Utah State Wrestling Championships and the Future of Wrestling

A year ago I watched several of Utah's best high school wrestlers leave it all on the mat in pursuit of a state title.  My nephew, Brady Farnsworth, came away with the 1A Utah State Wrestling title in 106 pound weight class.  It was an impressive end to his freshman wrestling season and put the pressure on for next year.

This past weekend I returned to watch Brady and others battle it out on the mats once again.  And once again I found myself sitting with the Altamont High Schools fans.  A great group of people, but it still felt a little strange sitting with them after wrestling for Duchesne High School back in the day.  I had one of the best seats in the house in the second row back from the mat for all 1A matches.  The first match resulted in one of two wins for Duchesne High School.

Wrestling in the 113 pound weight class this season, Brady's match was up second.  Brady's agressive style paid off right away with a quick take down but his opponent quickly escaped for one point.  Offering no reprieve to his opponent Brady worked another take down and took his opponent onto his back.  With both of his arms trapped beneath him his opponent put up a good fight with a solid bridge but the pressure, the pain and the time were too much.  Brady won with a pin with about thirty seconds to spare in the first round.

With seven wrestlers in the finals the drama and excitement for Altamont didn't end there.  The Foy brothers, whose dad (Mike) coaches for Altamont and wrestled for Duchesne, each took their turn.  Rylee Foy, as sophomore, took his second state title after a hard fought match.  Kyle Foy entered the ranks of top high school wrestlers as he pinned his opponent in 36 seconds to win his fourth state title.  It was great to see the emotion on Coach Foy's face as Kyle came onto the mat and walked off with that fourth state title.

Watching Kyle Foy took me back twenty years to 1993, my senior year.  It was the only year I made it to the state tournament, but it was a historic year for high school wrestling.  Prior to that year only one other wrestler, Allen Lake of Delta, had won four state wrestling titles in Utah.  That was in 1981.  That year my good friend Brandon Moat became the second wrestler in the history of Utah high school wrestling to win four state titles.  Throughout his high school career Brandon lost only one wrestling match.  I don't remember the details of the match, but I remember what Brandon did after he won the match.  After shaking his opponents hand and having his arm raised by the referee, he ran over and hugged his dad and coach.  No grandstanding and no unsportsmanlike celebration.  A simple symbol of gratitude to another who had sacrificed so much to make his success possible.  That same year Trent Bell of Piute won his fourth state title as well.

Four Time Utah State Wrestling Champions
(Trent Bell is listed as number two on this list, but Brandon won his state title first because he wrestled at a lower weight class.)

This year's state tournament captured the power of wrestling as a sport.  It's always impressive to watch wrestlers like Brady and Kyle decimate their opponents in seconds.  Matches that last into the third round with a close score provide much more insight, I feel, into the power of wrestling.  To wrestle hard through three rounds for six minutes against an evenly matched opponent is grueling and painful.  Training and conditioning play a major role in the final result.  Who worked hard enough during practice to develop the strength of character and will to continue wrestling hard when your body is screaming at you to stop?  If you put many of these wrestlers on a scale that measured skill and heart, many of them would be right next to one another at the far end of the spectrum.

For example, we watched Cassidy Smith, 220 pound weight class, of Altamont wrestle his opponent from Wayne High School.  It was scoreless through the first two rounds.  Cassidy chose the bottom position for the third round and managed to get one escape point thirty seconds into the round.  Both wrestlers spent the next 90 seconds circling each other, one hoping for the clock to run out and the other trying to find an opening.  As the clock ran out and the whistle blew Cassidy was up by one point when the referee called Cassidy for stalling and gave the other wrestler one point.  In an instant Cassidy went from thinking he held a state title to facing sudden death overtime.  (One lesson that should be learned is that you shouldn't look at the clock repeatedly while trying to keep the other wrestler from scoring.)  With both wrestlers exhausted they faced sudden death.  Who wanted it more?  Would someone entertain the thought that it would be easier just to let the other wrestler shoot or execute a throw?  Who would have the strength to initiate the attack rather than hoping the other would make a mistake?  Through the pain Cassidy attacked and scored the two take down points that made him a repeat state champion.

Wrestling highlights the power of an individual sport.  First, it's combative sport where skill and strength are matched directly between two opponents.  Scoring and winning are based around the ability to force you're opponent to submit, willingly or unwillingly to your will.  There is no physical separation between the opponents.  Second, all of your effort, or lack of it, is visible for all opponents to observe.  A wrestler can't blame his failure on a teammate who failed to do their part.  A different teammate can't claim credit for any victory.  As they step out onto the mat each wrestler brings the sum total of their training, conditioning, genetics, and heart.  Sure, along the way others helped to make him a skilled and strong wrestler, but it was up to the individual wrestler to take advantage of those opportunities.

A sport such as wrestling teaches some of the most important values and character traits for success in life.

• The importance of individual responsibility.
• The value of hard work, practice, training and conditioning.  
• The value of being willing to take risks and the unknown...success or failure; and to do it again and again.
• The ability to face defeat with grace, accept your mistakes and the strength to make necessary corrections.
• The ability to take victory with humility knowing that it might prove fleeting.
• The value of working with others to help to improve them and yourself.
• The ability to define success as a process of moving forward and continual improvement.

This is not an all-inclusive list of values and character that wrestling teaches the willing participant.  

Olympic Games and the IOC Executive Board Recommendation
The recent decision by the IOC Executive Board to recommend that wrestling be removed as a core sport of the 2020 Olympic games is disappointing and disconcerting.  Wrestling is one of the original Olympic sports.  Wrestling, like the other original track and field events, are based in practical application, the martial arts.  These events were honored and revered because it was an opportunity for the protectors of the republic to showcase their abilities to defeat enemies and defend their nation.  It's a direct and peaceful form of competition that allows two opponents to determine a winner on a mat.  I encourage all supporters of wrestling to engage in this debate.  Speak out regarding the value and importance of wrestling on the international stage.  USA Wrestling released the following statement (see link below) and talking points regarding the recommendation.  I encourage all of you to read it.  We have time to prevent the IOC from making a mistake regarding the sport of wrestling, but we must engage and define and describe the sport.

