“Next time tell me you’re not going to follow my workout, and I won’t waste my time looking at you,” he barks. “I have a reason for what I’m doing, to build up your speed.”
Looking like a freight train, and sounding like one too, a chain of five “mature” women pump their arms and drag their Adidas through the dust of a high school track in July.
Coach Rob is standing in the shade under a maple tree near the exit gate. “I want you to be able to coach yourself,” he shouts louder. “I’m giving you the tools. No talking, get moving.”
We shuffle around the track, chests heaving, our singlets wet with sweat, until he finally releases us.
As we leave the workout and head to our cars, you could probably hear the sound of our teeth gritting a block away.
The next day the five of us, an informal run group to motivate ourselves, re-unite at our regular coffee shop on Main Street. The prime topic of conversation is of course Coach Rob, and group member Barbra’s idea to hire him in the first place.
Coach Rob is a “former” elite athlete, with the emphasis on “former”. And yet this oil-slicked sarcastic man with the blue veins popping out of his head is actually classically good-looking, his intense eyes and Superman jaw an ironic contrast to his unpleasant demeanor and a foil for unsuspecting women. Like ourselves.
“I think we should stick it out,” says Barbra, a former Ironman herself and constantly pushing and exhorting us to do more. She’s an amateur bike technician and is always doing tune-ups for those she likes. “We told him we would pay him for 10 sessions and we are only halfway.” Barbra doesn’t like to quit.
“Our group was more fun before we got a trainer,” says Trudy sweetly, a nurse in her other life. “Life is too short to waste it dealing with a guy like Rob. I don’t like being talked to like that. The way he yells and puts us down is too much. We can’t go on like this.”
Arlene nods in agreement, her Earth Mother words not coinciding with her disapproval. “I gave him some of my home-made energy bars,” she says. “He really liked them. I added something special for him.” It seems as if we women are claiming to be mad at Rob, but secretly harbour another connection to him.
“I think he’s cute,” Charlene tells us. “Even when he’s scowling. He’s got a great core and he has been giving me some tips on the side.” She blushes, unsuccessfully looking away to hide the involuntary colour enhanced by today’s hot pink sweat suit.
I’m Gwen, the slowest runner in our group, and I’m telling you all this because I’m like the recording secretary. I send out the emails to get our group together. More coaching by a tyrant was the last thing I wanted too. But our run group works because we’re not best friends, we’re more like teammates, and so we don’t tell each other everything.
