Martin Dugard's Blog, page 9

"Why are you crying?" Calene asked.

Calene had driven over to surprise me after pilates. We stood in a parking lot. Hour-old cup of bitter dark roast morning coffee in one hand. Morning practice was just ending, my runners gossiping and stretching after a Saturday long run.

I wasn't crying. Not really. A little misty, but not crying. Callie just thought I was crying. I was still lost in the night before and one of the most epic races I've ever witnessed, let alone coached. I had been trying to describe the look on my top runner's face as he crossed the finish line. Complete euphoria.

In the finish photo, the big digital clock shows him besting his fastest time by nine seconds for the metric mile. He's in first. The stadium lights are up. Hands pressed to the side of his head in disbelief. I can still feel the electricity as the crowd realized they were watching a very special race. Meet announcer Mark Gardner telling them exactly what they were seeing: the fastest 1600 meters in the nation so far this year, seven guys under 4:20 and the top three finishers all going under 4:13. And my guy, all alone up front, pressing his hands to his head in disbelief after racing the last two laps stride for stride with two other guys who refused to back down. 60-64-66-59, for those who do split math.

So it was hard to describe the magic without getting a little overwhelmed. Like I've said many times before, my job as coach is to build the workouts and push buttons and be a cheerleader. The racing is when I step away and let it all play out. It's their guts and their glory. But I spent all last week working with other coaches to help assemble the fastest possible field. Conditions promised to be perfect — cold, windless, under the lights. Then I laid it out to my team that the pace would be intense for so early in the season, looking at their faces for signs of fear and then commitment.

Here's the thing: plans like this happen all the time. Then the best laid strategy falls apart when runners step to the line and hear the gun. You never know what's going to happen. The coaching ends when the gun goes off.

My dad was a career pilot, flying combat missions in Vietnam and taking the B-58 Hustler to twice the speed of sound, so I was always a little confused how he found solace in coaching high school softball after he retired. I admit to thinking it was a little odd.

But a collision of circumstances led me into coaching twenty years ago and now I understand completely. There's something so empowering in extracting excellence out of an athlete. Validating, though I can't explain why. The process takes years. Sometimes it doesn't come to fruition at all. Then they graduate and move on in life, leaving me to start the process all over again with another group of young runners. There's a whole lot of highs and lows, strategizing, and waking up before dawn to click the stopwatch as they churn out solitary morning workouts.

Friday night was magical, and to not shed a tear while trying to recount the story would have been shameful.

So hell, yeah, I'll admit it: I was crying. The season is still very young. I hope for many more tears to come.

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Last week in this space I hinted at some good news about Calene's cancer. It's actually great news, the first positive steps the fight has taken in two years. But I've learned that in the cancer world it's best to hedge your bets. Every cancer ward has a bell, for instance, usually hanging in the lobby. I used to think that ringing the bell was a sign that the bell-ringer had defeated cancer once and for all. Only recently have I learned that some people ring it after a course of chemo or radiation, celebrating the stepping stone. This bothered me, though it's really not my place to be bothered by when and why people decide to ring the bell.

I mentioned this to Calene. She gave me an odd look, like I was Scrooge.

"Celebrate everything," she told me.

But when we got the recent great news that hadn't sunk in yet. "When are we going to celebrate the scan?" Calene asked me three whole days after we got the results.

I mumbled something about planning to do something soon, when in fact I was downplaying the great news, not wanting to get my hopes too high. "Celebrate everything," Calene told me again, which sunk in a little deeper this time.

So we went to Hanna's, the closest thing our little town has to a Michelin star. It's amazing, a special occasion restaurant. The plan was a glass, then a trip to the local Thai place. But then we added a shrimp cocktail. We flagged down Kelly, one of the servers and a longtime friend. She didn't recognize Calene because of the new chemo hairdo. But when two seats opened up at the always-packed bar, Kelly immediately grabbed them for us.

All thoughts of Thai food were gone. Dinner was ordered. Dave Hanna, the owner, another longtime friend, came over and we had a lovely conversation. We try to keep the cancer talk to a minimum, but also live in a small town. Dave mentioned that all sorts of our neighbors knew about Calene's fight and were rooting for her. People we don't even know. Not just a few, but hundreds. This was a little staggering, a reminder we're not in this alone. I love our town. For those of you who live here and are reading this, thank you.