USA Wrestling Statement and Talking Points

Collegiate Wrestling in Utah
On a final note, I would like to comment on the state of wrestling as a sport in Utah.  Up through the high school level, wrestling is a very successful sport in Utah.  The high schools and clubs produce wrestlers of the highest caliber every year.  Since 1993 Utah has had an additional 19 high school wrestlers win four state titles.  Unlike football or basketball players, however, Utah's high school wrestlers have very limited opportunities to seek collegiate scholarships in state or to wrestle in a meaningful way beyond high school.  Personally, I think we have failed our wrestlers by allowing our in state universities to abandon their wrestling programs.  Today any serious wrestler leaving high school must look outside of Utah for a solid collegiate wrestling program.  I think it also time for us to engage here in Utah to push our universities to bring wrestling back into athletic programs.  Let's find and advocate for a solution that works.  Let's give wrestlers like Kyle Foy the opportunity to represent their home state.

Van Wagoners and Ice Cream

On a less serious topic...

In the history of the world there have been a handful of love affairs that are so deep and so passionate that their story must be told.  Some epic love stories end tragically and others in happiness.  Think of the love between Cleopatra and Marc Antony, between Mr. Darcy and what's her name, between Lady and the Tramp, between Niles and Daphne, between Shawn and Juliet.  Today I write of a truly deep and lasting love affair, a lover affair for the generations--the love between Van Wagoners and that most wondrous of frozen culinary creations, ice cream.  The story below focuses primarily on my experiences, but it is common to many of us.

Who knows when in the mists of history that the relationship began?  It's likely that the Van Wagoners (or Gerritsens as they were way back when), were among the early consumers of dairy as the food became established in the Scandinavian countryside.  (Let's not forget that my grandmother is a Blomquist descended directly from strong Swedish stock that most likely loved good dairy as well).  Had I access to a time machine I would travel back to observe the first time an ancestor of mine partook of ice cream and fell in love.

Growing up ice cream was treated as a treasure that was to be enjoyed regularly and in good quantity.  This did not imply, however, that the ice cream supply was to ever be disrespected.  Despite stern fatherly warnings that children were never to partake of ice cream outside of the familial group setting, my sister and I often disappeared into the pantry with a lone teaspoon to satisfy a deep need.  More than one night she and I were sent to bed early once it was discovered that the carton of ice cream had fallen below the level at which it been left when last scooped.  Unfortunately my dear sister wasn't as skilled as was I in taking just enough to be enjoyed without noticeably reducing the supply to a point that resulted in discovery.  Often we lay in our room as I tried to convince her to confess her sin of eating the ice cream so that I could get up and have my share of the frozen concoction.

Many of my favorite memories revolve around ice cream.  One of our little league coaches who owned a dairy often took us across the street to the hamburger joint after games for a large ice cream cone.  In fact the highlight of baseball was the end of the season when our entire team would go to the Lagoon amusement park for Dairy Days.  Free ice cream and milk throughout the day was pure nirvana.

Despite regular opportunities to eat ice cream, often I felt limited in my consumption by parental restrictions.  They controlled my portions at home, because I wasn't allowed to scoop my own bowl of ice cream for several years, and they often controlled how much I had when we were eating out.  One day, while I was in high school, a friend and I were working for a day in a town not too far from home.  The day was hot and we were hungry.  Entering the local grocery store, we gravitated to the freezer and stared at the ice cream.  Our eyes settled on a box of twelve large ice cream sandwiches.  We had enough money and the ice cream looked inviting, but we knew that it was a lot of ice cream and there was no way to keep it from melting in the truck.  Not dissuaded by the challenge, we pooled our money and purchased the box of ice cream sandwiches.  Back in the truck we immediately divvied up the ice cream and proceeded to eat them as fast as we could, one after another.  Through the first three I felt great but not satisfied.  By the end of the fourth one I was starting to feel comfortable.  Once I managed to get the fifth one in I began to worry about the sixth, uncertain that I would be able to start it much less finish it.  The thought of an ice cream sandwich going to waste compelled me forward and I ripped open the package.  To my great benefit it was well along in the melting process and I was able to suck down the sweet, thick  liquid.  Even with the slight belly ache and momentary dizziness, I never regretted the thirty minute period when I ate six ice cream sandwiches.

Skip ahead a few years.  I've just arrived in Siberia, (no really, in the real Siberia), in the middle of December.  The temperature is around -20 degrees and the sun is only up for about four or five hours a day.  Suddenly I notice a person wrapped in furs selling ice cream sandwiches and bars directly from boxes stacked right on the sidewalk.  My initial reaction was to ask, "Who eats ice cream outside in Siberia in the middle of winter."  By the next week I was eating ice cream outside in Siberia in the middle of winter.  I did it that winter and the next.

During several trips overseas I've learned to love different brands, types and flavors of ice cream. German ice cream bars are exquisite.  In China I found several lovely versions.  My love affair deepened beyond belief one day in Prague.  I was wondering an old part of the city by myself when I noticed a gelato stand.  Pushing my way up to the cart I saw something beautiful. Stracciatella.  I ordered a scoop on a cone and meandered away exploring the square.  Shortly I looked up and noticed another gelato cart.  They too had stracciatella and I again ordered some.  And then another.

