbecues in the rain.

But then…dun, dun, duuunnnnnn…in walks the old dude with the most severe case of halitosis known to man. He has his pick of machines. He could literally have his own row if he so desired. But guess which one he chooses? Oh yeah, that’s right: the one directly to your left.

To make matters worse, he is positioned approximately halfway between you and the wall fan you have cranked up to maximum speed, so whatever disgusting odor comes out of his face is blown directly into yours.

You are flooded with feelings of utter frustration and helplessness as you think, “Dear Lord, why me?”

You wince as he repetitively presses the “speed up” button, finally settling on a rate of 4 mph—a blistering pace for a 65-year-old in jeans with an elastic waistband.

It’s only a matter of time before he’s sucking air—and then blowing it back out, infused with an odor that can only be described as a mixture of coffee, taco seasoning and moth balls.

And so, on that fateful Memorial Day weekend, as I desperately tried to invent a new breathing pattern that did not involve the use of my nose (an attempt which, by the way, failed miserably), the old wheels started a-turnin’ and the old light bulb started a-blinkin’. I had an idea.

More on my stroke of brilliance in my next post. Sorry, I know the suspense is killing you, but you’ll just have to wait.

Precip prescrip

April showers bring May flowers.

As much as I would like to believe in the promise offered by this little gem of a nursery rhyme, I’ve lived through enough Montana springs to know that the showers don’t end in April. Or May. Or June. And flowers? Pshh. I don't plan on seeing any of those until mid-August.

Unlike the steady downpours of notoriously wet locations like Seattle or Portland, Montana precipitation is a sample platter of points that fall along the water-to-ice spectrum.

While some varieties of moisture are essentially harmless, others are potentially hazardous or even life threatening. I have compiled the following pocket guide to running in spring precipitation, complete with an illustrated danger scale and protective gear recommendations.

1.) Mist – A very fine, almost vaporous rain. Gives air a humid, coastal quality. Warm temperatures feel warmer, cold temperatures feel colder. Hair styling products rendered ineffective.

Variations: Icy mist (in winter-like conditions, e.g. Montana spring)

Recommendations: Wear layers and peel away when saturated. Pin back bangs to prevent unsightly frizz/forehead discomfort.

2.) Drizzle – A steady, medium-paced rain typically occurring in cool, overcast conditions.

Variations: Windy drizzle (a.k.a. wrizzle)

Recommendations: Wear waterproof outer shell. Avoid cotton garments (unless you plan to use your soaked hoodie sweatshirt as a form of weight resistance training). Post-run, use hot shower, electric blanket and/or tea to raise core temperature and fight onset of hypothermia. (Simultaneous use of hot shower and electric blanket not recommended.)

3.) Cloudburst – A sudden, forceful explosion of rainfall that makes you wonder what the ground did to deserve such violent abuse.

Variations: Horizontal cloudburst (a.k.a. hurricane)

Recommendations: Avoid loose-fitting clothing in favor of spandex, swimwear, or full-body wetsuit. In extreme cases, swimming goggles and galoshes may be necessary.

4.) Sleet – Half-frozen precipitation with the consistency of a 7-Eleven Slurpee. (Less delicious than a 7-Eleven Slurpee.)

Variations: Hard sleet (more than 50% frozen), soft sleet (less than 50% frozen)

Recommendations: Wear long, thick tights to better absorb impact and moisture. Brimmed hat (e.g. Souvenir Mexican sombrero, because what else are you going to use that for?) may help deflect sleet globs away from face.

5.) Graupel – Small, spherical pellets of hardened snow. Often mistaken for vanilla Dippin’ Dots. (Less delicious than vanilla Dippin’ Dots.)

Variations: Mega-graupel (Think giant Dippin’ Dots. Still no resemblance in taste.)

Recommendations: Barring unusually strong gusts of wind, graupel is relatively harmless and can be treated as regular snow. Dress accordingly.

6.) Hail – Small bits of ice that vary in size and shape; the most volatile and unpredictable of all types of spring precipitation. Famous for causing headaches, both directly (e.g. runners hit repeatedly in the face and head) and indirectly (e.g. car insurance agents bombarded with claims following a particularly violent storm).

Variations: Miniature hail (think uncooked rice), giant hail (size ranges from golf ball to grapefruit)

Recommendations: Avoid outdoor activity if possible. If you are a diehard crazy who must run, consider wearing leather chaps, helmet and/or protective face shield.