Dessert was brought out with "CONGRATULATIONS" spelled out in chocolate on the plate. So by then we truly were celebrating everything. Then Dave picked up the check, which was such a great act of kindness. What started as a simple drink in a quiet corner of the patio had become a real, honest-to-goodness celebration.

I still haven't come down to earth. I wish I celebrated more than I worry. I need to. Let's call it a goal. But good news is good news, whether you're ringing the bell or toasting a great scan.

So let the party continue. Celebrate everything.

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I had visions of matinees.

Way back when I worked in the corporate world I was given an enormous promotion without the posted salary. I was working twice as hard, for twice as many hours, for not much than I'd been making before the new title. I hated the work but bills don't pay themselves. It was a watershed moment in my life when my boss told me I wasn't getting the big fat raise to go with the job. The scales fell from my eyes and I knew the corporate world would always be like that, broken promises and raised expectations that constantly meant putting work before family.

I vowed to get out.

The good news (and there are two parts): my boss liked to travel and I had complete independence when he was on the road. I reported to absolutely no one else. So while this often meant arriving at work by 5 am and not leaving until after 7, just so I could be available by phone wherever in the world he might be, this gave me remarkable leeway with the hours in between once my work was finished.

So I wrote. I ran ten miles during my two-hour lunch. And I went to matinees. If I wasn't going to get paid what I was worth, at least I would claw back some of that personal time.

The trick with matinees in the days before cell phones was to leave the show about halfway through, use the pay phone in the lobby to check my messages, then go back to the film if there was nothing desperate I needed to take care of. As I began to plot my dream of being my own boss and writing full-time, continuing attendance at matinees was among the ways I planned to spend afternoons.

I don't usually pay much attention to February 19. It creeps up on me in that way of minor anniversaries, tapping me on the shoulder to say "I'm special!" But it was the date I busted out.

Having said that, from this day forward, I will also remember it as the date, exactly thirty years later, when we finally got good news about Calene's cancer battle.

The path out of the cubicle reads like fiction, involving a cold call from a stranger that took me halfway around the world to Madagascar to cover a race for madmen through extreme wilderness.

I've told it before. There's not a thing I would change about taking the leap, not even the fact that I have watched exactly one matinee in the last thirty years.

Turns out that being your own boss provides plenty of drama all by itself. Looking forward to the next thirty years.

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It's raining.

The good kind of raining where I make a fire, move my laptop to a table by the dining room window so I can watch the storm, and bundle up in cozy clothing. I went to bed adamant that my distance runners would have morning practice, rain or shine. But when I got up at five and saw the dark and wet, that felt a little obsessive. We can make up the miles some other time. I sent out a text canceling the workout and got back into bed, pulled up the comforter, and slept until eight.

Sometimes when I'm working on a book I need the rigor of routine. Sometimes I need a change of pace, a day or two or even a week where I screw around and enjoy days without discipline. Today feels like one of those.

The rain and weekend brought it on. My friend Bill Baker sent me photos of our African adventure, including shots I'd never seen before of the police station where we were interrogated in Sumbawanga. For good measure, he included a shot of the arresting officer, complete with AK-47. The photos made me reflective, bringing back memories of good friends and a week in the middle of nowhere. I call it an adventure now, but back then I was scared out of my mind.

On the running front, the daughter of a good friend finished fourth at the U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials on Saturday. One of my former assistant coaches took seventh. I cannot take credit for either accomplishment but I liked that feeling of being a little more personally connected to such a big race. I liked the photos sent from Orlando of Josh Cox, a friend and runner's agent, lamenting a rough day for his athletes with an umbrella drink called the Tornado Bowl.

Distance, reflection, good friends . . .

I really should go out and log a few miles myself, right now. Hempy, Burns, and Burkhardt will read this and send me a text saying the very same thing. Nothing bad ever comes from running in the rain. But I just don't feel the motivation.

It seems like every time I listen to a podcast these days, the catch phrase is "morning routine." How best to attack the day?

