"Be yourself. Everyone else is taken."
- one of Stacy Peardot-Goudy's shirts
Summer is an odd time of year for academics. If we're not teaching summer school, we may have no regular schedule. By the same token, we're not on vacation. Summer offers my best chance to learn new repertoire for the next season; it provides long, uninterrupted blocks of time during which I can record and edit last season's repertoire, and wish I had practiced more and better during the previous summer. A couple of professional meetings I attend take place during the summer months. The college where I teach runs a summer piano academy. All this says is that I work, on a variety of different projects, spread out over time.
At some point during that time, I'm supposed to take a summer vacation. After all, we're practically brainwashed during childhood that summer vacations happen to everyone, or at least to everyone in school. Here in the Upper Midwest, I'm surrounded by people who go to The Cabin, or to The Lake, usually for the weekend but often for a week or two during one of the summer months. I have friends and colleagues who spend the summer traveling, or at least get away from the college town in which we live. Away is farther for some (three months in London) than for others (try burgers at the next town over).
What I can manage consistently, by way of summer vacation, is a couple of days of agility camp. This summer, I did a grand and brave thing and went to an agility camp two states away. This wasn't really all that brave. I knew, and thought the world of, three of the instructors, plus the camp was near enough to my high school stomping grounds that I could stay overnight in familiar surroundings. Thing is, I learned so much in two days that I don't know whether I can count it as a vacation. It was lovely, and relaxing, and the food was great (thanks, Diane!), and my brain was so full by the end of the two days that it has taken me three months to process what I learned. Here's a partial list of new-to-me ideas (plus some old-to-me-ideas that finally sank in). This brilliance comes courtesy of Stacy Peardot-Goudy, Ronda Carter, Jen Pinder, and Rachel Sanders. Anything incoherent you should attribute to me.
1. Dogs naturally radiate towards handlers. (This explains yet again why Viva curls in to me when exiting tunnels.)
2. It is much easier to pull dogs between obstacles than to push them between obstacles. That said, it is important to take one's time, as pull-throughs don't happen quickly.
3. Hesitation is a powerful tool.
4. Collection is both physically and mentally taxing for dogs.
5. Effectively cuing lead changes reduces stress for both handlers and dogs.
6. Drive past the last obstacle.
7. At trials, videotape every run. Take notes on every run.
8. The higher one's arm, the more it cues extension.
9. Run with both arms pumping when possible.
10. Viva and I need to work on forward drive through rear crosses.
11. Viva likes to race me. When I can position myself for a race (as on the dogwalk), Viva goes much faster. (Thanks, Jen Pinder!)
12. Shoulder rotation cues extension.
13. Sometimes one needs to run faster in order for subsequent deceleration to be sufficiently obvious to one's dog.
14. Viva reads my knees. (Thanks again, Jen Pinder!)
15. Turning in toward one's dog is a huge collection cue.
16. Sitting back on one's heels is another collection cue.
17. If one wants one's dog to have a faster A-frame or dogwalk, one should not turn in toward one's dog or sit back on one's heels while one's dog is on the A-frame or dogwalk!
18. To go faster, relax. You can't open up your stride when you're tense.
19. Every rear cross has a lateral motion component. The more lateral motion, the sharper the turn.
The college I teach at is coming up on Fall Break. It's not quite fall vacation, but it's two days, long enough to revisit every agility course and exercise from my two-day official summer vacation. Need to find me or Viva? We'll be in the backyard.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Trust Issues
Viva and I had the good fortune last week to be at a Stacy Peardot-Goudy seminar. During the debriefing of a course, I was asked about a front cross placement -- not why I did a front cross, or whether I should have done a front cross, but why I put the front cross where I did. I answered, "Instinct," because it was the only thing I could think of at the time. I walk every course first for Viva's path, then for my general path, and then I put my analytical mind to work. I know where I want Viva's lead to change, I know where I need Viva to collect and want her to extend, and sometimes, after I've thought through the options, certain placements just "feel" right to me. Instinct.
Seminars being seminars, I had some time to unpack my answer, and "instinct" unpacked into something powerful indeed. The reason the front cross placement had "felt" right in my imagination was that I wasn't confident that the place I analytically wanted to put the front cross would allow me to send Viva over the previous jump. I didn't trust our ability as a team to execute my first-choice plan, so my subconscious took me to a second-choice plan, one that intuitively felt more comfortable. Lateral and forward sends are not new to Team Viva, but they're new enough (lateral in particular) that I still have strong memories from last year of pulling Viva off jumps or sending her too far when I didn't get my timing, motion, or position right.
