Turkey Track Trail Run, Week 1

It's time to ask forgiveness from the trail gods for my hubris. A friend asked if I wanted to do a marathon with him. The race? The XTERRA Turkey Track Trail Run, 26.2 miles of mostly single track at 8,000 feet of altitude in Pagosa Springs, Colorado. I haven't run a marathon in seven years, haven't sun more than twenty miles a week in more than a year, haven't been healthy for more than four months (I have gout and it's definitely a pain but improving), and haven't a goal in the world other than enjoying my regained ability to cover ground at a slow lope.

Naturally, I said yes.

I needed something to inspire me. I've done marathons and dealt with crowds and overpriced expos. I've done ultras and discovered how wonderful Vaseline can be and that I can run with sore feet for an awfully long time. I've solo-run trails in the Seven Devils, turning 30 or 35 miles in a day, just for the sense of awe-and I plan to do so again. But none of that was getting be past fitness-runner status and that was okay. I like being fit.

But something was missing.

Excitement.

I don't run just to rack miles or add to a marathon total. The Marathon Maniacs run aiming for totals, 3 marathons in 16 days, or 31 marathons in 365 days. Impressive, yes, but no more inspiring than the accumulation of blackened toe nails. Like the folks that keep track of their consecutive days running, the type that say "Oh, I haven't missed a day in eleven years, six months, thirteen days and," a pause to check the Timex, "seventeen hours."

I'm not that Type A.

I also don't like crowds so Chicago or New York are not in the plans. I got my fill of crowds at a couple of Rock 'n Rolls in San Diego. Dodging people for the first fifteen miles (do people lie or what to get into the first corrals - I always give a realistic appraisal of speed and ALWAYS end up passing a butt-load of slow-pokes. It's rude.)

I've done a lot on trails and, given an option, would never run on pavement again. A trail marathon is new but only because I haven't raced one before.

The exciting part isn't the race-it's that I plan on running with a partner. Most of the time, my running buddies are faster than me. If you've seen me run, it's perfectly understandable. In this case, we're pretty evenly matched. And, because I'm coming back from such a long way, I'm more interested in running than racing. (Though I checked the age group results, but only once - it's a habit!)

We'll be training separately since he's in Colorado and it's a bit far to travel just for the weekend long run. We'll follow different plans. I've been here before and I know what works for me. Lots of miles, a bit of speed, steady progressions. I've got time for two full cycles on the speed work - mostly tempo and enough striders to knock the burrs off my form and clean it up. Gradual ramp up on the long run, lots of them, one every two weeks so the legs can recover in between. It's all sitting in a spreadsheet.

Life will happen between now and race day so the schedule will get blown up at least once. Adapt and survive and get to the start line.

After that, it's all good.

Graphic isn't Real

A post on the KillZone Blog  sparked a bit o thinking this morning about the difference between graphic and real and the realization that graphic isn't real. Well, a post and a pot of coffee and a lousy show on Netflix last night. We watched about twenty minutes of the show (it will remain nameless but feel free to speculate on your own) before turning it off. The reason? It was insufficient for the writers or producers to get us to use our imagination on the grisly murders. They felt it necessary to take the screen, shove it against our noses, and rub it in the gore. span This offends me. Mostly I attribute it to getting a bit cantankerous as I get older but if I wanted that visceral (and perhaps vicarious?) thrill, I could go to an abattoir. What I wanted was entertainment, what they gave me was a massacre without a reason to care.

The story line wasn't bad (though not original) and the acting was acceptable. The problem was that the writers or the producers had so little faith in the story that they resorted to graphic images to compensate. The other implication, the audience is dull and incapable of appreciating a properly developed story, is just depressing.

It's not the first show that I've tuned out because of this problem and I don't bother going to the movies any more. The dramas are slow and dull, the comedies force the laughs, and action movies no longer require much more that a constant bombardment of explosions. Most of the acting is pretty poor, too. As I said, I'm working on getting cantankerous.

I see it happen in novels, too, as writers confuse being graphic with being real and plot with story. In a bit of heresy, I am reevaluating the age old advice "show, don't tell" because I am beginning to suspect that this particular pendulum has swung too far.