As I mentioned previously, some love affairs have tragic endings and others end in happiness.  There is a dark side to loving ice cream as we do.  I deal with the best way I know how.  On occasion I curtail the amount of ice cream I consume, attempting to be moderate and wise in my consumption.  As my waistline has expanded and constricted I sometimes find myself more concerned with quality rather than quantity.  The best way for me to deal with such an addiction, such a love, is to run and run and run.  I run around the neighborhood, into other peoples' neighborhoods.  I run half marathons, marathons and relays.  I run, in large part, so I can eat ice cream.

Good or bad, the Van Wagoner-Ice Cream relationship has continued with my children, except for one strange child that only likes ice cream as opposed to loving it.  Ice cream is used as reward and punishment.  It is an outside force that helps to bind us together.  When grandpa shows up for ice cream, we know to get out the big bowl and place in it the proper number of scoops.

P.S.
I did have one terrible experience with ice cream as a child.  Someone once gave my mother several cartons of raspberry flavored ice cream because a freezer truck had broken down.  (I had nothing to do with the truck breaking down.)  I spent a week and a half eating my way through carton after carton of the raspberry ice cream.  It was too much.  Today I struggle to eat raspberry flavored ice cream...but if it's the only option, I will consume it.

Confessions of a Ragnarian

Confession is good for the soul, especially when you're confessing the sins of others.  The story that follows may or may not have been observed in person; it's entirely impossible that I heard this second or third hand, or that I was directly involved.  In attempt to make the story easy to read, I'll tell in in the first person.  (Also, some names may or may not have been changed in this telling of the story.)

These events took place as our van was halfway through the third leg of the Las Vegas Ragnar.  We were exhausted and looking forward to passing the slap bracelet off to Van 2.  With the sun slowly rising in the east above the mountains, we were waiting somewhere in Henderson for one of our runners to come into the exchange.  The lack of sleep and physical exhaustion was contributing to the beginning of what would become a moderately high level of hooliganism. 

It started with a quick text to Van 2 as an attempt to help wake them up:

"Ragnar Command Center.  First violation for indecent exposure."

It was sent from a phone with an area code that wouldn't be recognized quickly by our geographically separated teammates.  Within about five minutes I received a text from my father:

"What did you guys do?" 

Before I even finished reading it to the rest of our van, my phone rang.

It was my dad, sounding a bit tired and out of sorts:

"What did you guys do?"

"What do you mean?  What happened?"

"We just got a violation strike from the Ragnar folks for indecent exposure.  What did you guys do?"

"I can't think of anything.  Did you guys do something?  We've been busy running."

"No, we've been sleeping in the van.  We didn't do anything."

"Mmm, well, Huyser did lose a bet and had to run naked through a neighborhood.  It was dark though."

A short pause then, "Don't you think that might be the reason for the violation?"

Unable to control my laughter I quickly confessed to the prank text.  The fact that they believed Huyser capable and willing to run through a neighborhood naked was both disturbing and hilarious.

Our appetites for laughter at the expense of others whetted, we quickly thought of another team to text.

"Ragnar Command Center.  First violation for indecent exposure."

In short order a return text arrived:

"What indecent exposure?  What did we do?"

Reply: "This is a family friendly event.  Indecent exposure will not be tolerated.  If you wish to appeal, please reply to this text with this statement: 'Appeal to Violation 142: Nudity with Intent to Harm.'  We do, however, have digital images of the individual(s) committing the infraction."

After waiting a number of minutes we sent another text to them:

"Ragnar Command Center.  Second violation for obscene language to race staff or a volunteer."

A few short minutes later we receive a reply:

"We didn't use obscene language with anyone.  We would like to appeal this as well as the first violation."

"We received multiple notifications of obscene language used against an elderly volunteer at one of the exchanges.  In order to appeal both violations, please reply to this text with this statement: 'Appeal to Violation 142: Nudity with Intent to Harm."

Quickly we received the text with the phrase: "Appeal to Violation 142: Nudity with Intent to Harm."

With a sudden burst of overwhelming guilt, one of our teammates who is friends with the target of our texts called them, on speaker phone, to make sure they weren't making any direct inquiries to the real Ragnar Command Center.

Upon answering the phone our teammate asks, "So, have you received any violations?"

"Oh my, was that you.  You've given me a bad case of diarrhea.  Those texts looked so official.  We've been scared to death trying to figure out what we did.  I mean I did change while sitting up in the van and I wondered if someone else saw me.  I'm ready to start popping Xanax."

Throughout the conversation we couldn't help but laugh at their expense and at our cleverness.  After several profuse, but entirely insincere, apologies, we began making plans for even better prank texts at the next Ragnar. 

At the next van exchange we followed up on our first prank text to our own teammates.  They admitted to doing some soul searching to determine what they might have done to prompt a violation text.  One person was concerned that his actions were misconstrued as he washed his hands at the back of the van.  Another was concerned that she had been observed taking a mid-run potty break between two buildings.  It's funny how when accused of doing something improper that our first reaction is to look guiltily inward.  Oh, and more than one person in our other van expressed little or no surprise at the idea of Huyser running around in the nude somewhere.

Remember, exhibiting nudity with intent to harm will not be tolerated!  Ragnar on my friends!

Check out some of my other posts on my running adventures:
Emmalee Achieves Hero Status
Why I Ragnar
The Art of the Marathon

Emmalee Achieves Hero Status

My oldest daughter Emmalee is one of my heroes. In so many aspects of her life she's not afraid to take the more difficult path or to try new things that are unlikely to be easy or simple or comfortable.  Where so many people today, especially young people, are happy to coast along in life, avoiding hard work and commitment, Emmalee is constantly stepping forward and looking for the challenges.  She's not necessarily the best at everything she does, but she is willing to try and experience so much.

Unfortunately, she doesn't always consider doing the dishes or cleaning her room as challenges worthy of her attention, but that's okay because I don't like those things either.