Right now. I don't feel like attacking anything. It is wonderful enough to sit by the window and be glad I am not soaking wet, knowing that the best words are written in the subconscious, when it seems like all the mind is doing is watching the rain.

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Well, that was fun.

I think we've touched on the subject of the blurb in this space before. Those are the little comments on the book jacket encouraging you to give it a read. Preferably, someone you trust will provide that line or two of good juju. It will make you see the book in a new light and encourage you to pluck it from the shelf (or place it in your online cart, as things stand these days) and purchase it.

Here's the thing: authors need to ask other authors for the blurb. If you don't know that writer personally, it's the book writing equivalent of a cold call. Not everyone says yes. Also — and this needs to be noted — there is a caste system in the writing world. It takes balls to ask for a blurb from writers who are more intellectual or think a little differently.

We are at the blurb-seeking phase of the Taking London publication. It reminds me of that old Eric Carmen song, "All by Myself," recalling a time when "making love was just for fun, those days are gone." Back when I did my first book (twenty-five years ago, by the way), I was so new to the game that blurbs were just a matter of asking the one or two writers I knew. They always said yes.

But as the stakes raise, the science or art or whatever it might be, of requesting a blurb is more serious. It's also fun, in that I am reaching out to authors whose work I love. If nothing else, I get a chance to let them know that little old me thinks they write great stuff. This doesn't mean they will say yes but at least I know they will read my kind words. In no universe can I send a personal email to Bruce Springsteen telling him that “Badlands” is my anthem but I can get a letter to a fellow author.

Here's my admission: my writing is a little stiff when I do these requests. It feels like a violation of someone's personal space to receive a request from a stranger. I want to make sure they know I am being respectful.

Maybe it was that fourth cup of coffee, but I did something a little different this morning. My editor came up with a list of possible writers to chase for blurbs. Great list. Famous writers. People with integrity and talent. I mentioned to Jill that I had recently read and adored a book by one of those authors — so much so that I was tempted to reach out through his website to tell him my rather enthusiastic thoughts. But I did not do that. Why? Because I was chicken and also afraid of looking not cool. However, the amazing Jill suggested I write that letter now — while also asking for a blurb.

Wrote it this morning. Threw caution to the wind. Did not edit my enthusiasm. Said some heartfelt things about his excellent writing, knowing full well that every word was uncool.

Made my day. I have no idea whether or not that great writer will throw my request in the trash or just hit delete. There may not be a blurb. I don't care.

I'll have a handful of blurbs by the end of February. The art people will place them on the cover of Taking London for greatest dramatic effect. Taking London comes out June 11 — just in time to be your summer historical beach read. Not sure if I'll reveal the identity of that writer — OK, maybe just to those of you reading this blog. Someone remind me.

There's something really wonderful in telling someone that their work makes a difference in your life. So even at the risk of being a little foolish, it felt like the right thing to do.

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Photo credit: Pedro Gusmão

I'm sitting in the cafe at the National Portrait Gallery, just across from St. Martin's in London. Coffee, loud conversation, wooden chairs sliding on a polished floor. Calene is somewhere in the second floor galleries as I sip my sparkling water and protect the seat I saved for her. The fight for tables and chairs is intense in this small public space and I am doing my best to ignore the glances of those in the very long line for sweets and coffee who are currently formulating their seating strategy. They have had plenty of time to study my location and realize the down jacket resting on the chair next to mine does not actually constitute a living person, nor does the phone (mine) and can of unopened still water (for Callie, when she arrives) on the table. I suspect there may be a confrontation.

People ask me a lot what it's like to research history books. It's many things, among them making sure your research assistant has a place to sit and something cold to drink after three hours of looking at portraits. That also strengthens a marriage, but that's a metaphor for another day.

It's winter weather here in London, temperatures hovering around freezing and the wind gusting hard enough that planes at Heathrow are having a hard time landing. Looks like it might rain. This is not the main research trip for Taking London. That was finished months ago. But this is just as important, a fact-finding mission to double check niggling details. As I've said in this space, no one at my publisher is going to let me change a word in the book at this point. But if I made a really bonehead error, I have a feeling they might make an exception.

So I made a list over the last three months of things that concerned me. I kept it on my phone and added to it from time to time.