The constant "show, show, show" places the perceptions of the author into the story and, I think (still pondering this) blocks the natural imagination of the reader. Well-built storytelling should blend the showing into, in measured doses, the fabric of the work. I enjoy writers who trust me as a reader to understand the world they built and the people in it and to add my imagination to help bring it to life. Without that trust between the writer and the reader, there are simply words on a page, uninspired and limp.

Writers like Robert Heinlein or Elmore Leonard did a lot of telling, far more so than showing, but were masters of their craft and excellent at the art of storytelling. I'm not sure that either developed plot outlines or large character sketches. They told stories.

What they excelled at was keeping the reader asking, "And then what happened?"

Are you living an expansive life?

I'm reading a book, Fiction Attack, by James Scott Bell, author and writing coach extraordinaire, and he asks that very question: Are you living an expansive life? Are you taking risks and learning or playing it safe? For most people, the answer is to play it safe. And there are good evolutionary reasons to do exactly that. After all, early adopters in the paleolithic era tended to get eaten by saber-toothed tigers if the newest idea didn't work out as planned. All species are driven by a strong survival instinct (with the possible exception of the panda) and taking chances was, well, chancy.

But advancement can't be accomplished by sitting in the crook of the tree, watching the world go by. Or in front of the TV. To learn new things, to grow, a person needs to leave the comfort zone and explore. Explorations don't need to be on foot or to some strange land. The most arduous journeys start inside you, asking a simple question: "What if. . . ?"

What if I asked that girl out?

What if I learned Italian?

What if I climbed that mountain?

Not everybody wants to, or even needs to, live an expansive life but if you want to reach your maximum potential as a contributing human being, playing it safe isn't an option. All history is built by people pushing boundaries. Those who dared to try something new, like powered flight, are revered as 'unique' and 'special'. They are neither - they are simply people who were willing to climb out of the tree.

Do many of these folks perish? Absolutely, sometimes in spectacular fashion.  Watch Birdmen: The Original Dream of Flight if you want an appreciation of how intensely limits can be pushed.

Not every act needs to be death-defying, of course. Some of those 'what if's' exist purely in the realm of the mind, creating new ways to look at things. The American Revolution was a new way to organize a country. Relativity by Einstein was a new way to view the universe. Ideas are perhaps the most profound life-changers.

History is also strewn with those who played it safe but backed the wrong leader, the wrong idea. In the end, there's no such thing as playing it safe. Hoping that the group simply spreads your risk - and your exposure to risk - over a larger entity.

So, back to the question: are you living an expansive life? Do you ever think. . . what if. . . .?

Holiday Fun Runs

Yep, Christmas is coming, so it's that time of year: the holiday fun run in frigid temperatures and, for the more adventurous, costumes. The Asotin Cross Country team is sponsoring the Joy to the World Run on December 21st. Last year, it was the End of the World run but apparently the Mayans were wrong. It's a 2- and 5-mile fun run that starts and finishes at the Asotin track. You can download an entry form here --> JTTWFunRun13 As an added bonus - and a surprise to the Race Director, Tim Gundy, since I didn't bring this up to him yet - I will be sponsoring a "Best Costume Award" which is probably a $15 gift certificate to Tri-State Sports.

There are other relatively local holiday fun runs as well:

The Seaport Striders have their Santa Run this Saturday, December 7th, at Swallows Nest Park in Clarkston. Entry form --> 2013santarun. They also have their annual New Year's Day Hangover Run - which I have never run but not due to hangovers. Entry form

Want something more challenging? How about a winter 50K. Pullman is holding one on the 14th (though you don't have to do the whole thing). Pullman Winter Ultras. Kindly, they include this informational notice. IMPORTANT: The Pullman Winter Ultra Series is a no-fee, low-key, no-support, slip-on-ice, freeze-your-toes-off, drink-a-beer-afterward-or-during, fun-run-style event.

If anybody knows of other fun runs at the holidays around here, let me know. Colfax used to have one (the Santa Run, where I dressed up like a reindeer with a couple of friends and pulled Sara around on a sleigh. Lance had to wear the red nose.)

