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Week 49: Back in the Saddle, Lollygaggers and Becoming the Storm
It’s been a couple weeks since the last update and for that I apologize.
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Philosophical Dad Stuff
A couple weeks ago, my oldest son started baseball again.
Being a typical dad, I didn’t get all the information before we left for his first practice, thinking we will figure it out when we get there.
Upon arrival at the ballpark, I realized my mistake. There were teams practicing all over the place.
We didn’t know which field he was on.
I used the “phone a friend” option and called my wife for backup. When she didn’t pick up, I thought we are men! We’ll figure this out!
Looking around, I saw his coach from last year and thought, “Perfect!”
Sending him to join his team, I sat down to relax.
It didn’t last long.
Because my child, my darling child that I love so much, may as well have not been there. In comparison with the other kids, he was completely disengaged. He kicked around in the dirt, he walked from practice station to station while the other kids ran, he didn’t watch as his teammates did drills.
In short, he was lollygagging.
I also started noticing that the other kids were much, MUCH better than my kids was.
At throwing, at catching, at hitting. At every facet of the game.
While I know that being “good” at something in youth sports is not the most important thing, I was thinking about how it was going to be a long season. I started questioning myself as a father, asking myself things like, “How could we fall so far behind in skill development?”
I was embarrassed for him. And I started blaming myself.
But worst of all, he didn’t listen when his coaches were talking. He didn’t follow instructions. And he obviously didn’t care. As the practice wore on, I got madder and madder.
I can handle a lack of skill, but a lack of respect was something else.
By the time practice ended, I was seething. We stalked to the car as I explained the attitude adjustment we were going to have and how fun devices like I-pad were going bye-bye until we learned to be a better teammate.
A few days later we showed up for his first game.
That’s when I realized we’d been at the wrong team practice. My child is 6, and we’d been at the practice for the 8-year old team.
There was a very good reason the other kids were so much more coordinated and skilled. They’re two years older.
Whoops on Dad. That being said, the attitude adjustment was still a wonderful thing. He’s been a great teammate ever since.
Being a parent is funny sometimes.
Couch to Ultramarathon…and Beyond
We are now just over 7 weeks away from a 105km jaunt through the woods.
I oscillate between growing confidence and absolute terror. This past week was a gut check.
After my reporting (boasting?) of not being injured despite 17 straight weeks of build phase, it caught up to me. Nothing major popped up to derail the event, but small overuse injuries are starting to creep in.
I’ve often written and said that lots of people can’t run 100 miles and I might be one of them.
That thought rattled through my head more than once this past weekend as I slogged to finish a hot Sunday afternoon run.
In the past, this is where I’d start making excuses.
This is the point where I’d start saying how it’s not that important. How it’s a fool’s errand. How it’s silly and frivolous and potentially dangerous even.
Excuses on top of excuses.
But now, if I am to fail, I will fail in the arena.
Because I decided that “What if?” hurts even more.
The answers: good, bad or ugly; are out there.
I was still feeling the accumulated fatigue as I slogged through the hills earlier this evening. I was still questioning my ability and my desire, my “why” as I put one foot in front of another.
Then something wet hit me in the face.
Daring fate to look up, I gazed at the sky to see…rain. Sweet, refreshing rain.
As the drops came cascading down it felt transcendent. It felt like absolution. Like the warm summertime deluge was washing away my sins.
I started singing as I ran through the gathering storm.
Then I started hearing peals of thunder, closer and closer. I picked up the pace when lightning started crashing all around me as Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves in London” blasted in my earbuds.
By the time I reached the house, I was gasping for breath nearly at a full sprint, convinced I was dodging the wrath of Zeus.
Looks like we live to run another day.
7 weeks to go.
“The devil whispered in my ear,
‘You’re not strong enough to withstand the storm.’
I whispered back, ‘I am the storm.”
- Tattoo on the leg of Spanish Ultrarunner Azara Garcia
Live triumphantly. See you next week.