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IMPROMPTU COACHING
THE GIFT OF ADVICE FROM A SVELTE SANTA CLAUS
By Tom Terez
The week before my first 10-kilometer running race, I pictured perfection on the
big day: sunny skies, ideal temperatures, a gazelle-like stride, a great finish,
thunderous cheers from the big crowd.
Then came race day and reality. As I walked from my hotel to the starting line in
downtown Cleveland, Ohio, my legs grew numb from a heavy shower of cold morning rain.
The wind grabbed my lucky cap and sent it sailing into a puddle. My 5 a.m. breakfast
began to churn as I felt rainwater soaking into my shoes.
Little did I know that by the time I reached the finish line, I would learn an important
lesson from my own private Santa Claus.
I should have expected the unexpected. Ever since high school some 27 years ago,
when I gorged myself on candy corn minutes before a 440-yard dash in the hope of
getting a sugar-induced burst of speed, I've had a love-hate relationship with all
things running. A half pound of inhaled candy corn will do that to a person.
After high school, I retired my running shoes. But as my age and waistline expanded,
I felt a renewed urge to hit the road. I sealed the deal on my 40th birthday, vowing
to become a regular runner and get fit once and for all. That was three years ago,
and since then, I've logged more than 1,500 miles on nearby neighborhood streets.
Running an organized race never interested me. It sounded like too much work. But
my older siblings ran the Cleveland 10K a year earlier, and soon after, they began
to work on me.
"Let's all run it together next year," they said. "You'll have fun!"
When I balked, they appealed to my sense of family: "We'll all be together.
Won't it be nice to do this as a sibling reunion?"
Well, sure it would, I said. But I'd have to drive two hours to Cleveland and get
a hotel room the night before.
Then they played their power card: "Aw, c'mon. You're not going to let your
older siblings outrun you. Or are you?"
I registered for the race later that day.
My siblings and I had planned to meet at 7 a.m. on race day -- 20 minutes before
the official start. But the bad weather and a big crowd kept us from finding each
other. So when the starter pistol went off, I began the race alone.
The other runners all seemed so smartly outfitted, with sleek suits in bright colors.
I had worn my old gray sweatpants, a comfy sweater, an off-white golfing jacket,
and a forest green cap with "Alaska" emblazoned on the front. I looked
like I had just rolled out of a sleeping bag and walked over from a nearby campsite.
It didn't bother me in the least. In fact, as we neared the halfway mark, I marveled
at how well things were going. My pace, breathing, and state of mind all seemed perfect.
As I neared a drink station, I decided to enjoy a celebratory slug. I grabbed a paper
cup from an outstretched hand, tossed it back, gulped -- and nearly choked.
It must have been a common sports drink, but it tasted like bad jet fuel. I coughed
through the next 10 or so steps. Then I began to burp -- titanic burps that distracted
the other runners and seemed far out of proportion to a small cup of mystery liquid.
It took me two full minutes to get my taste buds and esophagus back on track. By
then my pace and breathing seemed all messed up. The run had become hard work.
The course for this 10K is fairly flat, except for an arching highway ramp that runs
along Cleveland's skyline. Going up it the first time seemed challenging but entirely
manageable. But going up it again in reverse toward the end of the race proved to
be my undoing -- almost.
As I began that stretch of the race, I was breathing with all the grace of an overloaded
1870s steam locomotive. But above my noisy inhales and exhales, I could hear someone
calling me. He was ten feet in front, motioning me forward with a waving hand. "C'mon,"
he said. "Come here."
I sped to his side and looked over at this total stranger. He had a fancy running
suit with black and yellow accents, a carefully trimmed white beard, and a warm twinkle
in his eye. He appeared to be about 65 years old, but judging from his smooth pace
and toned physique, he had the spirit and physical condition of a twenty-something.
He looked like a svelte Santa Claus taking a break from his North Pole duties.
"Stick with me," he said. "Once we're over this hill, it's easy. Just
focus on getting over this hill."
I matched his pace, running harder than I would have if I had been alone. I seemed
to get a new supply of energy as we talked about Cleveland's historic skyline, his
connection to Columbus, and his home in Michigan. It was idle chitchat, but it eased
the strain. Before I knew it, we were cresting the hill.
As the grade turned downward, he offered more advice: "We can make up some time
here. Let's pick up the pace."
Again I took his suggestion, running much faster than usual as we slalomed past countless
runners. As the road leveled out, so did my pace and breathing. The hard work had
turned back into fun thanks to unforeseen coaching from a buff Santa.
My finish time (56 minutes and 5 seconds) was hardly remarkable by most running standards.
In fact, sticklers would say that I jogged -- rather than ran -- the course. But
I started it, finished it, and beat my personal goal for my first 10K.
Best of all, I learned that when running uphill, it pays to keep your eyes, ears,
and mind wide open. You just might find an unexpected coach whose good advice makes
all the difference.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tom Terez is the founder of InnerBest.com, BetterWorkplaceNow.com,
and TomTerez.com. His talks and workshops are all about helping individuals
and organizations achieve their very best. Click here to send Tom a note.
Copyright 2006 Tom Terez. |
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