"Why are you crying?" Calene asked.
Calene had driven over to surprise me after pilates. We stood in a parking lot. Hour-old cup of bitter dark roast morning coffee in one hand. Morning practice was just ending, my runners gossiping and stretching after a Saturday long run.
I wasn't crying. Not really. A little misty, but not crying. Callie just thought I was crying. I was still lost in the night before and one of the most epic races I've ever witnessed, let alone coached. I had been trying to describe the look on my top runner's face as he crossed the finish line. Complete euphoria.
In the finish photo, the big digital clock shows him besting his fastest time by nine seconds for the metric mile. He's in first. The stadium lights are up. Hands pressed to the side of his head in disbelief. I can still feel the electricity as the crowd realized they were watching a very special race. Meet announcer Mark Gardner telling them exactly what they were seeing: the fastest 1600 meters in the nation so far this year, seven guys under 4:20 and the top three finishers all going under 4:13. And my guy, all alone up front, pressing his hands to his head in disbelief after racing the last two laps stride for stride with two other guys who refused to back down. 60-64-66-59, for those who do split math.
So it was hard to describe the magic without getting a little overwhelmed. Like I've said many times before, my job as coach is to build the workouts and push buttons and be a cheerleader. The racing is when I step away and let it all play out. It's their guts and their glory. But I spent all last week working with other coaches to help assemble the fastest possible field. Conditions promised to be perfect — cold, windless, under the lights. Then I laid it out to my team that the pace would be intense for so early in the season, looking at their faces for signs of fear and then commitment.
Here's the thing: plans like this happen all the time. Then the best laid strategy falls apart when runners step to the line and hear the gun. You never know what's going to happen. The coaching ends when the gun goes off.
My dad was a career pilot, flying combat missions in Vietnam and taking the B-58 Hustler to twice the speed of sound, so I was always a little confused how he found solace in coaching high school softball after he retired. I admit to thinking it was a little odd.
But a collision of circumstances led me into coaching twenty years ago and now I understand completely. There's something so empowering in extracting excellence out of an athlete. Validating, though I can't explain why. The process takes years. Sometimes it doesn't come to fruition at all. Then they graduate and move on in life, leaving me to start the process all over again with another group of young runners. There's a whole lot of highs and lows, strategizing, and waking up before dawn to click the stopwatch as they churn out solitary morning workouts.
Friday night was magical, and to not shed a tear while trying to recount the story would have been shameful.
So hell, yeah, I'll admit it: I was crying. The season is still very young. I hope for many more tears to come.