When I do get my act together with a send, the effect is magical but scary. As an extremely tactilely- and kinesthetically-oriented individual (there's a reason I became a pianist), I often associate my ability to control with my ability to manipulate objects with touch. I depend on this. Agility might thus be considered an odd sport for me, because I don't get to touch my dog or hold onto her physically in any way. The on-course dog-handler connection in agility exists, profoundly, but does not ever get to be about clutching, gripping, or otherwise laying hands on the beast. (If it does, and the clock is still running, something has, without a doubt, gone seriously wrong.) We use the terms "pull" and "push" to describe handling actions, and sometimes I feel as though I am actually "pulling" or "pushing" on Viva's line, but this is ephemeral; there is neither dog in my hands nor at the other end of a leash. Consequently, I often have the vague and unsettling sensation that I am without hands. Sure, they get to point; they go up and down and extend and change direction at the ends of my arms, but nothing touches Viva -- on course, we are two islands in a sea of air. I can trust this other island, I can send it (and I do), but these acts of trusting and sending run counter to my nature. My default is to clutch, grip, and, failing my ability to do either without breaking all the rules, micromanage. Surely, if I am careful, Viva will take this jump here. Surely, if I am vigilant, Viva will come right to me there. Surely . . . but then the run is awkward, lines drift, the dog slows. To do our best, to run with great joy and abandon, I must let go and trust. Trust my training, trust my handling, trust my timing, trust my dog, trust myself.
Not coincidentally, the only other time I have felt as though I had no hands was during a trust exercise. You've been there; this was the one in which everyone stood around in a circle, one person stepped into the center, and gently fell. The group of "trustees" was supposed to support the individual, or "truster," who could then relax and experience the warmth of this support. I was criticized the first time I was the "truster" because I didn't relax. I couldn't. I had never wholly trusted anyone; what on earth would possess me spontaneously to trust a circle of strangers? My inclination was to trust that one of the "trustees" in the circle wouldn't be paying attention (or worse), thus landing me as the "truster" painfully and inelegantly on the floor. What I was reminded of during the agility seminar is that Viva trusts me wholly. Moroever, and perhaps more importantly, she is giving me the opportunity to treat her in the same fashion, indeed is pushing me to trust her on course the way she trusts me. No wonder she barks when I give her bad information! As the "trustee," I've let her as the "truster" end up on the floor.
Trusting Viva on course means trusting her on line, trusting her on contact obstacles, trusting her to find and stay in the weaves, and trusting her whenever and wherever I'm turning. It took me three runs this weekend to achieve the first (trusting that she would stay at the start line, instead of leading out carefully and morosely, as though I expected her to fail) but by the time we got to Sunday's Jumpers with Weaves course, I was primed. I led out happy, trusted her to stay (which she did), ran and trusted her to react to my body language, and we had one of our best runs ever. I sent her into a bonus tunnel, but she still had one of her fastest runs ever. And we ended as happily as we ever have. I trust she enjoyed the post-run cookies.
Seminars being seminars, I had some time to unpack my answer, and "instinct" unpacked into something powerful indeed. The reason the front cross placement had "felt" right in my imagination was that I wasn't confident that the place I analytically wanted to put the front cross would allow me to send Viva over the previous jump. I didn't trust our ability as a team to execute my first-choice plan, so my subconscious took me to a second-choice plan, one that intuitively felt more comfortable. Lateral and forward sends are not new to Team Viva, but they're new enough (lateral in particular) that I still have strong memories from last year of pulling Viva off jumps or sending her too far when I didn't get my timing, motion, or position right.
