Taking Flight

The only high school sport I was any good at was track. But even that success was limited. My short legs kept me out of the high and long jumps, I wasn't big enough to "put" the shot anywhere, and I was about as quick as the month of January.

When I was a freshman I even tried to pole vault. It was after a winter practice in the gym. I ran the pole down the floor, but I missed the metal box that the pole plants in, and the end of the pole was instead wedged behind the box and against the thick, red mat. The pole was bent, but I could see it had no hope of lifting me. I released my grip, and to my horror the pole sprang into flight, did a midair flip, and then crashed into the electronic scoreboard. Sparks and shattered bits of light bulbs exploded from the wall. I can't remember how many bad words my coached used, but it was a lot. I wasn't even allowed to carry the pole vault bag to the bus after that.

That scoreboard was broken for a month, and every time I walked into the gym for P.E. I tried to not look at it. The dent and empty bulb sockets were glaring reminders of how pathetic I was.

So, why did I say I was good at track? Well, as far as athletic talent goes, my only strength was that I could endure pain. And that's what made me so well suited to be a long distance runner. I've got terrible eye-hand coordination, but to be competitive in long distance races all I had to do was remain upright and make subtle left turns. I could do that.

I didn't have any real strategy when I began running races. I'd just set my pace so I'd be near the front of the pack. If it was painful, I'd just put up with it. When the time came to make the final turn, I'd crank up my pace to where it was almost intolerable and then I’d see what would happen. That didn't work for every race, but I did win quite a few.

My problem was I'd get so nervous. I was afraid I'd let down my team, disappoint my coach, and embarrass my parents. It's not like I hadn't done that in other sports. Then there was that pain. Yes, I could endure it, but I also dreaded the enduring. On track meet days I couldn't concentrate in class, and I wouldn't eat anything at lunch. By the time I stepped off the bus that afternoon I'd be sick to my stomach.

The 3200 meter run was always the first race of the meet, the 1600 was in the middle, and the open 800 was near the end. By the time I was off the track and off the hook, the concessions were closed. And by the time I got home around 10 pm, I'd be starving.

That's when I could count on my dad. He'd never tell me that he was proud of me; we didn't have that kind of a relationship. But as soon as I walked into the house there would be a steak dinner waiting for me. Sound fancy? Not really. We had a permanent gas grill in our back yard that was hooked up to an underground gas line, and Dad grilled dinner three times a week. Every year he'd buy some large package deal from the Rock Valley butcher, and we always had a  freezer full of meat. Dad's way of telling you he loved you was to make you dinner.

I'm the same way with my family, but I say the words, too.

Back then the Monsons always ate on trays in the TV room, and Mom, Dad, and I would watch the end of the news while I scarfed down my meal. Soon they'd go to bed, but I was too hopped up on adrenaline and protein to hit the sheets, and so I'd turn the TV to the USA Network. At 11:00 that station would start airing my favorite TV show of all-time Night Flight!

And that's what I'm going to write about tomorrow.