No Shirt, No Shoes, Full Service
Last night was the Saline JV Invitational. It was a fun event, to be sure. Most of the varsity guys were free to just hang out, so we were all in a much better position to not get scolded by Coach Spina for me distracting them from their warmups/cooldowns or making fun of them or teaching them things or arguing the merits of Alberto Salazar's hijacked Oregon Project or telling them why their future college sucks. I showed up with the intention of just soaking up as much track-ness as I could before I head Chi-ways, but before long I found myself bolting all over the infield, getting in people's business, making fun of still more people and, ultimately...
coaching...
which, technically speaking, I am not allowed to do. Not even a little bit. Luckily no one really gives a shit. You can actually tell exactly how much of a shit people don't give when, despite the obvious growl of thunder and a reasonably sure lightning sighting, they proceed to run two more heats of the 800 before finally regressing to SOP and delaying the meet for twenty minutes. Anyway, despite the cessation of rain, one lightning strike turned to three turned to a relatively steady stream of the least menacing lightning to ever threaten Track Meet, USA. So when I was sure the meet would eventually be called, I absconded to my car, changed into my running gear and took off to behind the school and the large plateau of soccer fields that drops off into the tangle of swamp and woods that cover the north end of campus. It was there, under striking clouds, in failing light of orange and gray, that I had my first amazing run of spring. I don't know how many times I lapped the spot where I dropped my shoes and shirt, but by the time I was satisfied with my effort, the "storm" had begun to clear and the track stadium had been emptied. I was then left to sit alone in the wet grass atop a hill at the edge of the fields and nurse my sore bare feet, while directly ahead of me the sun set in to thicket and the whole thing ached of rain and birds.
.
coaching...
which, technically speaking, I am not allowed to do. Not even a little bit. Luckily no one really gives a shit. You can actually tell exactly how much of a shit people don't give when, despite the obvious growl of thunder and a reasonably sure lightning sighting, they proceed to run two more heats of the 800 before finally regressing to SOP and delaying the meet for twenty minutes. Anyway, despite the cessation of rain, one lightning strike turned to three turned to a relatively steady stream of the least menacing lightning to ever threaten Track Meet, USA. So when I was sure the meet would eventually be called, I absconded to my car, changed into my running gear and took off to behind the school and the large plateau of soccer fields that drops off into the tangle of swamp and woods that cover the north end of campus. It was there, under striking clouds, in failing light of orange and gray, that I had my first amazing run of spring. I don't know how many times I lapped the spot where I dropped my shoes and shirt, but by the time I was satisfied with my effort, the "storm" had begun to clear and the track stadium had been emptied. I was then left to sit alone in the wet grass atop a hill at the edge of the fields and nurse my sore bare feet, while directly ahead of me the sun set in to thicket and the whole thing ached of rain and birds.
.
posted by reno mac @ 9:28 PM
1 Comments:
At 5:58 PM,
mara said…
i'm just going to ask it: are you now too cool to update since you live in a city with a population over 75,000?
if i don't soon read of you getting fed ghetto-child style or running into a broncaporkasaurus or something of that nature in hyde park, i will have to assume that john wayne gacy "got you" and that i should head homeward for the memorial service to be held on the track-and-field-related zones of saline high school.
fyklv, come back to me!
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