Camillus NY - After the success of Jim Vermeulen's XC Journal
in the many falls of Cross Country, we've asked again for him to
provide some news and notes once a month this summer. Think of these as
the thoughts that cross the mind of your average coach. Up from Section
3, we present you with "Thoughts From Three."
On "The Rise"
The gloom is palpable. Grey overwhelms the thick underbelly of clouds that seem in no hurry to go anywhere. It's an early December day so tightly shrouded that by mid-afternoon it already appears dusk-like. Last year at this time, the first snow was on its way, but this season the temperature, like a confused mallard, is heading in the wrong direction. I'm betting we'll see golfers out this coming weekend. The athletes have arrived at the base of the 200 meter tilt in Forsythe Street, their work for the day. They briefly stare up its length, then go back to their earnest gabbing. Since it's not raining or snowing and is surprisingly warm for this time of year, weather doesn't concern them.
Ours is a 'happy family' day, my term for one of those sometime-afternoons when the workout needs of entire teams converge and we bunch up for common efforts. There are necessary variations, of course, since forcing throwers up too many tilted 200's might bring out the ambulances or at the very least kick in a totally useless training effect. They'll run shorter sprints and conduct leg drills on a side street. In a sport with many divergent parts and personalities, however, these infrequent training days are a chance for the team to feel proximate and whole, so we conduct them whenever appropriate and possible. Last week, the day Coach Delsole announced our first 'happy family' workout of the indoor season, one of the neophytes wanted to know if Chinese food was involved.
Despite the gloom, it's always good to be out, to steal these milder days from the calendar. Already, the skiers are grumbling about this December, but if the weather gods have taken away with one hand, they've gifted with the other. Knock on wood, we hope to use our track into January. Road or track, the goal is the same: avoiding linoleum. Linoleum, we're told, is the worst for the runner's feet and legs, exacerbated as it typically is by the tight hallway corners most high schools contain. Linoleum's even worse than macadam, which isn't great but still better than concrete sidewalk. Macadam, though, is obviously not as soft as the track or wooded paths and grass. Those are the best, we're told repeatedly. Of course, Jay Dicharry comes along and informs us that it's not really the surface that matters--or the shoes. It's how we've trained and strengthened the feet to do what they are designed to do that really matters. In fact, a variety of surfaces, he believes, trains the feet to proprioceptively react more effectively. So we work on the feet with our drills and leave those 'surface arguments' to others.
Today it's that macadam, and the afternoon's agenda for the sprinters and distance is the same: nine tilted 200's at interval paces in sets of three with a jog-down recovery. There's nothing particularly novel about this one. Most of the veterans know it, and a few would, if allowed, go for the willpower element and simply rack up intervals, contesting the record of eighteen. But that's not what we're aiming for. We'll prescribe the volume and allow them to toy with the intensity. "I just want the total times of each set," I tell them. "You're looking to go negative through those sets. Please stay to the side of the road on the way up and stop before crossing over to descend. We don't want anyone flattened--too much paperwork involved with that."
Hunter gives the signal and his boys group is off. The other groups follow while Coach and I walk up to the midpoint of the rise for better views. It's time to watch. I am always amazed by some athletes' assumptions that they become invisible during workouts, that we can't notice stuff. The coach's job is as much to watch as it is to lecture. It is as much to quietly analyze as it is to shout. Every workout, good or bad, the athletes provide a trove of information that some don't even know they're sharing.
Aside from the few 'swivel-headed runners'--the ones always checking to see if they're being checked--most of the troops are preoccupied with their efforts. Some--usually the autumn couch potatoes--start suffering early. It only takes a few intervals and some of those, as we say, fall off the wagon. We encourage them, we reassign some to lower or slower groups, we even allow a few to silently embrace their fate so there will be things to talk about in later private conversations. We also hand out the compliments for good work that catches our attention, but the day's never the day without some good natured jokes or jabs.
To one descending group of newbies: "Hey, thanks for coming today you guys. Really, thanks for just showing up."
And for another tired group not looking all that enthusiastic: "How's your self-esteem doing folks? Is it high enough or do you need a compliment?"
We get weird looks.
The afternoon rolls on as the light steadily pales. Up fast, down slow--they plug on. An elementary school bus passes with young faces--perhaps future runners--peering wide-eyed out the windows. Earlier at school, following attendance, I'd related two quick anecdotes. One was the short version of my unplanned bivouac high up Wallface Cliff in the Adirondacks one late October day years ago. Climbing too slowly, my climbing partner and I didn't make it, winding up stranded almost to the top and unprepared for the cold, wet night we were forced to endure on a 1x8 foot ledge. I related pulling my emptied pack up around my legs as the light failed and I thought, this is going to be hard. Then I told them about Meg who, a few days earlier, had told herself basically the same thing before a 12x400 interval workout on the track. We were both bracing ourselves for what lay ahead, a far better strategy than pretending something would be easy. "So brace yourselves," I'd warned them. "The Rise workout is going to be hard."
And it IS hard, but then again it's not in the way runners understand--unlike some other sports athletes--that on certain days their primary job is to suffer. Suffering involves time. "How many left?" we're asking groups descending as early commuters drive by on their way home. Someone holds up two fingers and offers a tired smile. "Dos mas!" I shout back. "Finish faster."
With a few more intervals, the rise begins to drain its runners. The distance crew logs times and retrieves gear from my car before heading out. Coach Delsole returns to the school with the early finishers while I remain to watch the dwindling numbers. Eventually, the last group jogs down through the gloom, one of them thoughtful enough to bring down the finish cone. We're done.
Back at school, they reassemble as a large circle in our cramped but brightly lit third of a gym. Coach Delsole moves about, directing our core drill sequence. Just as on the rise, some struggle with their poor conditioning while other nonchalantly face each other during side planks and play rock-paper-scissors. I wander around, instructing and complimenting. Coach stretches out the counts and cracks vintage jokes, making the troops groan one way or the other.
