“The world knows me as a writer but coaching distance runners is what makes me whole.”
Sunday afternoon. Fire in the hearth. NCAA tournament as background noise. Spending the afternoon engaged in one of my favorite pastimes: checking track stats.
We raced yesterday at the Laguna Beach Trophy Invite, a lovely competition on a track where the first turn offers a bold view of the Pacific. The sun was out, the weather just cool enough for the distance runners to clock fast times, and I nostalgically recalled running at this same meet 43 years ago. The track was dirt, the ocean view was no less beautiful, and I broke ten minutes for the two-mile for the first time.
Parking is tough in Laguna. It’s a pricey oceanfront city on a hill, with no apparent zoning or city plan, just a bunch of swanky houses arranged cheek by jowl with a high school somehow plopped right down in the middle of it all. One would have to believe this is some of the priciest educational real estate in America. Someone, somewhere, has to be thinking about making a major fortune by relocating the school, selling the real estate, and building a gated development. Two things about that: they would never be able to rebuild the high school within Laguna Beach, if only because there’s no more land; and, the town would lose some of its charm if their 1934 campus, which looks like an old-time Hollywood studio was their architectural inspiration, were to be uprooted — and Laguna is nothing but charming.
So I arrived at 5 AM, an hour before sunrise. Even after two decades of coaching, I like to be early. Got my parking space (though, in case you think me obsessive, I was perhaps only the tenth or eleventh to arrive). The racing wouldn’t start for three hours so I took a walk down steep Cleo Street, across PCH where the old Taco Bell is now something new called the Taco Stand, and then a cliff overlooking the ocean. I carefully clutched the iron handrail as I walked the steep downward steps to the Pacific. Looking north and south, I could see the oceanfront city lights. But the westward horizon was completely dark and, behind me, the sun gave no intimation it planned on rising anytime soon. Trust me, the night really is darkest before the dawn.
The tide was too high to step down onto the sand, so I sat there on the cold concrete steps in the blackness, listening to waves crashing onto the rocks. It’s easy to think profound, solitary thoughts when it’s just you and the ocean and the dark and no one to whisper something sexy or profound. I took out my phone. The sudden light was like a claxon. Breaking the spell by checking email felt like heresy. I put my phone away.
And sat. For a long time. I talked to God but He was in listening mode and did not respond.
The morning didn’t get any closer to the poetic seafront sunrise I was waiting to see. I got the feeling I was meant to be quiet and listen. I thought about my worries, which always seem so much more troublesome than my fears. I’m not afraid of much but it’s a habit born in childhood that I ruminate even when there’s nothing to worry about — though, to be honest, right now I’ve got a few little daggers poking at me that are quite legitimate. The Elephants, if you look back to the end of last week’s piece.
But right there was this timeless ebb and flow of the ocean. The crack of a sudden large wave snapping. And the black of night, wrapping its damp cold self around me like I was an intruder.
I had brought Starbucks. Finishing a coffee is like finishing a meal or downing a beer — the universal symbol to move on. My legs were stiff and my butt was cold from the damp concrete as I stood back up, reaching for the handrail to make sure I didn’t topple backwards down the steep stairs leading to the surf.
The track meet went well enough for me to dream of a longer season for the runners. Forty-three years ago, I finished my race and did my somewhat euphoric cooldown run down Cleo Street and walked down the concrete beach steps with the cold metal handrail to jog in the surf. It was March. The sun was out and the water was bracing. Yesterday I just drove home, reveling in the riot of a green Laguna Canyon Road. Track stats are for today. They represent hope, speaking as they do of workouts to come, miles to be run, and the distant whisper of glory. The world knows me as a writer but coaching distance runners is what makes me whole. One of these days this gig, with all its revelations, will end.
And I will miss it dearly.
Martin Dugard is a best-selling author, a board member of the USA Track & Field Foundation and a high school cross country and track coach.
