Camillus NY - Hot on the heels of cross country, Winter Track is back. After the success of Jim Vermeulen's XC Journal in the fall, we've asked again for him to provide some news and notes once a month this winter. 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."
The Boundaries of Defeat
"You have a girl in this one?" a coaching colleague asked me as we stood chatting on the VanCortlandt Park start line. Two of his girls were running the Northeast Footlocker freshman/sophomore race that was queuing, long sprinters who didn't particularly like to train at distance. "It's the only way I get them to run a tempo," he said, then smiled.
"I have one running in the Championship race coming up," I told him. "Carly Benson."
"Oh yes, yes," he said, recognizing the name. "I hope she wins it all."
While the official prognosticators did not seen that as likely, she was a favorite to run top-10 and earn a prestigious spot at the national championship in San Diego. Heady stuff for a freshman in an elite field dominated by upperclassmen. Her teammate and training partner, Lindsay, would run the junior/senior race shortly after noon. Carly was, at that moment, out on a warm-up, her event still forty-five minutes off. The day, though chilly, seemed to bear no grudges. The breeze was light, the course generally dry. Both Carly and Lindsay looked fit and ready for their races. Nervous, but ready.
For me, the day was already old. Thanksgiving family obligations had kept me in Syracuse while Carly and Lindsay traveled to the NYC race site with parents a day ahead. I had dragged myself from bed at 4:00am and been barreling south on I81 by 4:30. The roads were clear, traffic light. As others had rolled over in their sleep, I zipped further south in good time. I was gassing up in Scranton and sipping my Dunkin Doughnuts coffee by 6:15, knowing at that point there was no need to rush. I'd be early to VanCortlandt Park. Sunrise fired the underbelly of clouds slicing above the Delaware Water Gap, and traffic never thickened until the George Washington Bridge.
Arriving by 9:30, I had found a parking spot a short walk up Broadway and pulled on my rain pants for added warmth before trudging to the race finish. A small crowd had gathered and the first race, due in a half hour, was being announced. As I walked around, Carly texted they were on their way from the hotel. Spying the check-in tent, I wandered over to ensure the girls' bib numbers were there, inadvertently budging those waiting. Looking up, I saw Lindsay back in line with her parents, so I grabbed both numbers and took hers over. Carly arrived shortly with her mom while her father hunted a parking space. We chatted for a while and made race logistic arrangements, then I headed toward the start line.
This was my second VanCortlandt Footlocker, and it resembled the first is being a bit loose and unorganized at the start. Athletes, coaches and parents all milled around. Five meters behind the white start mark lay the red line where athletes would mass, waiting for the starter's signal to step forward and take the gun. Remembering my runner's race two years earlier, I staked a spot on the red line, knowing all the racers and coaches now crowded five meters up would eventually be forced back by the officials. Carly had returned from her warm up, and she darted in and around the crowd as she conducted her final strides and sprints. She seemed fine. Nervous, but fine. The sun slid behind a high advancing bank of clouds, and the chill increased perceptibly. Carly's parents stood another five meters back, taking the outer layers she stripped off as race time neared.
Her strides and sprints complete, she took her place on the line space I'd aggressively guarded. The starter barked out the countdown. "Four minutes. No more run-outs!" Then "Three minutes!" Then "Two minutes!" Then "One minute!" The girls, moved back by the officials as expected, crammed the line. I stepped away as the starter raised his flag and gun arms to horizontal. Reaching vertical, he dropped the flag and fired simultaneously. They were off.
Carly's parents headed across the field to intercept her entering the Cow Path. I jogged up to the bridge crossing over the Henry Hudson Parkway, the last place to see her before runners enter the back loop where spectators are not allowed and they labor in runner solitude. Coming up the cinder path rise next to traffic on the parkway, I arrived to a small crowd. A coach shared the running time so all could estimate the arrival of the racers. Soon, the leaders climbed into view, and Carly was among them. "Good Carly!" I shouted as she passed in fourth. Watching them surge across the bridge and turn right onto the back loop, she led a large group of girls following the race leaders as they curved up and over a rise.