When I do get my act together with a send, the effect is magical but scary. As an extremely tactilely- and kinesthetically-oriented individual (there's a reason I became a pianist), I often associate my ability to control with my ability to manipulate objects with touch. I depend on this. Agility might thus be considered an odd sport for me, because I don't get to touch my dog or hold onto her physically in any way. The on-course dog-handler connection in agility exists, profoundly, but does not ever get to be about clutching, gripping, or otherwise laying hands on the beast. (If it does, and the clock is still running, something has, without a doubt, gone seriously wrong.) We use the terms "pull" and "push" to describe handling actions, and sometimes I feel as though I am actually "pulling" or "pushing" on Viva's line, but this is ephemeral; there is neither dog in my hands nor at the other end of a leash. Consequently, I often have the vague and unsettling sensation that I am without hands. Sure, they get to point; they go up and down and extend and change direction at the ends of my arms, but nothing touches Viva -- on course, we are two islands in a sea of air. I can trust this other island, I can send it (and I do), but these acts of trusting and sending run counter to my nature. My default is to clutch, grip, and, failing my ability to do either without breaking all the rules, micromanage. Surely, if I am careful, Viva will take this jump here. Surely, if I am vigilant, Viva will come right to me there. Surely . . . but then the run is awkward, lines drift, the dog slows. To do our best, to run with great joy and abandon, I must let go and trust. Trust my training, trust my handling, trust my timing, trust my dog, trust myself.
Not coincidentally, the only other time I have felt as though I had no hands was during a trust exercise. You've been there; this was the one in which everyone stood around in a circle, one person stepped into the center, and gently fell. The group of "trustees" was supposed to support the individual, or "truster," who could then relax and experience the warmth of this support. I was criticized the first time I was the "truster" because I didn't relax. I couldn't. I had never wholly trusted anyone; what on earth would possess me spontaneously to trust a circle of strangers? My inclination was to trust that one of the "trustees" in the circle wouldn't be paying attention (or worse), thus landing me as the "truster" painfully and inelegantly on the floor. What I was reminded of during the agility seminar is that Viva trusts me wholly. Moroever, and perhaps more importantly, she is giving me the opportunity to treat her in the same fashion, indeed is pushing me to trust her on course the way she trusts me. No wonder she barks when I give her bad information! As the "trustee," I've let her as the "truster" end up on the floor.
Trusting Viva on course means trusting her on line, trusting her on contact obstacles, trusting her to find and stay in the weaves, and trusting her whenever and wherever I'm turning. It took me three runs this weekend to achieve the first (trusting that she would stay at the start line, instead of leading out carefully and morosely, as though I expected her to fail) but by the time we got to Sunday's Jumpers with Weaves course, I was primed. I led out happy, trusted her to stay (which she did), ran and trusted her to react to my body language, and we had one of our best runs ever. I sent her into a bonus tunnel, but she still had one of her fastest runs ever. And we ended as happily as we ever have. I trust she enjoyed the post-run cookies.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Zoning Out
Viva and I have been fortunate to have a number of "zone" runs over the course of our agility lives together. For the most part, I remember lots of them in 2006. There hasn't been a true zone run for awhile, and I've been pondering this. It's not that we've stagnated or gotten worse as a team. It's not that we haven't had our share of great runs, even. Our non-zone runs these days are much, much faster than our zone runs were back in 2006. Still, I crave that feeling of running with Viva in such a way that time stops and we are purely focused in the moment together. Nothing interrupts this: no thoughts, no barking, no abrupt changes of direction or pace. It's as strong a feeling of connection as I've ever experienced.
So why haven't we been back in the zone lately? Going back through my notes, I realized that 2006, the year of the zone run, was the year that I put things together for the first time as a handler. I had been steadily improving since working with Annelise Allan and Stacy Peardot-Goudy at the Agile Canines Agility Camp in the summer of 2005. My timing was better, my dog was barking less (Friends, family, and Icelandic Sheepdog aficionados, please note: I did not write "not barking"), and it seemed as though we were getting closer and closer to being in sync. Then we had it. The first zone run.
The zone run in agility is pretty much the same as the zone performance in chamber music (though, even if you run with an Icelandic Sheepdog, the zone run in agility is quieter). When you're in the zone during a chamber music performance, all of the decisions that the ensemble has to make during rehearsals fall away. No one has to wait for anyone else in order to play precisely together. The artistic intentions are collective, crystal clear, and beautifully executed at all times. Focus is intense, iron-clad, and yet feels effortless. If you possess an external observer, mentally speaking, he or she vanishes. During my best performances, I have no idea how I sound, because I am simply too focused on the artistic choice of the moment to pay that kind of objective (or, far worse, subjective) attention to the sound resulting from that choice. I am on to the next choice. The same holds true for the zone runs I have had with Viva. I think I share this with other handlers: we know, jogging away from the finish line to reward our teammate for a job well done, that we have had a zone run, but most of the individual moments in it are subsumed into the whole.