Here it is: St. John's Church, Walk in Geoffrey Wellum's footsteps from the tube station to Adastral House, Gray's Inn, Billy Fiske Memorial at St. Paul's, London Library in St. James Square, Guildhall, House of Commons, Portrait Gallery.

Oh, and the bench by the canal from Slow Horses. If you know the show, you'll know the bench. More of a curiosity than research.

Got it all done. Pleasantly surprised that Billy Fiske's pilot wings are part of his memorial (for more about Olympic gold medalist and Battle of Britain pilot Fiske, an American, he's a pivotal character in Taking London, available for pre-order now). And after taking a two-hour tour of the Parliament buildings, I cleared up a question about the various spectator galleries in the House of Commons.

This wasn't a documents or experiential research trip. Documents research is tracking down pieces of paper unique to a story, like the ticket to the funeral of Dr. David Livingstone I found in a box at the Royal Geographical Society for Into Africa. Experiential research is flying in a Spitfire, getting arrested in Africa, and doing whatever else it might take to know how my characters felt.

No, this was CYA research — Cover Your Ass. Just making sure I got the facts right. We started each day with a late breakfast, then headed out the door of our hotel and kept right on walking well past dark, ticking items off the list. We usually stick together but our rule in museums is viewing exhibits separately. Calene is methodical, reading every placard in the entire museum. I am impulsive, bored the instant I see what I came for.

Ah, here comes Calene now. Seat successfully saved. Our research trip is complete.

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Banned books display at the Lacey Timberland Library, 2012.

Thank you, one and all, for kindly sending your ideas for my next book.

All great ideas. Exceptional. But I've been inspired by recent events to look for a very specific sort of idea, which I will tell you about it in a minute.

Just in case you're thinking about writing a book of your own, the next phase after an idea is writing a proposal. Think of it as a business plan for your book, but instead of taking it to the bank for a loan, you're showing it to a publisher for an advance.

There's no set way to write a proposal — they come in all shapes and sizes. There's usually a table of contents and a few marketing ideas. The centerpiece is what is known as the "sample chapter," which proves you can tell a story and can explain your subject matter eloquently. Very often, this becomes the opening to the eventual book. Once you've written a few, it's very easy to spot those sample chapters when they make their way into print. It's an amazing ten to twenty pages to hook the reader, setting up the premise. I remember reading a book by a well known non-fiction guy a few years back and having the sudden realization right around page five that these words were lifted directly from his proposal.

Sadly, I do not have that capacity. My sample chapters never make it into the book because the section I originally intend to become Chapter One winds up being Chapter Thirteen or so. Look no further than Taking Berlin for proof.

So I don't have an idea yet, but I have time. Taking London comes out in five months and we're just getting ready to ramp up the marketing. Taking Midway, I am happy to say, is developing a life of its own, veering away from a stiff recitation of the battle itself into a bigger meditation on the amazing year that was 1942. ("Meditation" sounds unwieldy and a little like navel-gazing but I promise you it is exciting.)

This faint whisper of hope you hear in these words is the residue of January. It's a month of possibilities, a call to action. The new idea will show itself.

Taking London will soon appear in my hot little hands as a paperback advanced reading copy, which is always nice. Dry January is helping me shed a few unwanted pounds. The entire year sprawls before us, this blank slate calling us to do something special with the days and months.

Ultimately, that something special means being banned in Florida. All the best writers are these days. In fact, that seems to be the modern mark of a successful author. Stephen King, John Grisham, and Nicholas Sparks just got banned in a place called Escambia County. I should note that I was on that list. Killing Jesus and Killing Reagan were also banned, so I'm in good company.

But I co-authored those books. If I'm to be properly banned, it has to be something I write on my own. So as we count down the days to Taking London (139, to be exact), I will be vigilant in my search for a book idea the people of Escambia County can kick out of their library.

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The hunt has gone on for months.

Even in the middle of writing a book, the search for the next topic stalks me. In the morning as I plan the day, in those odd moments of down time, even at night, as Calene and I binge streamers (lately: Slow Horses, Reacher, Murder at the End of the World, a complete re-watch of Band of Brothers), and even as I follow the amazing travels of Cole Brauer (@ColeBrauerOceanRacing on Insta), the question of what to write next looks over my shoulder.

