My Athlete Shows The Way

by Marc Bloom

Recently, I threw caution to the wind and showed up to run an open cross-country race on the hilly state high school 5k course at Holmdel Park, a short drive from where I live in New Jersey.

It was a gorgeous morning and a lot of serious runners turned out. Race entries were taken by a girl in the back of a station wagon. No numbers, no age-group awards, no PRs. You just run the hills.

I was in decent shape but had not run very many hills and knew I was in for a tough outing. Some years ago I would run the course regularly, trying to break 20 minutes on my own. But those days were gone and I thought if I could get close to 22 minutes it would be a good day.

Honestly, I feared those hills. The course starts on a hill and I worried whether I'd be cooked in the first mile. But then a blessing: warming up, I saw one of the guys from the high school team I'd coached and written about in my new book.

"Coach." It was Ryan, now in college nearby. He was concentrating on his classes and only in passable shape. But he still loved to run and mix it up in local races. Together, we returned to scene of our greatest fulfillment, since our St. Rose team. well, I don't want to give away the ending of the book.

The race began and up the first hill I found myself struggling in mid-pack, questioning whether I could even remain on my feet the whole way. After a mile, on a flat section leading to the biggest hill, the "Bowl," I saw Ryan pull off to the side. He waited and joined in with me, saying he did not feel competitive and thought he could lend me support for the run home.

So we ran, Ryan and me, athlete and coach, only now the roles were reversed. It was Ryan coaching me: running just a stride ahead to pace me and pull me along, talking and joking and reminiscing about the team to make the time go, using expressions of support I used to rely on to encourage him and his teammates.

Hammering the hills, I could barely utter a word in response, but through each section Ryan's coaching worked. I was able to relax, gather my strength, focus my gaze ahead and maintain.

Ryan is a sweet, sensitive young man, and a runner's runner, and he knew just what to say. Now he was teaching the teacher a lesson and at times as we ran I wanted to laugh at his ironic comments and comforting manner, and shed a tear at this shining example of the work I'd put into the team.

After 17 minutes, Ryan could not resist jabbing me with the comment, "Coach, how does it feel to know the winners are finishing?"

We still had more than a half-mile left but the worst hills were over and I thought about how my boys used to feel at this point when I implored them to rally and pass people and bring it on home with a flourish.

I could not marshal much of a rally. I was more in a survival mode: just get me to the finish so I could find relief. I plodded on, finally reaching the sunlight of the long home straight and crossed the line in my goal for the day, just over 22 minutes. I think I might have scored for my daughters' high school teams way back when.

Funny, but I felt good pretty quickly and realized that the hills prevented me from running my normal 5k race pace. I had overall fatigue but not from red-lining the pace; it was the sticker shock of the hills.

Ryan told me I'd done fine and as we did our cool-down together I thanked him for his help and we joked some more about the old coach trying to run the Holmdel hills. There was a big post-race brunch spread-adult cross-country runners know how to eat-but then Ryan had to take off and I waved him good-bye.

Every race, especially cross-country, brings its special wonder, but for me this run was empowering because of my coach. I always knew those hills were holy ground.

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