Once we experience the zone run, then, why don't we have zone runs all the time? Specifically, why haven't I had a zone run with Viva for a while? The common element of the 2006 zone runs was distance. My distance from Viva was a constant: we were working novice and open courses in which I found myself handling a few feet away from her except where a front or rear cross was involved. As we moved up to more advanced coursework, my distance from her began to shift; in some cases, shifting considerably. These days, I find myself having to work hard to support jumps when I am far enough away from her that she begins to pull in to me.
All of this brings me back to last Saturday morning, when I was most emphatically not having a zone run. In fact, in an Elite Regular round, when all Viva had to do was run straight from her weave exit to a jump and turn left to execute a second jump, I managed to pull her off her line. How hard it is to let one's dog go straight? (Don't answer that; sometimes it's a lot harder for me than other times, especially if there's distance work in play. Also, don't get me wrong; we were having a heck of a lot of fun, and came home with a fistful of qualifying and first-place ribbons anyway.) After we finished the run, I pulled out my record book, and made some notes. As I was writing, "Ask Annelise or Jacque what the best body language is to keep Viva going straight as I move left," I realized I knew exactly what the best body language was to keep Viva going straight under those circumstances. I needed to keep my shoulders facing the direction I wanted her to go, extend my arm to support the jump, and run left on a diagonal path. Ah, running on a diagonal. I suck at this. Strike that. Optimistically speaking, I find running on a diagonal physically counter-intuitive, which would suggest I need to practice it.
Practice, in agility, seems to mean both the act of practicing an activity for eventual use in class or at a trial, and the act of practicing the identification of locations on course, real or hypothetical, at which said activity would be useful. During the walk-through of Saturday's Elite Jumpers course, I spotted a couple of locations where I thought diagonal movement on my part would be useful. During our run, I duly noted that diagonal movement on my part would have been useful in those locations. Yep, I'd failed to move diagonally at either of them. Sigh. My shoulders really like to face the direction I'm going.
Between Saturday's Elite Jumpers run and Sunday's Elite Jumpers run, I had a talk with my shoulders. It turned into more of a discussion, really, what with me suggesting that my shoulders had been facing the way my body was moving pretty much every day of my life for more than four decades and wouldn't they like to try something new and different, and my shoulders countering that they were just looking out for my physical welfare, specifically that of my face and my ass, neither of which share a fondness for ending up flattened on cold, April ground. I asked my shoulders to give me a mite more credit for maintaining my balance, what with those years of childhood ballet and all, and they noted, in only a mildly snarky fashion, that I had lost my balance at the end of a Regular run that very Saturday and my left knee had the grass stains and bruises to prove it. In the end, it was the knee that persuaded the shoulders to lighten up, give peace a chance, and go along with this running-on-a-diagonal thing, at least for Elite Jumpers.
As Viva and I can attest, the shoulders came through on course with flying colors. I managed to run on a diagonal at both locations I had scouted for doing so, and Viva responded with what I swear was an "About time you figured this out" burst of speed. It wasn't our fastest jumpers run ever, but it was fast for grass and, given the curves on this particular course, might well have been a jumpers canine best. And the coolest part? We're nearing the zone again. I think this running-diagonally business has us on the verge of a breakthrough, a fluid connection that will persist despite changes in handler-dog distance. More on than in the next post . . .
So why haven't we been back in the zone lately? Going back through my notes, I realized that 2006, the year of the zone run, was the year that I put things together for the first time as a handler. I had been steadily improving since working with Annelise Allan and Stacy Peardot-Goudy at the Agile Canines Agility Camp in the summer of 2005. My timing was better, my dog was barking less (Friends, family, and Icelandic Sheepdog aficionados, please note: I did not write "not barking"), and it seemed as though we were getting closer and closer to being in sync. Then we had it. The first zone run.
The zone run in agility is pretty much the same as the zone performance in chamber music (though, even if you run with an Icelandic Sheepdog, the zone run in agility is quieter). When you're in the zone during a chamber music performance, all of the decisions that the ensemble has to make during rehearsals fall away. No one has to wait for anyone else in order to play precisely together. The artistic intentions are collective, crystal clear, and beautifully executed at all times. Focus is intense, iron-clad, and yet feels effortless. If you possess an external observer, mentally speaking, he or she vanishes. During my best performances, I have no idea how I sound, because I am simply too focused on the artistic choice of the moment to pay that kind of objective (or, far worse, subjective) attention to the sound resulting from that choice. I am on to the next choice. The same holds true for the zone runs I have had with Viva. I think I share this with other handlers: we know, jogging away from the finish line to reward our teammate for a job well done, that we have had a zone run, but most of the individual moments in it are subsumed into the whole.