Up on the Palouse Divider, they used to run the Mangy Moose 5K and 10K but that disappeared a couple of years ago, unfortunately.

Run gently, folks, and bundle up. It's a mite nippy out there (single digits this morning) and a white Christmas looking more likely by the day. Perfect for trying out new running gear that Santa brings.

Finishing Kick up on Amazon

Finally! A month or two later than we wanted but Finishing Kick is now for sale, print and electronic on Amazon. Should be live on the other electronic formats within a couple weeks.

If you know a young lady that runs, I have a suggestion for a gift.

Thinking in the Middle of the Night

I spend valuable sleep time thinking in the middle of the night when I really ought to be catching some rest. Sure, there are other things you can do in bed - I read a lot - but sleep is high on the list of things I like to do. I'm just not very good at it. It's not due to a lack of practice. I try. I've turned into a champion power napper. Set the internal clock for 13 minutes and I'll nod off for 12 minutes and 45 seconds. Those naps aren't true sleep, though, and the brain roams at will. Some very good ideas came from those naps. Also some really bad ones but that might be from eating odd foods at lunch.

Nighttime should be restful and serene, at least according to all the mattress commercials. If the nights aren't peaceful, the pill-pushers at AstraZeneca have an answer. I've never tried a sleeping pill - given the strange way my system managed Vicoden when the doc prescribed it  (it amps me right through the roof) and the list of side effects that all these meds come with, I'll just skip the pills.

Booze doesn't work either. That's not news for most people since the health nannies have been yammering about the evils of alcohol consumption for years, including a warning that the stuff alters sleep patterns. Plus, I tried using booze - a fifth of rum, specifically - to shut down my brain when I was sixteen. Didn't work, just made me paralytic and cognizant of the fact. The next-day ramifications were also rudely unpleasant. I gave it up (partially, as I still enjoy an evening tipple) as a lost cause.

Going to sleep is not the problem. I did that well last night, slept through the puppy yipping at midnight when Donna gave her the pain meds (we have a post-surgery puppy at home to help its recovery) or the big dog whining to go out at 4AM. Yet, I know I spent hours thinking in the middle of the night. A plot line and dialogue popped in to say hello and show me where Trail of Second Chances is headed today.

The back of my head even organized my day - write early, work, presentation with the terrific folks at Windermere, more work, reinspect, pick up a radon detector, and, if I don't wimp out, run.

I also had an idea worth writing about. That's how Rose came into being. A dream that woke me up and moved me to put it on paper.

Last night, it was a blog post, something profound. The brain framed the discussion, even started doing a first write on it. I remember being excited and thinking "ooh, this can be gooood!"

You see the problem already, don't you? While my body was crashed out, the brain worked. Which is great except the act of waking up the body made me forget everything!

Which is why, rather than a profound post that could change the way you see the world, I have this post to offer.

It isn't the thinking in the middle of the night that bothers me; it's the forgetting of the thoughts that annoys the heck out of me.

Finishing Kick, Back from the Editor!

Yea! The editor has sent Finishing Kick back with some minor tweaks needed. According to the publisher, we're within a month of having the book printed and for sale. Now - back to work. As in, the writing for the current book, Trail of Second Chances, reviewing the edits on Finishing Kick, and the day job that pays all the bills at this point.

Yesterday I watched a girl run the best race of her life - and cry.

Both the girls and boys teams qualified at the District meet last week and lined up yesterday to compete against the best runners in the State of Washington at the State Cross Country Championship in Pasco, Washington. For me, it marked the end of an era. I had no children of my own racing for the first time in nearly a decade but, for a decade, we've made the trek west. We did it again yesterday.

The girls ran first, at 10:00 under a single patch of clear sky, the only one of the day. At the previous editions of the Championship, I sped from point to point to cheer on the team and, specifically, daughters. This year, I camped at the two mile mark, out past no-mans-land and cheered.

One girl suffered from a lingering cold but the team ran well, competed hard and took fourth place in the State. The race for placement was almost impossibly tight. A single point separated the second through fourth place finishes.

The boys team faired better, placing second overall with Chandler Teigen just missing the course 2B record. Given some serious competition, the record probably would have fallen. It will next year. All boys ran well, confident and aggressive and proud. And they deserved their place on the podium.

