Trip to the Sunburnt Country

Here’s a forgotten workout, from way back in August. What a difference five weeks and 10 degrees makes.


---August 14th---

Work and personal beeswax keep me from the Wednesday morning class, so I salvage the week by hauling through rush hour to Thursday afternoon. I step under the RunTex Annex awning at 5:30 and into a strange and exotic world! It’s like I’ve entered the Australian Outback. Dudes and ladies in this class seem tougher, salty, leathery. I’m waiting for someone to pull out a can of Foster’s and a machete and brag, “Now, that’s a knife.” They aren’t stretching, they’re lounging, conserving energy, waiting until the very last moment when they have to dive into the oven that surrounds Town Lake.

It’s 101 and we will be doing eight 800’s at Austin High. Run with Joy!

I impress myself by making it all the way to the track. The trail exit opens to an expansive, shadeless plain. Dingoes wander the football field. I hear a faint didgeridoo. A breeze cools it down to about 99. Refreshing. Half-assing the warm-up drills while sucking in air from a hair dryer, I have to laugh at how insane this is. The only thing that could make this scene any more absurd would be if Gilbert forgot the Accelerade.

“Hey Coach, which one is the Accel . . . “ trailing off as I head for the coolers. “Hmmm,“ I start rocking them back and forth. “Maybe . . . it’s not mixed very well . . . or . . . (then, in slow motion) OOOOOH, NOOOOOOOO!”

I feverishly down as much water as I can while Gilbert gives the obligatory heat caution and divides us up. I’m nowhere near the front of the pack with these vets and I start in the 3rd or 4th group, pairing with Andre who seems to be a good sport about the fact that I am pacially challenged.

The first 800 yields a slowish 3:13 and a slightly disapproving stare from Coach. Hey, it’s a little toasty! Round two we speed it up to 3:10. Whew, six and a half minutes of running and I’m ready to call it a day. But, no! For the 3rd repeat it’s my turn to pace and I fumble. Rounding the last turn and looking at a 3:10, this fellow—this Mario character—pulls a Zola Budd and runs right next to me, uncomfortably close, matching my stride and staring at me. What the hell is he doing? Does he want to tell me something? Is there a booger in my nose, what? He speeds up and I, totally flustered and in some kind of must-not–lose-to-the-strange-guy reflex, chase him in to a 3:06.

I usually find a groove with repeats and the middle few end up the easiest. No groove today. Nada. Ixnay on the oovegray. Before each one I pour water over my head, pull my cap lower, and pray. Still, through the misery, Andre and I haul in 3:08’s and 3:09’s over the next four.

Gilbert floats the suggestion of dropping the bomb and a sub-3:00 final repeat but says I’m under no obligation, which of course makes me feel guilty for even considering not dropping the bomb, and so I decide to drop the bomb. Brilliant mind game, Coach! At 200 meters, Andre says to me, “No way I’m doing this under three,” and falls behind. But, little do I know, Andre is actually pulling the time-honored racing strategy known as “the fake out.” With half a lap left, Andre surges forward almost effortlessly and cruises in about five seconds ahead. Getting all Usain Bolt on me, he looks backward, pounds his chest and shouts “Jamaica RAAAARRR!” I stagger in to his taunts at 2:58.

And yet I thought it was all over. Oh how naive I can be.

Gilbert stops me on my way out the gate and hands me his video camera. “Robert, I videotaped you running. I want you to watch yourself so you can see your form.”

Are you kidding me?? That’s just what I want to see, video of me looking like I’m having a heart attack. I ruefully stare at the damage in the viewfinder.

“Oh my god!”

“See what I mean?” adds Gilbert.

“My butt is huge!”

“No, your form, look at your form!”

And there it is, my weird form, caught on video. I’m leaning to the side, my head bobbling sort of back and to the left and my arm slightly . . . sashaying, or whatever that is.

“Be right back. ” Coach G runs to his Tacoma and opens the cab door. Pulling out random items and rearranging them—including an African drum—he finally emerges with a three-foot-wide medicine ball. What else you got in there, Coach, a mariachi band?

I follow him past the track and into the endzone.

“We’re going to work your back and your glutes. Lie down.”

“Urr, all right.”

“Stick your legs up.”

Before I can even raise them, Gilbert throws the ball at me.

“What the . . . give me a sec!” I shout, deflecting with one leg.

He throws it again.

“Now kick it back.”

I oblige, but to his disapproval.

“Higher, kick it higher.”

“All right, you said it.”

On the next throw, I launch the ball well over Gilbert’s head. Surprised and pleased, he runs back to retrieve it calling over his shoulder, “Good!”

We continue this pattern for more than 10 minutes—Gilbert throwing, me kicking, Gilbert scrambling backward to pick it up and breaking into a sort of half-laugh in the process. This is so ridiculous. It’s like we’re five or something.

Eventually, the sun decides to spare us and set. The didgeridoo swells, the dingoes begin their howl, and I can’t think of a more hilarious end to a more uncomfortable day.