Once we experience the zone run, then, why don't we have zone runs all the time? Specifically, why haven't I had a zone run with Viva for a while? The common element of the 2006 zone runs was distance. My distance from Viva was a constant: we were working novice and open courses in which I found myself handling a few feet away from her except where a front or rear cross was involved. As we moved up to more advanced coursework, my distance from her began to shift; in some cases, shifting considerably. These days, I find myself having to work hard to support jumps when I am far enough away from her that she begins to pull in to me.
All of this brings me back to last Saturday morning, when I was most emphatically not having a zone run. In fact, in an Elite Regular round, when all Viva had to do was run straight from her weave exit to a jump and turn left to execute a second jump, I managed to pull her off her line. How hard it is to let one's dog go straight? (Don't answer that; sometimes it's a lot harder for me than other times, especially if there's distance work in play. Also, don't get me wrong; we were having a heck of a lot of fun, and came home with a fistful of qualifying and first-place ribbons anyway.) After we finished the run, I pulled out my record book, and made some notes. As I was writing, "Ask Annelise or Jacque what the best body language is to keep Viva going straight as I move left," I realized I knew exactly what the best body language was to keep Viva going straight under those circumstances. I needed to keep my shoulders facing the direction I wanted her to go, extend my arm to support the jump, and run left on a diagonal path. Ah, running on a diagonal. I suck at this. Strike that. Optimistically speaking, I find running on a diagonal physically counter-intuitive, which would suggest I need to practice it.
Practice, in agility, seems to mean both the act of practicing an activity for eventual use in class or at a trial, and the act of practicing the identification of locations on course, real or hypothetical, at which said activity would be useful. During the walk-through of Saturday's Elite Jumpers course, I spotted a couple of locations where I thought diagonal movement on my part would be useful. During our run, I duly noted that diagonal movement on my part would have been useful in those locations. Yep, I'd failed to move diagonally at either of them. Sigh. My shoulders really like to face the direction I'm going.
Between Saturday's Elite Jumpers run and Sunday's Elite Jumpers run, I had a talk with my shoulders. It turned into more of a discussion, really, what with me suggesting that my shoulders had been facing the way my body was moving pretty much every day of my life for more than four decades and wouldn't they like to try something new and different, and my shoulders countering that they were just looking out for my physical welfare, specifically that of my face and my ass, neither of which share a fondness for ending up flattened on cold, April ground. I asked my shoulders to give me a mite more credit for maintaining my balance, what with those years of childhood ballet and all, and they noted, in only a mildly snarky fashion, that I had lost my balance at the end of a Regular run that very Saturday and my left knee had the grass stains and bruises to prove it. In the end, it was the knee that persuaded the shoulders to lighten up, give peace a chance, and go along with this running-on-a-diagonal thing, at least for Elite Jumpers.
As Viva and I can attest, the shoulders came through on course with flying colors. I managed to run on a diagonal at both locations I had scouted for doing so, and Viva responded with what I swear was an "About time you figured this out" burst of speed. It wasn't our fastest jumpers run ever, but it was fast for grass and, given the curves on this particular course, might well have been a jumpers canine best. And the coolest part? We're nearing the zone again. I think this running-diagonally business has us on the verge of a breakthrough, a fluid connection that will persist despite changes in handler-dog distance. More on than in the next post . . .
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Run Like the Wind
Every now and then, something extraordinary happens. This weekend, something extraordinary happened to us.
Viva is a fast dog. Once I figured out some handling basics (things like giving your dog information before she needs it rather than after), I could count on Viva making course time. She usually picks up several speed points when qualifying on AKC agility courses, and I see a lot of speed from her when she's being her fuzzy happy self at home. Two years ago, she beat the 6 yards-per-second (YPS) mark for the first time ever, in a NADAC Tunnelers course. Since then, I'd seen pace from her in the high 5s, but nothing breaking 6, and nothing hinting at the capacity to reach 7 except in the living room while being chased by her Labrador Retriever sister, Luna.