But the lasting memory that I carry away isn't the girls or boys on the podium, the freshmen running so well, or Chandler running away from the field.

It was of a single girl, a team captain, a senior, holding onto her dad and in tears, not from disappointment - at that point they didn't know the scores - but because it was over. A team that she has been a part of for four years, the relationship with a coach that she admires, the memories of the girls she competed against resolved into a single moment - and was over.

Sometimes the kids don't realize how special their teammates and their competition is. But some, a few, they indeed realize that an important marker just passed, one that can never be recalled except in memories.

I coached this young lady five years ago and the images from that time still make me smile. At least one element of her will eventually make it into a book of mine - one of my favorite memories of coaching, a little waif of a girl with steady, wise eyes and a question.

Last year, I held my daughter while she cried, and I had no words other than 'I love you' and 'I am so proud of you.' I said the same things to another daughter on her final high school race, though it took her two years to understand fully.

So yesterday, I watched athletes run with beauty and grace, with strength and heart, flying towards that finish line. For one moment, I saw a scene of beauty, family, friends, teammates, bound up in one hug and some tears.

Asotin - District Champions

Asotin girls cross country went to Plantes Ferry with a girl banged up, two recovering, and high hopes - and came home district champions. It was a crowded field and St. Johns/Endicott, their rivals all season, gave them a great race but it came down to the number five runners - Asotin's was a bit stronger than St. Johns' - and the difference was a trophy. A reminder that cross country is a team sport scored by individuals.

The Asotin boys finished third in a very close race with Tri-Cities Prep and NW Christian-Colbert. It's measure of how far Coach Tim Gundy has brought the program that the boys were disappointed. Expect them to come out at State and battle for the lead.

Congrats to both teams. See you next week in Pasco . . .

What to do with a brain of mush?

Oh boy, you know those mornings where you wake up and you can feel your brain just sitting there going "Whaaaaat, {yawn} already? ....." Hello, November 1st. The body is up, the brain will catch up later . . . hopefully. No grand overarching discussions this morning, nor will I be engaging in deep and serious contemplation as that would lead to serious nap time and I have things to get done first. Top of the list, prattle here and hope that by the time I'm done, I regain my wits - or at least half of them.

While I wait, I have some homework to get done for my class with Dean Wesley Smith - I'm taking his 'Pitches and Blurbs' class online. If you are an aspiring writer, I strongly recommend his online seminars. Lots of range to the classes and no BS. Pretty much what you need to know and understand if you intend to self-publish. Utterly essential if you plan on going with a traditional publisher. Anyway, this week's class requires putting together a Smashwords Blurb - two, actually - and we're not allowed to use material we've used before. Makes it tough but here's one I came up with based on a slightly weird idea:

Snow White . . .  a dude? When Beau Wright falls in with a commune full of women, he believes in miracles. When he discovers that none of them like men, he believes in hell. And when someone tries to knock him off and hurts the ladies instead, he vows revenge. But nothing moves in straight lines around Beau as the action bounces from hysterical to intense. Fast, funny and definitely irreverent.

The idea could be really fun to work with though I expect it to get more than slightly ribald.

Not sure that I have an unused idea suitable for class in my notebook so it's time to go visit political websites and trawl the comments for good conspiracies.

A Walk with Rose is now for sale

A Walk with Rose is now on sale at Amazon as an ebook. I'll be working to get all the other electronic formats set up over the next week or so. What's the story about . . . ?

A heartwarming story in the tradition of Hallmark Movies, A Walk with Rose tells the story of a young girl’s bravery, an old man’s loss – and the love of a dog.

Emily adopts Rose, a lost dog, from the local Humane Society. Emily, victim of a terrible accident, discovers that Rose possesses rare wisdom. The two of them start a journey to heal Emily-and grant peace to Roy, the dog’s real owner.

Keep the box of tissues close as you meet Emily, Rose and Roy.

The print version should be ready to go by the middle of next week and I have the bids in for a print run from a traditional printer.

Just a reminder that 25 percent of the profits of the short story goes to the local Humane Society - they do awfully good work there, hard work, and can use any help we have to offer.