It's got to be a friendly idea because I'll be living with it the rest of my life. We played a trivia game at the neighbor's last night and I called on Columbus knowledge from 2005 to score a few points.

What I learn and write becomes part of the cosmic fabric. I still get emails from readers asking questions about books I wrote ages ago.

A lot goes into the idea: travel, reading, mental health. It has to have history, personality, drama. I have to like the players. This thing is going to be my complete focus. Might as well be something fun. And it's got to be my own. I want to tell the story my way. Half the fun of writing a book is taking an idea and telling the story from a new perspective.

Now, this is a whimsical blog, detailing a very real part of the writer's life. Some of you will take this a step further. I get emails all the time from people asking me to help them write a book. All the time. You know who you are. Please do not take today's missive as an invitation to pitch some great story you've long thought needs to be told. I have no interest and will not respond. I want to write the story of my choosing. Just as important, I want to keep all the money. Write your own book. One page at a time. You can do it.

And I don't do screenplays. Those are no fun at all.

Finding a new idea takes forever. Then it talks to you and feels predestined, written in the stars. Then we tie the knot and I hurl myself into the task. That day is coming.

I just hope it comes soon.

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Last day of 2023.

I don't get sick often but something wicked laid me low this week. I've been wearing a mask and secluding in the game room so I don't get Calene sick, too. I chose the game room so I could watch football on the big screen but pretty much all I've been doing is sleeping. I've worn the same sweatshirt and sweatpants for the last three days and I have no plans to wear anything else until this is over.

Which is all a very strange way to say my heart is filled with gratitude. I've left the game room for my office so I can write this. My desk is a sea of clutter with islands of thoughtful Christmas gifts bobbing on the surface: my new "Roy Kent's Cheerful Dispositions" candle given to me by my oldest, a handwritten card from two of my runners saying "Dugard, You Are The Man," a small statue of a black lab that looks just like Sadie.

I don't like when I grumble because I have an amazing life. And by that I mean that I pretty much get to do what I want to do, love who I want to love, and spend hours alone with my thoughts. I laugh even as I type the last one, thinking about the Ted Lasso episode where he defines a "wanker" as a man who enjoys the very same thing.

2023 presented many challenges that made me feel like I was wandering in a desert. Honestly, I can't remember a single one right now. I look back on moments with good friends, time on the trails, travel, family, and above all, the woman in the next room who is, and always will be, my sunshine.

No resolutions for next year. I just want more of the same.

I wish you all the best, Thanks for reading.

Party on.

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A journalist recently asked me if I was still a big runner.

By this, he meant do I still run fifty miles a week. I do not. But I am still a big runner, in that I am no longer the sleek supple leopard I was before knee surgery, Covid, and an increasing admiration for IPA as a food group. Yet I still get out there on the trail and chug along as many days a week I can motivate myself, enjoying the scenery and solitude, SAF.

And yesterday I ran a trail race. I can't remember the last time I raced. The course was simple: three miles straight up a mountain then turn around and bomb right back down. Narrow, rutted packed dirt and sharp rock. I woke up nervous, an old emotion I've felt before every race in my life. My strategy was to start slow and taper off. I succeeded. It was every bit the challenge I'd hoped for. Running with buddies from the Tough Guy Book Club, as well as my oldest son and his new bride, made it all the merrier. Nothing like post-run war stories after doing something hard as a group.

This morning I woke up feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. Took a sauna to stretch in the heat, which made me feel a little bit better. Drank a lot of water. Watched Red Zone. One of the Tough Guys texted to tell me — in a very well meaning way — that maybe I should consider Ozempic if I'm going to get fast again. This offended me but I'm still feeling too good about yesterday to let it get under my skin.

Well, maybe just a little.

Somewhere on the way up that mountain, I realized I've raced in some sort of running competition every decade since I was twelve. I competed with a little more desperation back then, not cheerfully shouting "good job" to other runners during the race, as I did yesterday (and they shouted it right back at me). I had no idea I'd be doing it fifty years later. Or that lactic acid burning my quads and testing my mettle would still be something I enjoy so much.

And I'll keep on doing it. Because I'm still a big runner, in more ways than one.

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