When you train for a significant event, like a marathon or, I’m assuming, an Ironman or the like, suddenly “train like the pros” is a phrase that seems to pop out everywhere. This is partially because it’s one of the multibillion-dollar fitness industry’s ploys to get you to buy a bunch of crap you don’t need. The reality is, the pros may or may not use that special diet, they may or may not use whatever absurd ab-crunch-wiz-meister-machine they’re responsible for touting as one of their endorsements, and they may or may not train with a particular type of endurance drink, energy gel, or other product…at least not exclusively. One part of their reality you can virtually guarantee is their coaching.
What sets the pros apart from the rest of us “athletes”, aside from muscular structure some of us would literally kill for, kitchens outfitted with scales measuring down to 1/32 of a pound for properly controlling their food intake, and the best of the best of the best—and their choice among those—training equipment under the sun, is their coaching. They’ve got anything from one to several to a small army of individuals goading them, riding along their routes with them when they want them to, leaving them alone when they want them to, cajoling, wheedling, barking orders at the, well, basically, doing whatever it takes to get—and keep—them in peak condition. Think about Lance Armstrong, well, the guy’s an athletic idol and should be worshipped properly, but standing ever so slightly in his shadow is his coach, and Lance would be nowhere without Carmichael. He’d still be riding dirt roads in Plano, Texas and Americans would still never know the great sporting event known as the Tour de France as anything more than, “What? That bike race?” And it’s a symbiotic relationship; nobody’d know Carmichael without Lance either, but at some level or another, behind every great athlete is some great coaching mechanism, whether it’s a nutritionist, a strength trainer, a training strategist or all of the above. If it’s all of the above AND they’re getting up with you to do your eight-mile route at six o’clock in the morning with a car full of sport drink, water and Balance bars, well, then, they’re a coach. Or at least they’re part of a coaching mechanism. Most of these coaches get paid very well to do these kinds of things, in part because even the world’s greatest athletes don’t have friends good enough to do this kind of stuff for them, in part because the athletes can afford it and in part because, well, because they bring along a lot of other helpful information as well…like maximizing use of your heart rate at certain stages of your race, gait analysis, approaches to nutrition, research into injuries, stuff mortal men—or mortal athletes—can’t be bothered with.
As a pseudo-athlete, as I refer to myself with a wry grin, I have neither the financial capacity nor the skill set to require such a person, or set of people, in my life. My boyfriend recently hired some “help” in his Ironman training, a person he won’t refer to as a coach but whose role mimics that kind of support structure, but he’s much more an athlete than I am. If you look at our calves, you see what I mean: his are cut, defined, well-shaped and perfectly toned, and mine are…well, they’re getting there. That’s a good enough measurement for me, and though Gregory laughs, it’s rather telling as well. Gregory functions as my sort of coach; when he’s here he provides good motivation for me to work out (kinda hard to back out of a four-mile run when your boyfriend is taking on a three-hour bike ride followed by two hours of pace running), assistance in analyzing and treating minor injuries, advice on nutrition and training plans and whether or not I’m going to be able to actually do this thing. With him a zillion miles away in France, however, and myself now on vacation at my father’s house, I’ve become so spoiled rotten in the last two days of training alone that I’m not so sure drop bags or even the luxury of using Greg’s condo as a water/Accelerade/snack stop are going to do it for me when I get back to Boulder.
Visiting my father has always meant him having to adjust his work schedule to try to get as much vacation time off as possible as well as, generally, a decent amount of time on my own at his house, kind of left to my own devices. Since his diagnosis with leukemia a year and a half ago, and subsequent battle with/recovery from the cancer, rendered him first on full-time disability and now only able to do work from home, things around here have changed a lot. I haven’t been out to visit since Dad’s diagnosis, and a few things hit me with some degree of shock: the fact that the kitchen has been turned into a half-kitchen, half-pharmacy, the five times a day my dad has to take massive amounts of medication to keep the bone marrow transplant in check as well as the cancer in remission, the catheter implanted in my father’s chest…it all came as a huge shock especially to me, as my only experience of his disease has been through him telling me about what’s been going on, and that has been largely censored. While I appreciate my father’s trying to shelter me from the harsh realities of his battle, it all kind of culminated in a tearful first night for me, crying with my dad over everything that had changed.
In one way, though, at least, his leukemia did benefit me, or at least me the marathoner-in-training. Not to say I wouldn’t give anything, including my legs and/or my ability to run ever again, for my father to be healthy, but in light of present circumstances, my dad’s illness, in restricting his ability to work outside of home, has become a boon to my training. As Dad’s been going a little stir-crazy, the opportunity to go out and help train me has helped fill the time a bit for him.
For me, it’s meant that I am getting the absolute gold standard in training. Every half-mile or so I run, Dad’s waiting for me in his Kia Sportage, hazards flashing in the early morning or dusk twilight. The hazards have become what I look for, what encourages me and pushes me forward, as well as the driver’s side window rolling down and Dad’s head popping out, asking, “What do you need? Do you need water? The stuff?” (“The stuff” being his phrase for a metabolic booster beverage that tastes absolutely awful but enhances my stamina like nothing else.) Sometimes he gets out of the car—with the protective mask he now sports covering his mouth—and holds out water bottles, “the stuff” in one hand, Gatorade in another, my Camelbak filled with icy water hanging from his elbow. Sometimes I run right by, but a lot of the time I take full advantage of the luxury treatment I’m receiving and stop for a dousing of water, or sport drink, or on longer runs, a bite or two of an energy bar.
Training here is probably going to come with its setbacks as well…mostly, these will manifest when I get back to Colorado and have to return to high-altitude, meaning low-oxygen, training in the arid heat of early August. On the up side, I definitely won’t miss the humidity or the oppressive heat it brings, beating down on a runner’s body at all sides. I will miss the soundtrack of the Carolina outdoors, though, as so many crickets, katydids, birds, bugs and other creatures create an amazing racket that just completely fills the ears like prairie dogs’ whistles—my usual Colorado soundtrack—cannot. Most of all, though, I’ll miss my training buddy sitting out there in his car, hazards flashing, encouraging me with water, sport drinks, and most of all, an ear-to-ear grin that tells me how happy he is that I’m here. Nothing quite motivates like that kind of spirit, and that I will certainly miss the most.
Asselronde 25 km Recap
2 months ago