Paul Litchfield Article

[bjvando]

http://www.journalnet.com/articles/2008 ... orts01.txt

rash course: pole vault
kang@journalnet.com

POCATELLO - Look, just like that, Paul Litchfield tells me. He lopes down the runway, and with his arms and legs flowing with a measured harmony that doesn't look too different from the cogs and wheels churning inside a Swiss timepiece, he hoists himself effortlessly over the 6-foot bar.

The Idaho State track and field assistant coach and former All-American looks as sure-handed making the pole vault jump as I would reaching into my kitchen cabinet for a can of soup. Now it's my turn. Instead of approaching the pit with Litchfield's easy gait, I charge like a barbarian. With a savage hack, I jam the pole down and lift myself up - right into the bar. My body hurts in too many different places to count.

OK, so maybe this isn't as easy as it looks. I start to gasp for air. This is tiring. It doesn't help that a gaggle of onlookers has convened at ''Bud'' Davis Field on this gloomy Wednesday afternoon to watch my embarrassing introduction to pole vaulting.

I say embarrassing because I've announced for the past few months to anyone who would listen that I would clear 10 feet after an hour of instruction from an expert. Covering the Big Sky indoor track and field season and watching Litchfield spring himself over the bar time and again convinced me of this. Paul Litchfield is an athlete. I am an athlete. Why can't I do this?

I'm finding out right now. Twenty-five minutes into this experiment, I'm struggling to clear 7 feet with any consistency at all. Litchfield tells me why in unmistakable terms.

No, don't jam the pole down like that. Keep your elbows straight. Press your feet together as you leap toward the pole.

Don't turn your hips so fast. All those instructions swirl around in my mind, like stray pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. More than 15 jumps in, I still can't fit them all together. Oh, and did I mention I'm tired?

My one hour is up. Litchfield raises the bar to 8 feet, a whole 12 inches higher than the jump I just willed myself over seconds ago.

It looks awfully high from where I'm standing, 30 yards away. I try to remember Litchfield's pointers, but my mind keeps wandering to the stinging blisters on my hands. My pole is stained with splotches of blood.

I rock back and forth and then launch myself down the runway on the first official pole vault attempt of my life. Predictably, I twist my hips too early and crash sideways into the bar.

Ditto for my second attempt.

Mercy, I want to yell out. But I can't. Not with my Journal colleagues on hand, and especially not with Jackie Poulson, another ISU assistant coach, having just arrived to witness the spectacle.

Vaulters technically have 15 minutes between jumps, and I decide to take the full 15 minutes on my third and final attempt to rescue myself from humiliation.

OK, keep my elbows straight. Press my feet together. Don't turn my hips so fast. I can do this.

Can I? I don't know.

Litchfield tells me that since he started vaulting as a sophomore in high school, he's attempted about 20,000 jumps in his life. Upwards of 60 jumps a week, eight months a year for 10 years, and all that technique still tosses his mind in a tizzy sometimes.

''Oh yeah, and it screws me up every time,'' Litchfield says. ''You just have to run down the runway and know that you've put the time in to do it right. Just trust yourself.''

Just trust myself. I'm not sure I do right now, but I have no choice. As soon as I start rocking back and forth at the top of the runway, I've committed to my final jump.

Pounding down the track, I keep my elbows straight as I pound the pole into the concrete pit. I press my feet together as I kick them up toward the bar. I wait as long as I can before I swing my hips around.

And then I wait for the bar to crack me in the back.

I wait, and I wait, and what's this? The mat welcomes me with a comforting ''poof.'' I look up, and I realize that I've cleared the bar.

But no! Out of nowhere, my pole lurches into my line of sight, and I look on helplessly as it slowly creeps toward the bar and tips it over.

''The wind knocked it down! The wind knocked it down!'' Poulson yells amidst fits of laughter. I guess there's a rule that says a jump counts if Mother Nature knocks down the bar, and not I.

But I cannot cheat myself. I knocked it down. I cannot pole vault 8 feet, let alone 10 feet. Neither mark would have earned me the right to climb the medal podium at the 1A state meet in Boise last month.

Sure, I am an athlete. I wouldn't mention my name in the same breath as Litchfield's and Poulson's, but I dare say I'm more athletic than the average male.

Pole vaulting is so much more than athleticism, though. It's mastering the riot of your limbs in the four seconds you make the jump, all the while ordering your body to shut up when it's pleading for mercy.

Litchfield is who he is because of the 20,000 times he's burst down a runway, cramming all that technique into each vault. Every once or twice, he does it perfectly. Most other times, he fails and gets back up again for another jump.

Looks like I'm still 20,000 jumps away before I can call myself a pole vaulter.

By Kelvin Ang

[cliffhucker]

cool, I know Paul, he runs the Fiber Riders every tues and thurs in Pocatello, awsome guy, good luck with the trials Paul!