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I wish it weren’t so, but I make a lousy student when it comes to being coached. I have
been trying to analyze this character flaw. Granted, I am a Taurus, which places me in the
stubborn sector of the horoscope. But why are some of us resistant to being coached, while
others naturally gravitate to it?
I have some theories. Allow me to try them on for size.
My first negative experience with a coach occurred when I was 10 years old. My father had signed
me up for a judo class. The instructor was a stocky Japanese man with bare feet that reminded
me of flesh-covered cement blocks. During our first session, he yelled at his class of 20
students to “Kill!, kill!, kill!” Though I loved watching war movies and TV shows such
as “Combat” and “Rat Patrol,” and though my two brothers and I were always
fighting and wrestling, I really was a softie when it came to bloodlust. That judo class was not
fun for another reason: I was paired with an adult who mauled and clobbered me. I was being
thrown willy-nilly to the floor. I decided judo wasn’t for me. I told my father afterwards
that I wasn’t going back.
He offered solace by signing me up for golf and tennis lessons. They had little effect on
improving my swing or stroke. I think my problem was that I was a poor listener who liked to
daydream during instructions. My mind wandered. I couldn’t help it.
In junior high, however, I changed my attitudinal tune, and listened quite closely to our gym
coaches. My goal was to score high on the athletic achievement tests. Which I did. I held school
records in push-ups and sit-ups. I became a gym leader—one of a dozen in my grade to be so
honored.
Was it downhill from there? Perhaps.
I avoided sports in high school as a form of social protest. Plus, the gym coaches were
sadistic. One pot-bellied, aging former jock liked nothing more than to watch the 10th graders
get pummeled by the 12th graders in “scatterball.” Gym class was scary, mean, vicious,
terrifying. The Austrian military theorist Von Clausiwitz had it all wrong when he penned the
famous maxim: “War is the continuation of politics by other means.” He should have
said, “High-school gym class is the continuation of war by other means.”
I basically went without a coach for years afterwards. I took up such solo sports as backpacking
and recreational long-distance cycling. I explored my physical limits by delving deep inside my
reservoirs of willpower and determination. I relied on magazines for advice and tips.
Training for the Ironman triathlon, however, introduced me to another aspect of my flawed being.
I am not a good swimmer. I lack joint flexibility and drag my feet in the water like anchors.
I actually swam with a Masters’ swim class several times, but it just wasn’t for me.
I felt inhibited by my sloppy form in the pool. I learned to make separate peace with my lousy
swim mechanics of poor hand entry and arm recovery.
I was not meant to be amphibious. I wish I were. Only through the accumulation of many slow
hours in the pool did I obtain enough physical conditioning to swim 2.4 miles. My fastest time
for a mile in the pool was 35 minutes, which is about double that of pro triathletes.
Cycling is almost the same story. I’m a guy with tens of thousands of miles under his
saddle, a guy who once biked solo across the country. Yet when it comes to good, fluid pedaling
form and technique, I’m flat. My pedaling stroke is blocklike, as if I’m pedaling in
squares, instead of in a circular motion. When I used to ride with serious and competitive
cyclists, they’d always give me suggestions on how to smooth out my form. I tried. It
didn’t feel natural. I started riding by myself.
Is this the problem—a lack of natural athletic ease and coordination? Since I couldn’t
achieve the levels of athleticism that I aspire to, I have taken the low road instead. I train
on my own terms. But this approach is not for everyone. Hey, it’s not even for me!
Still, I harbor the illusion of someday finding a personal trainer who knows me better than I
know myself. I can respond to the whip, but it all depends on whose hands it’s in. When it
comes to training, it gets personal. I like it this way. There’s still hope for me. I
haven’t given up on
myself.
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