Something, however, made me uneasy. I re-played the mental picture of her passing. She had simply appeared less strong than the others in her front group. Her father would later note that when she passed him lower down he'd never seen her so red in the face. What that meant, I did not know at the time, but racing by at roughly the halfway mark, she clearly looked more the freshman in this moment than in other races. I began descending to the finish field, then stopped, deciding to remain near the bridge, thinking that any moves necessary would need to be signaled to her as soon as possible. I radioed her father that she was in 4th and that I'd stay higher up near the bridge. I didn't say why.
The wait began as the bridge crowd dissipated, moving lower or jogging toward the distant finish. A man nearby, seeing my camera, assured me he'd stay out of my way. "You have a runner in the race?" he asked, smiling. I told him yes. "Your daughter?" he wondered. No, I replied, a girl on my team. He left me to my thoughts.
Soon, shouts near the bridge signaled their return. When the race leader, Brianna Schwartz, crossed and powered down toward me, I started counting, searching for that familiar white singlet. The leaders surged by, and when I reached 20, I stopped counting. No Carly. The game was up. Regardless of her position now, she was too far back for any chance at a predicted top-10 finish. No flight to San Diego for this Wildcat this year. But as runners continued to stream by with no sight of her, I became worried, my earlier concern now realized. Something had happened. This wasn't just a bad day or a physically tough race like she'd experienced at states. As runners up in the 80's and 90's churned by, I radioed her father the bad news and started up toward the bridge. Just then, she swung into view, lurching side to side, battling for every step. She neared me as I calmly exhorted her to "just finish it out, Carly." Instead, she pulled off next to me and slumped. "I can't," she gasped as she clutched her sides. "I can't move my legs." Then she started sobbing.
For a moment we stood beside the passing flow of finishing runners. I did a quick scan to ensure she was not going to collapse. "O.K.," I said, patting her side. "You'll be O.K. Let's just walk." True to her nature, Carly stepped off into the rocky culvert so as not to obstruct any other runners, but I brought her back onto the level path. I radioed her father what had happened and to meet us near the start. Slowly, we descended together toward the finish field, her sobs muffled by the drone of passing parkway traffic.
Some of the worst moments of coaching come in the immediate aftermath of a runner's unexpected defeat or disappointment. Uselessness is usually the reason. Unless a runner needs to talk, most words at those moments are superfluous, about as resonant as a light breeze. Still, the first impulse is natural--to smooth the raw emotions, to try and 'make it all better,' as though feeling bad is destructive or, at the very least, unfairly uncomfortable. But of course it isn't either. Every competent runner builds a career as much on defeat as on victory. The bad days count as much--sometimes more--that the good ones in eventual success. In victory, we often instruct our athletes to 'enjoy the moment.' And while no one is ever going to suggest a runner enjoy losing or dropping out, those moments ultimately matter, so athletes should never be denied the dignity--or value--of their defeats. And defeat for a distance runner is ultimately a personal and solitary affair.
Once we'd met the parents and she'd pulled on pants and top, I walked a short distance with Carly alone, saying what little you need to say about being O.K., about the sun coming up the next morning and about eventually bouncing back. I could have said more. I could have praised her for that rare ability to physiologically empty the tank, to go until literally nothing remained and the muscles refused to fire, an act of courage and focused determination. I could have told her there's a well-known poem by Kahlil Gibran about losing that begins with the lines:
Defeat, my
Defeat, my solitude and my aloofness;
You are dearer to me than a thousand triumphs,
And sweeter to my heart than all world glory.
I could have described future strength gains in the weight room that would make her a more dangerous competitor.
But it wasn't the time.
We circled back, and I left her to her parents. For a few moments, they simply hugged her. Eventually she'd be fine--actually better than fine because every sports defeat includes an opportunity--and I knew Carly would seize hers. I turned to the start line and found Lindsay, who was finishing the line drills for her junior/senior competition. Lindsay herself had lost something--all of September to injury. She'd fought back, and then extended her season for one last 5k opportunity as a Wildcat. She would earn a different--and equally valuable--finish and would later stand on the podium with the medal she rightly deserved.
Carly's parents left with her for the long drive home. Later, partway into a two week transition, Carly e-mailed. We had not talked since VanCortlandt, and I'd not asked for the usual race analysis. A few weeks away from everything--including the coach--is not a bad idea at the long end of an accomplished and demanding season. Carly just had a few questions about some things. It had only been four days, but she also added a postscript: "PS. I can't wait to start training again."