In school Emmalee works hard, taking the difficult courses so she can learn as much as possible.  She's my hero because she's not afraid to be a nerd, (even though she probably wouldn't choose that word).

I love to watch Emmalee play sports.  She loves to win, but even more importantly she loves to play well and to have her team play well.  I've seen her satisfied after a loss when she played well and I've seen her frustrated with her play after a solid win.  Last year she tried a new sport, lacrosse, and is excited to play it again this year.

This fall, Emmalee ran two long relay races, the Red Rock Zion from above Cedar City to Springdale Utah and the Las Vegas Ragnar.  At each race she ran a total of around 14 miles between three separate legs.  Her last leg of the Red Rock was 7 miles in 100 degree heat in southern Utah.  With teammates putting towels soaked in ice water on her head and shoulders she managed to finish the leg. 

For the Las Vegas Ragnar she was assigned a position that included a 9.4 mile run for her third and final leg.  When we asked her if she wanted to do a different leg, she hesitated, considering the challenge.  She took the challenge turning down the offer to have someone run part of it for her.  I was in a different van for this race and didn't get to see her run.  My father, her grandfather, told me that she was strong through the first three miles, maintaining a good pace.  At the six mile point, when they told her the distance remaining tears filled her eyes and she questioned her wisdom, strength and ability.  Shutting out the encouragement of her grandfather and teammates, she walked forward until she could run again.

I doubt that she realizes or understands the lessons she learned as part of her recent run or other endeavors.  As her father I see her growing in confidence and ability.  I see her learning to push forward past the point of wanting to quit.  I see her sacrificing to finish something worthwhile.  I see her learning to push past her own pain and discomfort for the welfare of her teammates and others.  I see her learning to look at new challenges and know that she can do it or at least have fun trying.  I see her preparing for the unforeseen and unexpected challenges.  I see her becoming a capable and dependable young woman, wife and mother.

Experimental (Trail) Running - Ragnar

The light reflected back into my eyes, bouncing off the rain drops and my condensed breath.  Stumbling through the ankle deep mud and the rocks, I reached a hand up to adjust the settings on my headlamp hoping to get even a little more visibility.  It was no use.  At most, when my breath cleared, I could see the ground three or four feet in front of me...just not enough to make out the rocks buried under the mud.  As carefully and deliberately as I could I continued to race forward, slowing to a walk when necessary.

Soon the trail narrowed, moving into the trees toward the edge of what seemed to be a deep ravine.  Among the pinon I was forced to look up from the ground more often in order to find the trail markers, strands of green ribbon and reflective tape, hung from trees at intervals along the trail.  Catching the glimpse of a cabin off to my left, I looked back down at the ground pushing forward.  Suddenly I hit a ribbon tied between to trees.  Stopping I looked around and found the green trail marker off to my right.  Green trail--green trail markers.  Adjusting course I took off, forced into a U-turn that began the descent into the ravine.  Shortly after making the turn down into the ravine, I was rewarded with a largely rock and mud free trail.  I increased speed taking advantage of the clear trail and the force of gravity.

Peering ahead I hoped to see any dangerous conditions in time to slow down before careening into a tree or off the trail into the ravine.  Rapidly a sharp corner with a bank approached.  I applied the brakes, sliding into the corner.  I managed the turn and stepped out again.  Similar situations repeated a few more times until the angle of descent lessened, introducing large puddles across the now sandy trail.  More than once I was left with no choice but to plow through the water, freshly filling my shoes with more run off.

At the bottom of the ravine the trail was wide making it easy to follow.  On my right I passed a few runners on the return trail, heading back up the side of the ravine.  My legs were burning from running through the mud and pounding down the hill.  Fighting the temptation to jump across to the other trail, I pressed on, anticipating the turn around, know that just beyond the turn around an extremely deep gully lay waiting.  Hopefully it was as well marked as promised.

There it was the turn around.  A brave volunteer stood in the cold rain, in front of a bright, orange ribbon, making sure the runners turned back on the correct trail.  Muttering a quick, "Thank you," I made the turn and instantly found myself on a very narrow trail choked with roots and rocks.  Within twenty yards of the turn my foot caught a root hard and I went down, just catching myself with my gloved hands before I face planted in the mud.

Vision became an issue again as the trail became narrow and moved through the trees and rocks.  Luckily the incline wasn't too steep at first.  Eventually I broke into an open area away from the trees and into some bushes.  Once again I wasn't sure if I was still on the trail and began to fill a bit of anxiety build until I found a trail marker hung low on a bush next to the trail.  I pushed forward with a forced sense of confidence.

Soon the trail turned back, splitting away from the descent trail.  The incline increased and the trail went from single track to a rutted ATV trail.  Foot placement was of the utmost importance as I was often forced to jump from side to side up the ruts.  Once turning a corner I jumped a small stream crossing the trail and hit a small, muddy hill.  My legs churned, my feet slipped and I was forced to turn around and slide down.  The only way up was to force my feet into the soft mud on the side of the rut and walk up.

Moving ahead I could hear the music and cheers coming from the runners village.  Knowing my teammate awaited, I pushed on, hoping I was close.  Looking up to my right in the direction of the exchange, I saw a light form a building above me.  Somewhat demoralized I realized I was still had a good climb ahead of me.  Now on a small dirt road I had to deal with standing water from the rain and small rocks falling into my shoes as they sank below the mud.  A number of side trails and roads peeled off.  Again I wondered if I was on the right path.  I hadn't seen a trail marker for awhile and I wondered if I had missed one.  Remembering the admonition that if I stayed on the path I would see another trail marker, I kept going.  Soon I was rewarded with another trail marker.


