As a track coach, I say it's a good idea to run with the kids. During random practices I will do sprint workouts, long distance workouts, anything to show that when you scream, "you can run this last mile, make it look easy!" at them, you're feeling the burn in your legs, too.
This past Friday the coaches teamed up to run a 4x1 relay, the one where you pass the baton. I was on the last leg of the race, I accepted my fate to run -- well, OK, I kicked out the head coach because I wanted to race.
What happened next was my punishment for kicking him out.
I held the baton in my grip, sprinting like a bulldog was after me, and in seconds the world around began to spin. I skidded on the track, scratching up my knees, my right arm and my hip. I fell so hard, my underwear had a black track-streak on it. Black crumbs sat on top of my new wound as it started to bleed.
The kids laughed, while one coach said, "I thought you were just being dramatic." Granted, people feel pain for their art...one minute I was up, the next minute I was laying on the ground with the shiny red baton lying by my head.
And I had no good reason why I fell. I didn't trip on anything. The best answer I could give was, "I have weak ankles." I think I was going so fast, my body couldn't keep up with itself...or...I started off so fast and my head was...
I'm clumsy. I really am. I fall down all the time. This time it just really hurt.