Thoughts From Three: In The Eye of the Beholder

In The Eye of the Beholder

        There's an ominous scene from the 2004 film "Man on Fire," in which Paul Rayburn (Christopher Walken) describes to the Mexican AFI director Miguel Manzano (Giancarlo Giannini)his thoughts on John W. Creasey. Creasy is a hardened ex-CIA assassin turned mercenary played by Denzel Washington, and no one can locate him. He's gone rouge in a vengeful Mexico City hunt for underworld figures who've abducted and supposedly killed the young girl he'd been hired by a wealthy family to protect. At first professionally stand-offish, the gruff Creasey had grown unexpectedly fond and protective of the young girl, and the kidnapping-for-ransom-gone-wrong enraged him. "A man," Rayburn tells Manzano of Creasey, "can be an artist in anything. Stone, paint, words. Food. Anything if his soul is true to it. Creasy's art is death. And he's about to paint his masterpiece."

While that grisly prospect certainly stretches the boundaries, it is true that you can 'create' in as many ways as imagination and civil acceptance allow. The artistic possibilities in a person's work or avocation are endless--¬¬carpentry to custom cars, flowerbeds to photographs. In our running world, we know from Steve Prefontaine that even "a race is a work of art...." 

But what, really, did Pre mean? We've all witnessed some pretty unartful races in our days, everything from the classic rabbit-turned-turtle neophyte track affairs to polished runners trapped and tripped because of poor tactics. Watch any scholastic league meet and it's quickly clear that not every race is a work of art-or is bad art at best.

That's simply because our good art takes time. It takes practice and a steady accumulation of not only miles but miscues, mediocrity and failures. "Everything is hard before it is easy," say Goethe simply. Most importantly, on the part of runners, the "art" of racing takes the vision to see something happening that has not yet happened.

In a 2003 essay, Robin Phillips titles the question: "Are Works of Art in The Mind?" The point he pursues is simply this: A work of art exists first as thought. Artists can't create what they have not already, in some fashion, envisioned through a polished and carefully maintained artistic prism--which is themselves. Terry Orlick(In Pursuit of Excellence) slants it this way for athletes: "Your performance is a function of your visions and expectations for yourself." If you've ever coached an athlete to a personal record, a league or sectional or state championship, if you remember both the physical and mental process's required to carry that athlete to his/her destination--and if you agree with Pre on the race-as-art thing--then the easy answer to Phillips is¬ this: our racing works of art must first be run in the mind. There is, of course, room for surprises, for the ah-ha moments of unexpected accomplishments. But the vast majority of race masterpieces exist first in the dreams or beliefs of the runners who then are willing and able to create them.

One of the primary jobs of the scholastic coach, then, is to suggest those visions, to jump-start the creative process.

Typically, Pre's quote is placed in the context of big races and elite performers. I've watched my share of such scholastic athletes 'paint' a masterpiece, and I've been fortunate enough to coach a few of those artists myself. But they don't own the canvas. And it's not a restricted studio. If coaches pay attention and broaden their field of vision, potential masterpieces are not limited to the team elites and state/national level athletes. Everyone gets to paint. Or, as Elizabeth Gilbert contends about the creative process, one that presumably includes Pre: "You don't need anyone's permission to lead a creative life." Or to create memorable races.

What athletes do need beside vision, as Orlick correctly points out, is commitment, belief in one's capacity and a focused connection to the steps necessary to build beyond-and in spite of-the inevitable failures. Helping a range of athletes develop and apply those prerequisites for personal excellence is what probably separates the conscientious coaches from the check collectors or the glory hunters. I do know that some of the finest races I've coached did not involve sectional or state championship victories. They were big victories regardless.

Pete

The officials pulled him off the looped course at the two mile mark. They were enforcing the new Straggler Rule I had stupidly missed in the fine print, the new procedure intended to keep slow competitors from being overtaken by fast front runners in the next race, a circumstance guaranteed to make a mess of the automated meet scoring. It was just as well I wasn't there, that his mother was the one who saw his eyes tear up with embarrassment and disappointment. To me, he always seemed too massive for anything like that, more a linebacker who laced up running flats every afternoon than a distance runner.

The next fall Pete gave up his junior year of cross-country to prepare for a shot at winter's basketball team. When that didn't work out, he was back for his senior season as a harrier, still huge by runner standards. McQuaid and its Straggler Rule was first on his agenda. I offered to allow him to sit it out and avoid the rule, but he would have no part of that.

It wasn't even close. He sailed by the officials sharpening their hooks for the slower runners behind him. Next, he honed in on the 26:00 5k that had eluded him for four years. It proved more vexing than outrunning the Straggler Rule. The remaining October meets-27:34.0, 26:27.2, 26:31.4-slipped by like lost starlings. Time was running out, but he caught a break at our league championship, his final race as a Wildcat. Hills were replaced by rises. The footing was decent. He'd have momentum in his favor, and heart was never the issue. 

There were other memorable team moments that season, but what sticks in the mind's eye are the low, dappled autumn hills surrounding the championship course, the wisp of a comfortable breeze and big Pete in the middle of it all: Pete out strong, holding his own at the back of JV pack. Pete pushing the middle mile, growing in confidence while team members and family grow in anticipation. Pete in the race's late stages, suddenly understanding it's there for the taking and digging deeper. Then a teammate is bolting across the closing loop, screaming at him "You can do it Pete! You can do it! Keep driving!" And Pete's doing just that-charging for all he's worth around the last turn, a tractor-trailer on a race course with Peugeots, taking mark on his final finish line as the crowd's cacophony matches those pumping arms and massive churning legs.

        Into the chute, Pete wobbles with an exhausted smile. Overhead the clock reads: 25:56.8.

And we have the photograph to prove it.