With the steepening incline I forced my burning thighs to lift my mud caked feet and place them in front of me.  No longer running, I felt as though I was moving in slow motion.  I saw the beam of another runner's headlamp coming up behind me and soon heard their splashing footsteps.  Shortly the runner passed me, taking advantage of their lighter frame and well-conditioned legs.  Exchanging the normal pleasantries he pulled away from me.

Finally, another volunteer was in front of me asking my team number, giving me encouragement.  I was excited, thinking the village was just around the next corner.  I wasn't.  I had another ten minutes or more to go through the thickening mud, suddenly worried again about falling down.  At one point, walking through the deepening mud I looked down and couldn't see much skin on my legs.  They were the same color as the splashing mud.

With only a couple hundred more yards to go and the clock approaching midnight, I looked down blew out a breath and started to run again, stepping into a deep puddle because there was not other option.  The conditions were perfect and a large drop of muddy water splashed directly into my mouth.  Spitting, I ran on, turned the final corner and saw the large orange arch.  Following the sputtering tiki torches and the light of the bonfire, I picked up my pace, sort of, almost sprinting into the exchange.

I waved my arm, acknowledging the cheers of the other teams and the congratulations of the race directors.

As I reached down to pull off the timing band, the race director looked at me with worried eyes and asked, "How was it?  Are you okay?"

With mud on my face and dirt in my mouth, I smiled and said, "It was awesome!  Only two legs left to run."

***Please share this post!

- Jarad Van Wagoner

Check out my previous post on the Ragnar: "Why I Ragnar"
http://politicsofwork.blogspot.com/2012/05/why-i-ragnar.html 

The Art of the Marathon

True artistic talent is worthy of envy.  The ability to create beauty whether it is with paint, words, voice, or musical instrument is inspiring.  It calls others to emulate and develop similar talents.  Beauty often inspires the creation of more beauty.  Not all art translates immediately into beauty.  At times art reminds us of pain and sorrows, sacrifice and loss.  The beauty becomes apparent as the emotions and memories are experienced.  Often beauty becomes apparent while art is being created. 

Kyoshi Nakamura, the famous Japanese marathon coach, said, “The marathon is an art; the marathoner is an artist.” 

Now, after only four marathons and a handful of other long distance races, I can’t claim to be a world-class marathon artist, but I have seen and experienced the art. 

An artist learns to be an expert in their medium.  A runner’s medium is the body and time.  The course, whether for a training run or a race, provides the canvas. 

An artist seeks and finds the best tools to create art.  Painters select their brushes; runners pick their shoes.  Musicians select their reeds and strings; runners pick their favorite form of lubrication to prevent chafing.

An artist practices before presenting their art to the public for naked evaluation.  The flutist plays musical arrangements repeatedly.  Different pieces are played to sharpen different skills, often dependent on the next performance on the docket.  The runner hits the trail or road repeatedly before the race, running different distances and different routes to develop the endurance and speed necessary for the race at hand.

The artist, having learned from practice which strokes work and how long to hold each note, develops a strategy for the performance or piece to be exhibited.  The runner, following miles of practice, develops and executes a strategy for the race; at least they execute it as best they can.

The artist often seeks inspiration as part of their creative process.  They seek meaning and purpose for their efforts.  The runner needs inspiration to push through the hard miles, to train on days when there are so many other things demanding attention.  Inspiration is required to push through the pain on race day, reaching out for the day’s goal whether it is simply finishing, achieving a new personal record, or placing.  A true artist is able to share their inspiration, passions, emotions, and message through their medium.

 At this point, it’s likely that many of you remain unconvinced that distance running is an art form.  How does running and sweating mile after mile compare to the paintings of Michelangelo, the poetry of Robert Frost, or the musical genius of Mozart?  To continue my argument I think a clear definition of art will be helpful.  According to oxforddictionaries.com, art is:

“The expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.”

Does running produce a work “to be appreciated for their beauty or emotional power,” particularly in the non-participant, in the observer?  Absolutely!  The canvas of a marathon is an amazing panorama stretching from the bus ride to the start line and ending in the winners’ area.  Have you ever been to the starting area of a marathon?  The variety of runners astonishes and inspires.  As expected you see the skinny, athletic runners.  You also see the older runners, those in their 50s, 60s, 70s and a few in their 80s.  You see runners who are overweight, disabled.  You see mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, grandmothers, grandfathers, and loners.  Looking at them you begin to think about their backgrounds and their motivations.  The emotions begin to come forth as you consider what would motivate these people to do something so hard, so physically demanding. 

At the starting area you see strategies unfold.  Clothing was selected carefully and donned to include shoes.  Proper hydration is addressed.  Nutritional supplements are placed in pockets and belts for easy access.  Muscles are warmed and stretched.  In the faces you see worry, fear, and confidence—sometimes all three rolling across one face.

A marathon, as an art, perhaps compares more favorably in its construct to a symphony.  Like the music, the efforts of the runner ebb and flows building to a crescendo. 

What about the audience for the marathon?  Great art, after all, demands an audience.  Art has three basic types of audiences: 1) non-participants; 2) critics; and 3) other participants.  Many marathon courses have limited access for non-participants to view the runners.  Outside of a few courses along the way, most of the observers gather at the finish line to watch the culmination of the runner’s efforts.  So much of the beauty and inspiration, however, is found along the course, as runners take that initial step all the way through the last.  But who observes these breathtaking moments of glory along those parts of the trail where no one lines the trail to watch?  The other runners, fellow artists, watch and draw strength from the herculean efforts and athletic abilities of one another.  The runners experience the splendor and magnificence when, after pain and exhaustion has set in; each foot continues to follow in order. 