"Ditch the music" - Advice from Deena Kastor

I was meandering my way through Runners World this morning and found this quote from Deena Kastor, the American Record holder and Bronze medalist at the 2004 Olympics:

"Ditch the music, especially on trail runs, and listen to your surroundings. It's amazing how connected you'll feel to your environment when you take in what's happening around you."

Years and years ago, when Nike was young and Etonic still made running shoes, I ran because I had to - my track coach thought even discus throwers needed five good miles a day. Though I must admit I never felt fatigued crossing the eight feet of the circle, I did it both because he insisted and, once I got fast enough, I could hang with the cute girls.

This was a time before iPods, before the Sony Walkman. We didn't listen to music as we ran. We talked. Some of us would sing, proving that we were better athletes than vocalists. If you saw another runner, you gave him or her a thumbs up or a little wave. And, shockingly, they would return the wave and with a smile - most of the time.

The boys dodged traffic - I first ran in Seoul, South Korea - seeing how close we could get to rear bumpers as we sprinted across the roads off post. A fun game, at the time at least, and none of us ever got hit by a car, proving we were lucky as well as quick.

(Quick aside on the invulnerability of the teenage American male - I had the misfortune to be cut off by a kimchi cab while doing 20 mph on my bike. The cab hit his brakes, and I crashed into his bumper. As I hurtled over the handlebars, I remember thinking 'Oh wow..." as I looked at the cab upside down. Hit, roll, back up to feet - being 17 is wonderful at the physical level - and ran to the cab - to make sure I hadn't damaged the man's car.)

The Sony Walkman changed everything. By today's standard, it's big and clunky and decidedly uncool looking but in the day. . . it was the hottest thing out there for walkers and runners. You could actually take your own tunes with you. No one ran with a radio - who wants to listen to commercials? - but the Walkman let you take your cassettes with you. If you have a long-playing cassette, you could get an hour of music, though you had to stop and flip the cassette to listen to the second half.

Runners - especially women - took to the Walkman in droves, and you could see them nearly everywhere, running in spandex at low speed, earphones mounted on their ears, rocking in a little musical world of their own.

Most runners still didn't use the Walkman. It was a pain to carry and would pull down your shorts if you clipped it to your waistband.

Enter Steve Jobs and the first iPod. Small, smaller than anyone had previously envisioned for a playback device. Light-weight. And, instead of an hour of music, days of music. And, did I mention small, small enough to wear on a sleeve? Small enough that you don't even notice it's there as you cover ground and lose yourself in the music.

The iPod took music mainstream for the average runner. If my local community is any indication, more than half of the runners today use some version of iPod (though some use their phones - mine would end up in the river. Just saying....) They - and it's both men and women - tune in and zone out on the local bike paths. I've seen the distinctive white wires on runners as they shuffle across dirt trails and forested paths.

I could rant on the dangers of listening to music while running- I banned my daughters from using an iPod. We live in a small community, relatively safe, where we have neighbors instead of people occupying houses next door. I still worry about my girls running, zoned out and unaware of the environment around them. Zoned out females are a favorite for many predators. . . .

The loss of connection is a bigger issue for me. Running, especially on trails as Deena noted, can ground you and carry you, with each step, to a place that you share with the world, a part of it, not separate. Magic happens in those moments when the tumult inside quiets, and there is just breathing and striding out, angling into and out of turns, all happening on a deep instinctive level that we all have.

Those moments, fluid and fully aware, connect us to the world around us as we move as unconsciously as an animal, whether it's solo or part of a pack. Instead of tuning in, it's flowing out, joining instead of isolating. The music stops that, turns us inside the song. disconnected from ourselves and other runners and the wider world where every sense tingles.

So give Deena's advice a try - ditch the music for a while.

And when you see another runner, give them a thumb's up - we're all connected to the same big pack.

Trail of Second Chances, Chapter 1

The current work in progress, Trail of Second Chances, is a novel about Becca Hawthorne, an elite teenage runner attending a training camp high in the mountains of Montana, where the wild things live. This is Chapter 1 - as with other work I post, this is unedited and subject to change... Plan to have it ready by summer next year... if you see typos, feel free to let me know and I'll fix it. Thanks!

