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.

Get real

Well folks, it’s that time of year again—the time when I usually start making frequent withdrawals from the excuse bank to make sure I never have to do that torturous uphill mile repeat workout. Yep—it’s cross country season.

Thankfully, my days of pounding the dirt for several long, unpleasant intervals are over—but that doesn’t mean I’m out of the woods (literally and figuratively).

When I heard that the local high school runners would start practicing this week, I experienced an unsettling emotional reaction that can only be described as a cross country veteran’s version of post traumatic stress disorder.

Suddenly, I was back at the trailhead where that miserable, hot, dusty workout began. Everything was so vivid, so real—I could feel my lungs burning as my legs struggled to carry my sweaty, exhausted body up the rocky incline. I could taste the turkey-bagel vomit spewing from my mouth as I bent over the edge of the trail, gasping for breath in between regurgitations. I could smell the men’s team as they grunted past me, leaving in their wake a hot, wet cloud of unwashed-running-shorts stink.

When I finally snapped back to reality, my forehead was dotted with beads of cold sweat, and my stomach was a knot of imaginary ill-digested turkey bagel.

How did I ever survive that sport?

Then it hit me—I not only survived cross country, I reveled in its status as a sport reserved for ultra-tough renegade badasses.

There is a reason sixty kids go out for soccer while only six go out for cross country. When it comes down to it, any semi-athletic high-schooler could kick a ball, but not very many have the guts and determination necessary to power through three miles of continuous pain and suffering.

So yeah, being on the cross country team made me feel special, even if the other kids didn’t exactly feel that way about it. I think I even remember one of my high school teachers asking me when I was going to try a real sport.

For the record, *Mr. Daniels, cross country is pretty much as real as it gets. I left a pile of bagel barf on the side of a hiking trail, for eff’s sake. And to the stupid football jocks who made fun of the awkward, skinny cross country athletes: I don’t really care anymore because you’re probably fat now.

* Name has been changed