Do you wonder if a marathon is art?  Watch the faces of those lining the finish line as they watch the runners cross.  You will see looks of amazement as they watch the first and early runners come across in unbelievably short amounts of time.  They catch a glimpse of the devotion, ability and strength required to cover 26.2 miles in 2 hours and 17 minutes.  They see the look of grim determination as these elite runners having executed their training and race strategy well, finish.  Does this call forth emotion?  Is it beautiful to watch them stride across in good form, doing something that seems so unreasonable for a human to attempt?  Absolutely.  Watch the observers’ faces as each runner comes across.  You will see the observers begin to tear up as they see the pain and determination in the face, step and mere shuffle of each runner.  Watch their faces as the clock passes the five-hour mark or the six-hour mark, as the final runners, those that ran on sheer mental determination or for a personal cause, force themselves to cross the line.  Watch the anticipation and the turning heads as the approach of a runner with special circumstances is announced.

Think of the inspiration and the emotion invoked by observing and experiencing a marathon.  How many in the audience, observers and participants, are overcome by an impulse to take on a new challenge or to finish something difficult?  How many find a sense of sympathy or empathy for sufferings and trials of a friend, a family member or a mere acquaintance?  How many observers of a marathon find themselves riding a bus to a start line for their own marathon months or a year later?

As I hit mile 18 on my first marathon three years ago, my quads and calf muscles began to cramp and lock up.  To finish I had to alternate between limping and shuffling for the last 8 miles.  Looking down at my legs I knew this would be my first and last marathon.  If I could finish, I would have no reason to run another one.  I saw others in a similar plight as myself.  I could tell which of them were going to give up; which were going to sit down and wait to be picked up, feeling they had given it their best.  The same thought danced center stage in my mind.  As the next few miles passed by so slowly, I noticed something.  Many of those I thought would or should drop out, continued to press forward.  I’m not a small guy.  In fact, I probably should lose about 20-30 pounds to be more effective at running.  At around mile 21 I watched a guy pass me at a good pace, a runner who outweighed me by probably 40 pounds or more.  Others continued to find a way to keep moving.  I found that there was a group of us who took turns passing one another. 

The strength and perseverance of the other runners was the message passed through the medium of their motion.  It inspired me to continue.  Their art helped me to finish.  As I crossed the finish line I felt the tears well up in my eyes, both for what I had just accomplished and what so many others had done as well.  Walking into the winners area and feeling the medal placed around my neck, I knew I would run another marathon, even if it was only for the honor of seeing and experiencing the art first hand.

Since that first marathon I have completed a total of four along with other distance relays and races.  My own art, if it qualifies to be called that, is nothing special.  I doubt that many people feel an overwhelming sense of inspiration or emotion when they see me.  Well, the blood seeping through my white shirt on my last marathon, did call forth some emotional reactions from volunteers along the course.  The art of other runners continues to inspire me and pull me into races.  My father has run three marathons and a number of other races with me.  Often he runs with some type of injury.  He has finished each race.  His canvas, while perhaps not beautiful in the traditional sense, has inspired others to run marathons.

Is every marathoner an artist?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  But I like the following quote by Mary Wittenberg:

"A marathoner is a marathoner regardless of time. Virtually everyone who tries the marathon has put in training over months, and it is that exercise and that commitment, physical and mental, that gives meaning to the medal, not just the day’s effort, be it fast or slow.  It's all in conquering the challenge."

- Jarad Van Wagoner

Life in Siberia: Elder Wetzel—Trainer Extraordinaire, Part II

“You know living here is like being in Disneyland all the time.  It never seems quite real.”

Elder Jeremy Spencer spoke these words of wisdom while we were on splits together in Yugo Zapadni in Novosibirsk during the summer of 1995.  I stopped walking for a few moments to consider what he had just said.  It was kind of funny, but he was right.  After eight months in country, many aspects of life still seemed not quite real.  In many ways this was a blessing.  The cultural and linguistic separation between our investigators and me gave me the freedom to be bold in teaching and inviting.  This separation also allowed me to enjoy situations and experiences that may have otherwise scared me into inaction.  Life as a missionary in Russia, however, was fun…at least most days.

In fact Russia in the 1990s was all kinds of exciting, especially for a 19 year old from a small town in Utah.  After I returned home I shared many of my “adventure” stories with my wife.  At some point, once she had heard most of my fun stories two or three times, she asked me if I ever had any spiritual experiences.  Once again, I was pulled up short.  For whatever reason, I was hesitant to speak about my spiritual experiences.  I faithfully recorded them in my journal and thought of them, but for some reason I wasn’t ready to share to many of them. 

So, with this installment I hope to share a few more fun stories with a sprinkling of the serious.

Russian Cuisine vs. Missionary Cuisine

During my pre-mission years I was very careful about what foods I would eat or even consider trying.  In terms of meat I was always happy to eat any normal cuts of meat from normal farm raised animals: pork, beef, and poultry.  Occasionally I would venture to eat deer or elk, and even some moose my freshman year of college.  My vegetable world was very limited: corn, peas, beans, potatoes and tomato sauce.  I wasn’t very expansive with my fruits either: apples, oranges, bananas, grapes, and watermelon.

Suddenly, here I was in a foreign country with foreign food.  I was terrified of eating anything a Russian might fix me.  How could I verify that it didn’t have anything I didn’t like?  With Elder Wetzel I was lucky for the first little bit.  We didn’t eat with any members or investigators for a couple of weeks.  I never said anything to him, but I was happy to put the moment off for as long as possible.  Unfortunately, our own meals weren’t anything worthy of mentioning in a letter home.  In fact, I avoided writing about what we ate.  A common meal, at least a few times, was canned beef from China with lentils.  It looked amazingly disgusting, but often I was hungry enough to love it.  (I need to find a picture of our stove in that apartment.  We didn’t clean it for over a month.  It became sort of a badge of honor.)