Trail of Second Chances, Chapter 1

Becca felt sweat roll down her temples as the plastic mask threatened to suffocate her.

“Don’t quit,” her father Rob said in a quiet voice. He stood beside her as she pounded away on the treadmill.

She gave him a withering look and continued to run. On the other side of him sat sixty-three runners attending the Bitterroot Running Clinic. They were arranged in a semi-circle to watch her get measured for oxygen uptake – how much air she could process while she ran. Runners shortened it to VO₂ max and it was one of the holy grails of runner performance.

The plastic mask was attached to tubing, sending the used air to an analyzer that would beep once when she reached the point where she couldn’t use any more air. When she hit exhaustion, she thought. The thought triggered another bout of claustrophobia and the mask pressed tighter to her cheeks.

“Keep digging, Becca, you can do this.”

On the other side of the treadmill, monitoring the equipment was Jim Eagle, cross country coach at Bridger College in Missoula, her father’s best friend, and, unofficially, her uncle.

“You’re doing great, Becca. Just hang in a little longer,” said Eagle, his dark eyes scanning the instruments. A former Olympian in the 5,000 meters, the coach was a small, intense man and a full-blooded Nez Perce Indian. He was an alternate when the man ahead of him, a young hotshot from UCLA, blew out both an Achilles’ tendon and his running career at the same time in a pick-up basketball game.

The incline on the treadmill went up another percentage point and Becca struggled to keep up. Gulping air, she tucked her chin down as her thighs started to burn. The acid was building. This was the third time she had been tested – her father volunteered her every year when she came to camp – and she knew that it was almost over as she felt her chest heave in the effort to keep up with the relentless pace of the treadmill.

This is the way the stupid mouse feels, she thought, a picture of a small white rodent chasing through a maze while people is white lab coats took notes. The sweat was coming off in rivulets, and her shirt was plastered to her back. She felt the wobble in her shoulders and tried to hide it.

“Keep going,” said Rob Hawthorne just as the machine signaled the end of the test. The deck of the treadmill began to drop as the belt slowed. Becca slowed with it.

“Can I take off the mask?” she asked, panting, voice muffled by the plastic. She looked at Eagle, eyes pleading.

“Sure, go ahead,” he replied.

She reached behind her head and struggled to get the elastic bands at the back loosened while she kept running, dropping pace to match the slowing belt. It clung to her sweaty face before detaching with a sucking pull. Becca, her lungs already in recovery, dragged in a great, gasping breath.

The treadmill slowed to a stop and Becca stepped off, legs unsteady on the motionless floor. Her dad handed her a water bottle and she took several gulps, the icy water sending a welcome chill down her throat. As she was reaching for a towel to wipe off with, Eagle threw the data from her test up onto a large screen monitor.

Her eyes, along with those of the other runners, tracked to the screen where three lines were traced, blue for oxygen, red for carbon monoxide and yellow for heart rate. Where the red and blue crossed is where it hurt.

“You’ve improved,” murmured Rob analyzing the graph. “But you still have some room to grow.” He glanced at her. “Good job.”

She threw her towel in the corner and went to sit with the other campers.

Eagle left the monitoring equipment and stood by the monitor.

“Okay, here is how this works.” Quickly he explained the lines and what the axes represented -  oxygen consumption on one axis, time on the other.

“As you can see, Becca was running easily and had no trouble get enough air in early – see the gap?” he asked pointing to the chart at the five minute mark, “but when we got to the end of the test, that gap narrowed until the lines crossed.”

Eagle looked over the group. “Uptake isn’t the only factor we look at in running and some of you are probably very accomplished runners even without high uptakes. Running economy – how efficient you are – makes a huge difference.

“Becca has both. Her scores here, a 68.7 VO₂ max is superior, especially for a high school athlete. Elite, well-trained females can get to about 75, guys can get to about 85 though scores over 90 have been recorded.”

He thumbed the clicker in his hand and the screen revealed another chart. Becca recognized it and saw the point where the panic attack almost caused her to fall on the treadmill her freshman year.

