I would not make a good royal. This is something I think about more than you can imagine. I've never written a book specifically focusing on England's royal family, but I have spent enough time with peripheral historical figures to know when Victoria lived and died, that George VI smoked too much, and the wonderful historical trivia that the reign of Elizabeth II coincided with a British subject becoming the first man to set foot atop Mount Everest — and that an intrepid reporter named James Morris — later Jan, after a midlife sex-change — was the first individual to race off the mountain and flash the news back to London in time for the coronation.
Life in the constant public eye cannot be easy. There can be no casual scratch of the nose just in case a camera angle reveals something Jerry Seinfeld once called "the pick." Etiquette classes groom the United Kingdom's future rulers about which fork and glass goes with each course. A casual drip of coffee onto the front of a button-down will ensure a longstanding reputation as a slob.
These are the random thoughts that came through my mind as I shoveled an omelet into my mouth this morning, barely taking time to breathe between bites. Chili cheese, purple onions, a dab of sour cream. My mind flashed to Taking London (due in stores an excruciatingly long time away in May 2024) and thoughts of Winston Churchill's standing Tuesday lunch with the King (always capitalized in Britain, but usually lower case in the rest of the world). Churchill would consume the better part of a bottle of champagne while George smoked. No household staff allowed, making for complete freedom of discussion.
I've written about those lunches in Taking Paris, Taking Berlin, and now Taking London. They are germane to the story (I should add that I was not familiar with the usage of "germane" until interviewing Morgan Freeman several years ago. He used the term with such authority that to this day I think of him when I type that word). For some reason, I always want to put myself at that table. Would my manners be correct? Would I eat too fast? What, in fact, is the proper way to insert a fork into one's mouth and extricate said fork in the most elegant manner?
I taught myself how to wear a trench coat by copying Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, carefully rolling the collar so rain would funnel off just so. I admired for many years the way Cary Grant altered his wardrobe to add a new look. I worked long enough as a waiter to know how to set a table, which fork to use, and which glass came with each course from right to left. And while I have never come close to being a fashion plate or dined at the royal table, I am nothing if not aspirational. Even while eating brunch today at Tutto Fresco, I literally wondered if as much Tabasco as I consume is allowed at the royal table (or is it available at all? And could I live in a world that didn't allow Pico Pica?). The revelations by Prince Harry and his bride have done nothing to detract from my belief that the royals are the gold standard of decorum — and that it will remain eternally elusive, even as I keep striving to be just that much more of a gentleman.
Credit: Slow AF Run Club
Which brings me back, in a roundabout way, to a hoodie I purchased yesterday. I do not think royals are allowed to wear hoodies, but they are the mainstay of my wardrobe and have been for years. The "Slow AF Run Club" calls out to me as I struggle to figure out where running fits into my life right now. So I went online and bought their hoodie. Back when I wrote To Be A Runner, there was this undercurrent of criticism that the book was somehow elitist. I bared my soul after a lifetime of running, and all some people could see was that I thought running fast was not the eternal joy it is meant to be, but some form of crime. Of course, I blame AYSO for this sort of behavior. I blame them for all aspects of mediocrity that have seeped into our culture since their formation a half-century ago. We are not all winners. Some of us are average. Some of us, like me, were once very fast runners, then become just average runners, and are now as slow AF. It just is.
It would not be royal of me to wear my new sweatshirt in front of my cross country teams. We head to Mammoth next week for a week of high altitude training. More decorous than the fact that elite young athletes should reverse course and settle for slow AF at the prime of their young running years is the more obvious message that an authority figure such as their coach should never anything that says "AF" on the chest. Standards have been slipping for years, my friends, but someone needs to maintain those lofty royal heights.
I will never put a string of five minutes miles together again, let alone make it look easy. It seems that as my writing aspirations aim ever higher — far beyond anything I could have written at 20, 25, 30, 35, 40, or even 50 — the simple act of running becomes less competitive, more precious, and strangely, more enjoyable. My friend Jesus Aguilera, who is training for a half-marathon, found a quote from To Be A Runner somewhere online (see below). It's the one about how life changes when you put one foot in front of the other. I still believe in that. That's the message I want my runners to remember forever.
I'll never be royal. That don't run in my blood. I crave a different kind of buzz. In fact, I'm slow AF. But you can call me Coach D. And baby I'll rule, I'll rule, I'll rule, in my fantasy.
“Running has taught me that I can do anything, just so long as I keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Sometimes that notion is metaphorical and sometimes not. In this way, I have been inspired to attempt things I would have never dreamed possible.
And it all started with a single step.
”