We did manage to find a few decent places to eat out.  There was a hot dog place down on Krasniy Prospekt not far from the mission home.  It was great.  They take half a baguette and poke a hole in it.  Next they take the hot dog and dip it in your condiment of choice—ketchup or mayonnaise.  Finally they slide the dripping hot dog into the baguette and hand it to you.  Their ketchup didn’t taste a lot like what we had back home, but it wasn’t bad.  I could never get myself to eat a hot dog completely smothered in mayo.  Another favorite was a little manti shack not too far from the hot dog joint.  Manti is a dish from Central Asia.  It is spiced, greasy meat wrapped in a type of pasta.  You pick them up and eat them with your hands. 

Our branch had a Christmas party with a dinner about a week and a half after I arrived.  I was still in that dark phase of my mission—always tired, far from home, unable to understand anything anyone said.  Being away from home on Christmas was weighing heavily on me as I considered having to eat something foreign and scary that night.  My mood brightened considerably as a plate with a piece of fried steak and potatoes were set in front of me.  The taste was wonderful.

My first meal in a Russian’s home was scary.  Elder Wetzel was busy talking and I was too nervous to ask about the food.  The food looked very strange, some kind of white, wrinkly ball.  Several of them were put in a bowl and set in front of me.  It was terrifying.  I broke out in a cold sweat wondering what it could be with my imagination running wild.  My hand was shaking as I lifted the spoon with one of the balls on it toward my mouth.  I fought the urge to gag as I put in and began chewing.  I was relieved to realize it was spiced meat wrapped in a sort of pasta.  The food was Russian pelmini, one that would become one of my favorite dishes.

Within the first couple of months of my mission, I learned to love much of Russian cuisine.  The soups and potato dishes were some of my favorites.  Usually I tried to avoid most of the salads, especially the one that had mayo, beets and raw herring.  That one almost emptied my stomach more than once.  Another dish to avoid is kholodyets.  This is a frozen gelatin dish with scraps of meat and vegetables.  The gelatin is made as meat and bones are boiled down until the gelatin forms.  It doesn’t taste good and the texture is horrific.  I ate it once, after a member promised me that hers was better than everyone else’s.  Now, you may say I can’t judge the dish after just tasting it once.  But, I took the good sister at her word.  If hers was the best, I never wanted to try one that might not be as good.

The Hymn

As I’ve mentioned previously, my first two or three weeks in Russia were not entirely enjoyable.  Staying busy and tired gave me little time to think about myself.  Elder Wetzel did a great job at keeping us working all day, every day.  Occasionally I would start to feel sorry for myself in the mornings during our study time. 

One day I was sitting in my chair as the melancholy feeling began to come on me.  It must have been around seven in the morning and it was still pitch black outside.  Rather than reading my scriptures or studying the language, I felt like reading my letters from home again which I knew would only make me feel homesick. 

Suddenly Elder Wetzel began to sing a hymn from his corner of the room.  I’m not sure if many of you have heard him sing before, but it was amazingly beautiful.  There I was worrying about myself, feeling alone in the midst of an internal storm.  At that moment he chose to sing Be Still My Soul, a hymn that I didn’t remember hearing before that day.  I sat there quietly listening to the words as tears began to build and slide down my cheeks.  I knew that was a changing point in my mission, a point where the Lord reached out to me to let me know that He loved me and was aware of my struggle.  Being a missionary in Siberia didn’t suddenly become easy, but I had a reference point that allowed me to get my bearings whenever I felt overwhelmed.  That morning I don’t remember saying anything to Elder Wetzel about the hymn, but at our next district meeting I asked if we could sing that same hymn.  I had to ask the title of the hymn.  It’s been one of my favorites ever since.

Doc Martins and Father Winter

Siberia is cold.  That may seem obvious, but it’s difficult to appropriately express the magnitude of the cold.  We experienced it first hand every day.  About eighty percent of our travel was by foot exposing us directly to Father Winter.  The buildings funneled the wind nicely down each street.  I became a huge fan of my muskrat shapka, with the earflaps pulled low and tied under my shin.  Winter boots with wool socks also helped make life bearable.

One day while we were out and about, Elder Wetzel tripped over a piece of metal, tearing a large hole between the leather and sole of his boot.  Being a thrifty individual, Elder Wetzel took his boots to a local repair shop rather than buying a new pair.  The gentleman told us it would be two or three days before his boots would be ready to go.  That left him with only his pair of Doc Martins to wear.

As Cliff from Cheers would say, “Here’s an interesting fact for ya’, at temperatures below -20 degrees Celsius the sole of your standard Doc Martin will freeze hard like glass and you’ll slide all over the place.”  For two or three days, Elder Wetzel slid everywhere and fell down repeatedly.  He would scramble to get up on a sidewalk only to slide off one side.  The lack of professional construction and uneven surfaces made his situation extra challenging.  At first, being as sensitive as I am, I found it very amusing.  But after three days of pulling him everywhere, literally, I was ready for his boots to be repaired.

I can’t make too much fun of Kevyn for sliding all over the place in his frozen Docs.  I prided myself on slipping and falling on the ice only very rarely.  One day, however, we were walking back to our apartment after stopping by a small gastronom, or type of grocery store.  We bought a few supplies including a bag of twenty eggs that I carried in my hand as we walked to the apartment.  Coming down a steep hill not too far from our apartment, I slipped onto my back.  As I was falling I did my best to hold the bag of eggs up off the ground.  Unfortunately my elbow hit the ground throwing my hand forward and into the bag of eggs.  In one fell swoop, I managed to break all twenty eggs at once…with one hand and an assist from the ground.

  

Weekly Service

Missionaries are expected to look for service opportunities, donating a couple of hours each week.  In Russia the default option was to teach English at a school, a library, a museum, or anywhere they would have you.  Teaching English was great fun and a wonderful way to meet new people.  In Novosibirsk we met a great group of young people who were hari krishnas.  It wasn’t my favorite form of service though.  I preferred looking for ways to help people in real need.