“This is Becca two years ago. As you can see, she’s improved a great deal. That’s the good news. You can improve uptake. The bad news is that you can only improve it this much,” he said holding his hands apart about a foot. “That’s why we’re focusing on form this year. The base miles and speed work are great and you need those but most of you get it in your programs already.”

He nodded to Rob Hawthorne. “The goal this year is to help you make those miles and the speed more effective by helping you become more efficient. Coach Hawthorne, for those that don’t know him, is one of the top coaches in Montana, and an expert at developing form.”

Heads turned to Becca’s dad but she kept her eyes on Jim Eagle. Her dad was an expert. She knew that, had listened to his instructions to drop her arms, tuck her elbows, increase her back kick until she was ready to puke.

Eagle smiled. “And I promise this is the last really nerdy thing we’re going to do here. Those of you who have been to the Bitterroot Running Clinic know the routine. We’ll have an easy run in the morning, followed by breakfast and a lecture. Afternoons are play time – we have the river right there so we can go tubing or swimming – or you can take a nap. We’ll do an evening run, a short one before dinner. That one is optional. Nights we relax and play some games.”

The athletes, a mix of young men and women, were getting restless. Eagle recognized the signs. His runners, some of them, were only a year or two older than Becca.

“Okay, enough,” he said. “Time to load up. Let’s head for the mountains.”

Runners scrambled to their feet, eager to be moving.

Her dad intercepted her as she walked toward the vans that would ferry them to the cabins.

“You did a good job in there,” he said. He reached for one of her bags. “Want some help?”

“I got it,” she said, half-turning away from him.

He withdrew the offending hand and started to walk with her. “This is a good opportunity for you.”

Becca turned her head to watch the first of the kids loading their sleeping bags and clothes into the back of the van, squashing the bags to make room.

“Becca.”

She stopped because he did and turned to face him.

“What, Dad? What’s a great opportunity?”

Annoyance lit his eyes briefly before disappeared with the smallest of head shakes. His tone had a slightly reproving edge as he said, “You’re an upperclassman now. You have a chance to show the younger kids,” he indicated them with his head, the gangly freshmen with the pinched scared look, “what it takes to be a runner. A lot of these kids, the girls at least, look up to you.”

She looked them over and then returned her gaze to her dad but staring at his shoulder, not his eyes.

“They shouldn’t.”

A sigh. “But they will and you can’t change that. It comes with the territory. There’s not a girl over there that doesn’t wish she could run like you. Probably,” he said but not boasting, “none of them ever will. They’ll never win State, they’ll never go to the Foot Locker Championships except as a spectator.” He waited while his words sunk in.

“So what am I supposed to do, Coach Hawthorne?” She regretted it as soon as she said it. At practice, he was Coach but the rest of the time he was just Dad.

“For starters, you might try acting like you want to be here,” he said. Annoyance crept into his voice.

Becca felt her lips tighten and her body get rigid. It’s you I don’t want here, she thought but she said, “I like the Clinic just fine. And I like the kids mostly.”

She could feel her dad staring at her, and she sneaked a glance at his face. The anger was gone, replaced by resignation.

“Okay,” he said, in a subdued voice, “I understand.” He spoke his words carefully. “You have any opportunity and it might be the only one you get. You don’t get a second chance at this.”

Becca shot an angry glance at him.

“Teach them that, if you can,” he said, his eyes intense, “to seize the opportunity.”

Becca leaned her head against the warm glass and felt the vibration of the engine, quick and steady, lulling her. Her father was right. The young runners, the girls, had all treated her like she was different and wouldn’t even look at her as they asked questions, half afraid that she would do…what?

That first Foot Locker, when she was a freshman and still scared, she had finished in a disappointing – to her and, she supposed, to her dad – 21^st place. She remembered the look in the eyes of the girls – the nationally recognized racers, the ones that got written up in the running magazines. They all had the same look. She wondered if they shared the same feeling.

All I want to do is run…

The Nag is Dead

Three times while reading a wide range of articles yesterday, I came across the word eponymous. It is a fine word - or was - but so overused as to become an annoyance. So non-fiction writers of ephemeral blog posts, may I ask a favor. Like the horse in the stall next door, eponymous is dead. Could you please stop flogging?