Thanks, coach

Racing season is upon us ...

After my second marathon, I had a chat with my coach last spring, and told him I'd like to work on my speed. I'd survived my first marathon, up and down and around the hills of Mt. Desert Island, Maine. On the flats of Long Branch, I finished my second in just under 4 hours. Now I wanted to go faster, over shorter distances -- half marathons. We put together a plan, and I spent a lot of time on the track, going round and round.

I had visions, of course. Visions of not just being faster, but of being fast. My coach, wise in these matters, parried my queries about how much faster I'd be with delphic answers: you'll be faster, he said. Encouraged, I ran the workouts, which were hard, and long. I got a little faster, but no one was going to confuse me with Frank Shorter. After several weeks, I humbly accepted incremental improvement. But I keep after it, and I'm faster. Coach was right.

How much faster? Yesterday I ran past one of those radar displays set out by the police to let you know you're driving too fast. Coming up on it I was wondering if I'd even register, or if it could display speeds so slow as mine. I was pleasantly surprised. We went back today to document my progress. Judge for yourself. [It is reading me -- not a car out of the shot -- or more correctly, misreading me.] 

Encouragement is where you find it.

Thanks, coach.