One week Elder Wetzel and I showed up at the school where we normally taught the students English.  The class had something else going on that day, so we were left to look for something else.  We decided to head over to a member’s apartment while we tried to think of something else to do.  They weren’t home so we headed back outside, still unsure what to do.

As we stepped onto the courtyard in front of the apartment building, we noticed a car stuck in the deep snow that had fallen recently.  Cars usually didn’t pull up to the front of apartment buildings in Novosibirsk back then.  Parking spaces most often were made of hodge-podge garages separated from the buildings.  Only drivers going to pick someone up or drop someone or something off would drive to the front of the buildings.  None of the snow had been cleared by the dvorniki, those in charge of keeping the courtyards clear.  We walked over to offer our assistance to the driver.  He was at one end of the lane in front of the long building and needed to make it all the way across.  It took us awhile but we eventually got him out and on his way.

Brushing the snow off my coat and pants, I turned around only to see another car at the beginning of the same lane already stuck.  The driver looked at us expectantly.  Over the course of the next hour or so we helped four or five cars get unstuck.  The physical labor, without the need to speak hardly any Russian, was so enjoyable that I was happy to stay as long as we could.  Finally our supply of bold drivers dwindled to nothing.  We headed back to our apartment, our service for the week accomplished.

During the course of my mission I had a few other memorable service activities.  Helping Brother Petr Nicholaichev and his family move from the ninth story of one apartment to the ninth story of another apartment was a highlight.  The lack of a working elevator made it extra memorable.  We moved a piano down nine stories and up nine stories, all on the stairs.  In Yekaterinburg, Elder Petrov and I helped repair books at a local library.  As a lover of books it was rewarding to tape, glue and sew bindings back together.

New Year’s Eve and Taxi Cabs

Serving a mission in a foreign country provides one a great opportunity to experience a new culture.  You are forced to spend time with people from different backgrounds, a different kind of language, different foods, and strange behaviors…and that’s just referring to missionary companions.  Getting to know the Russians and my companions was fun and challenging.  Elder Wetzel and I were alike in a lot of ways, both from small towns.  Within a couple of weeks of my arrival we were able to celebrate the New Year’s Russian style. 

We spent the entire day of New Year’s Eve trying to find someone to teach.  Most of the people we spoke with on the street or tracted into were busy preparing for the evening’s celebration.  As evening rolled around we left for a New Year’s Eve party with some of the members.  The trip to the party was an adventure.  Running behind because Elder Wetzel kept us working until the last minute, we had to grab a taxi to get to the party in time.

Grabbing a taxi in Russia is a special experience.  You stand next the side of the road and put your hand out.  Anyone driving a car can pull over to see if you’re heading in the same direction and to negotiate a fare.  Personally, I always hoped a Volga would pull over, but often we were stuck with a Lada.  Often we had competitions to see who get a free taxi ride.  The key was engaging the taxi drive in conversation was stimulating enough that they offered you a ride for free.  Needless to say, the likelihood of success increases the longer one is in the country.  Many taxi cab drivers would go out of their way to teach us new vocabulary, much of it unfortunately inappropriate.

As Elder Wetzel and I began looking for a car, it soon became clear that our choices were going to be limited since everyone was already partying.  He held his hand out for the few cars that drove past before we finally had one pull over.  With his friend in the front seat, the drive waived us into the back.  My father is a police officer.  Several times growing up I rode along with him and more than once watched drunk drivers pulled over and arrested.  It quickly became obvious that our driver was more than slightly inebriated.  The roads were wide open with very little traffic, which probably helped keep us alive, but at the same time allowed him to drive all over the place.  Our entire experience was made more exciting by the ice and snow on the road.  I was worried, on a serious level, that we may not survive the ride unscathed.  (Little did I know that a few months later I would be even more scared during a taxi ride.)

Anyway, my frantic prayers were answered and we arrived safely to our destination.  The evening was relaxing and exhausting at the same time.  It was wonderful to spend time with several families from our branch, but as always the foreign language frazzled my brain.  Luckily I was left alone most of the evening to speak with the children.  The young children loved taking the new missionaries under their wings to help them with the language.  Many times I sat in church meetings while the children whispered new words into my ear and made me repeat them back.  In between all the courses of food for the evening, I was able to keep all the children entertained with my poor pronunciation.  With all the people coming and going, it was also easy for me to avoid having to eat anything that looked dangerous.

At midnight we gathered on the balcony and around the windows to watch a number of fireworks in different areas of the city.  By that point I was quite tired and ready to go to our apartment for bed.  I wasn’t thrilled to find out that all of us, in keeping with tradition, were expected to go for a walk around the neighborhood.  We walked with the members to a large park area where a very large slide had been constructed out of ice.  I managed a few turns down the slide without ripping a hole in my slacks.  On our way back to the member’s apartment building we walked on a trail through some woods.  Kevyn started to get very excited, telling me how he loved to run through the woods back home.  Before I knew it we were running through the woods in the snow and ice on a New Year’s night in Siberia.  I thought it was a little crazy and dangerous, but after our taxicab ride it didn’t seem too bad.

At the end of the festivities the members walked each set of missionaries back to their apartments.

Serving with Elder Wetzel was a privilege.  He kept me so busy that I ran out of time to feel sorry for myself.  After only three months in the country he was able to show me what a person with faith and confidence in the Lord can do.  While we were together that first time, (yes, I was blessed to serve with Elder Wetzel twice), we helped one person get baptized.  Brother Alexander, the wonderful man who sold things for the mafia on the black market.  A few other people we taught in that area eventually entered the waters of baptism as well.  Those months were a great start to my mission.  I don’t want to brag, but Elder Wetzel was very successful as a new trainer.  He managed to keep me alive and in Russia.

- Jarad Van Wagoner