The big Mizungo

That's what I'll be in Kenya, where I'm headed for the next 3.5 weeks. I wanted to make sure all of my readers (all none of you) knew that I was gone, but would be returning. If you need me, I'll be the fat, white runner in the Rift Valley of Kenya. You shouldn't have any problem finding me......

Runnin' is a mutha

Today was my first HHH (hazy, hot, humid) day of running in what promises to be many this summer. Usually, I at least meet this season with good fitness, thus better able to handle HHH. Not this year. My condensed 20 year running story is thus:

Act 1- Self-indulgent college student runs to recover from lung surgery

Act 2- Exercise Physiology grad student runs because it's the cool thing to do among his professors and student peers. "Cool" is used here with a lot of latitude since we're talking about dorks who talk about lactic acid all day. Some racing during Act 2. Most of it involves not knowing what I'm doing and posting relatively pedestrian times.

Act 3- Exercise Physiology post-doc "gets in to running" in a Runners World sort of way. That is, I start doing 40-50 miles a week, running marathons and accumulating races. Times come down, but I never can seem to do stuff like break 40 minutes for a 10k or qualify for Boston in the marathon. These aren't monumental achievements, but they seem like Everest to me at that time.

Act 4- Exercise Physiology professor goes bat-crap over running after reading "Running with the Buffaloes" by Chris Lear. Ramps mileage up to 80+ miles a week, becomes a skeleton and achieves aforementioned unreachable goals quite easily.

Act 5- Exercise Physiology professor goes really bat-crap and gets up to 90-100 miles per week. I run 2 hours a day for a while and then have a "what's this all mean?" moment after finishing the 2007 Army Ten Miler in a dissapointing 67:30. I get through the Richmond marathon (3:16:02) and then swear that I'm done running. I purposefully eat crappy food, sit around and do everything but buy an electric scooter to ride so that I don't ambulate. I gain 20 pounds and feel old.

That brings us up to speed to today, where I have decided I like being obsessed, skinny and in shape more than I like being fat, cranky and slow. I'm aiming towards the Boston Marathon 2009. Right now I jog along for 30-40 miles a week at something like 9 minute pace. Probably 10 minute pace on a bad day. I'm also 180 pounds. From personal experience, I know that I'll need to double or triple that amount of miles and get to where an easy run is normally <8 min/mile pace. I'll also need to lose at least 20 pounds and be able to do workouts in the neighborhood of 6 min pace and faster. That seems like an awful long ways away. Well, at least it beats sports cars and alcoholism for a mid-life crisis (or does it?).

55 minute shuffle today. Ran shirtless through Purcell park so that all the 'burg residents could see my jiggles.

RIP Dell

I just found out yesterday that my high school baseball coach passed away a few years ago in a car accident. Dell Norwood was the coach of the W-L (Va) High School baseball team for years and was inducted in to the VHSL Hall of Fame (justifiably so). He was also the father of Scott Norwood, All-Pro kicker for the Buffalo Bills.

Finding out Coach Norwood was dead caused a profound sadness in me. I wasn't all that close with him. As a matter of fact, I could have called him a week before his passing and he probably wouldn't know who the heck I was. However, I was sad for how I thought about and spoke about him in the past.

In the Fall of 1983, my family moved back to Northern Virginia following a failed "return to Texas" experiment that lasted a year. One of the minor benefits of being in Texas for a year was that I got to start on the varsity baseball team. This was less due to any proficiency on my part than it was to the fact that I was at a small school and didn't have much competition for the part. I went through the year playing first base and hitting something like .280. The year ended with my being named "Honorable Mention" on the all-district team. My coach informed me that I had absolutely owned one of the teams in the district and that coach cast my requisite one vote needed to secure said honorable mention.

So, I took my mediocre baseball skills and honorable mention award back to Northern Virginia and went out for the Generals in the Spring of 1984; where Coach Norwood immediately slated me for the 3rd team catcher spot. For those of you unfamiliar with sports, a lot of crap has to happen before the 3rd team catcher is ever going to see the field. Seeing this, I asked Coach Norwood if I could try out at 1st base. I was a lot more confident of this as our 1st baseman wasn't nearly as good as our catcher. Also, I could always trot out my "Honorable Mention" credentials of the previous year. Before I could wow him with that awesome accolade, he informed me that 1st base "wasn't where I intended to use you". My response to this was sulking on the bench for the next few weeks and playing the role of victim. Ultimately, I ended up quitting halfway through the season. Coach Norwood had asked me to catch a JV game one week and I calmly quit rather than suffer the indignity of playing as a senior on the JV. I then proceeded to badmouth Coach Norwood to anyone who would listen. I characterized him as a bumbling, tired, old man who was past his prime as a coach. I would tell anyone who used the word "baseball" around me about the injustice thrown on me by this aging legend of Virginia baseball. The story would always include my accolade of "honorable mention" all-district the year before (sometimes without the honorable mention part) and would continue through the sad tale of not getting a chance.

As with many things, I was able to take a more objective look at my athletic past or lack thereof as I got older.

I've had the opportunity to coach a little. I've also seen my stepson excel at high school athletics. From these experiences, I'm able to put on Mr. Norwood's shoes a bit better. In truth, I wouldn't give me much of an opportunity either. The fact is that a coach can't be expected to lie awake at night wondering how to get a .280 hitter more involved. You've got too many more important things weighing on you. By the time a kid is playing sports in high school, winning is important and decisions are made to better enable the team to win. The good coaches also develop character and teach the game to everyone who wants to be part of the team; but rarely, if ever, does everyone get an equal shake every time, all the time.

So, after realizing this, questions about athletics and high school have been rejoined with the basic answers that I played baseball, I played 1st base and catcher and that I wasn't all that good. Now that I can see this, I have a much more objective vantage point to my experience with Dell. I can say that he was a little older and a little tired by the time he coached me. We all saw that he could appear a little disinterested at times and seemed like he was tired of herding adolescents together to form an effective baseball team. He could also seem personally detached, not unusual for an older coach at the end of his career. However, his record speaks for itself and suggests that these latter years were an aberration. One thing I cannot accuse him of any more is being unfair to me. As a matter of fact, I was the one who was unfair to him by spreading around my tale of baseball woe.

By all accounts, Dell Norwood was a great husband, father, educator and coach. Mine is the loss for not taking advantage of the latter two qualities. Rest in peace Dell.