In our second Tunnelers run last Saturday, Viva ran at 7.14 YPS. I didn't know it at the time. I never pay attention to our times at the end of runs. I figure we either make time or we don't, and if we don't, it's too late to affect that particular outcome since we've already crossed the finish line. Not only that, but other than a couple of spots where Viva really got to open up her stride, the run didn't seen much different from usual. There was one perfect turn coming out of a tunnel -- I started calling to her on time for once, and she came out of the tunnel on a PERFECT line to the next. When the scores were posted, I noticed she was faster than two border collies I pretty much idolize. That's when I thought we might have had a better run than usual. My mom called for directions to the trial site, and I asked her if she had a calculator handy. I made her do the math twice. Then I started looking at other runs and dogs' time. I did the same thing on Sunday.
Viva turned in the fastest run of any dog on any course all weekend long.
I'm still working on wrapping my brain around this. I know this is a speed sport, but honestly I've never rewarded for drive (at least not intentionally). Perhaps I may think about speed in training more than I have, as a result of this run, perhaps not. It blew away any concept of speed limitations I may have had, so I can guarantee there will be some shifts in self/team-image, qua Lanny Basham's model.
Not one to leave stones unturned, I figured since we'd gotten great speed on Saturday, I might try for some distance on Sunday. The bonus line in the first Tunnelers course looked like something doable, something that wouldn't frustrate Viva if anything went awry, and I wanted to see how Viva would do. I definitely didn't want to try the bonus line on the second Tunnelers course. There was a lateral section way at the other end of that second course, and I didn't think that would be fair to ask of my dog, given our distance training level. I got Viva revved up at the start line of the first course, and sent her through the first tunnel. She charged through the second tunnel, then noticed I was yelling, "Go, tunnel!" from what seemed to her like an awfully long ways away, and she turned to look at me. She stayed out, but her glance had put the wrong end of that tunnel in play, so when I asked again for "Go tunnel," she ran happily into the wrong end of the tunnel. I yelled "GOOD GIRL!" and brought her back through the first two tunnels in reverse order to me. I thanked the judge, and we ran for a treat jackpot. My mom was really perplexed. So were most of the other handlers (at least the vocal ones). After all, I had just rewarded my dog for doing the wrong thing. I explained to my mom that I was really happy that Viva had responded to my "Go tunnel" command by going into a tunnel. I figured we can hone this later, but I wanted Viva to know that her distance effort was something to celebrate.
Then the judge talked me into trying the bonus line for the second Tunnelers course. (Thanks, Michelle!) Viva charged through the first tunnel, charged through the second tunnel, *charged through the third tunnel* (at the distance that she'd felt insecure about just one run earlier), through the fourth tunnel, the fifth tunnel (at which point I'm pretty much jumping out of my skin with happiness and pride), then took the wrong end of the sixth tunnel. I smoothly got my happy fast dog to the finish line (skipping a bunch of tunnels on the way so I could reward as soon as possible) and we celebrated with lamb lung and liver biscotti. Good girl.
Those were the highlights. To summarize how the rest of the weekend went, well, in the past two trials she's collected sixteen blue ribbons. But the happiest moments? Two non-qualifying Tunnelers runs. I love agility. And my little red dog who can run like the wind.
Viva is a fast dog. Once I figured out some handling basics (things like giving your dog information before she needs it rather than after), I could count on Viva making course time. She usually picks up several speed points when qualifying on AKC agility courses, and I see a lot of speed from her when she's being her fuzzy happy self at home. Two years ago, she beat the 6 yards-per-second (YPS) mark for the first time ever, in a NADAC Tunnelers course. Since then, I'd seen pace from her in the high 5s, but nothing breaking 6, and nothing hinting at the capacity to reach 7 except in the living room while being chased by her Labrador Retriever sister, Luna.
In our second Tunnelers run last Saturday, Viva ran at 7.14 YPS. I didn't know it at the time. I never pay attention to our times at the end of runs. I figure we either make time or we don't, and if we don't, it's too late to affect that particular outcome since we've already crossed the finish line. Not only that, but other than a couple of spots where Viva really got to open up her stride, the run didn't seen much different from usual. There was one perfect turn coming out of a tunnel -- I started calling to her on time for once, and she came out of the tunnel on a PERFECT line to the next. When the scores were posted, I noticed she was faster than two border collies I pretty much idolize. That's when I thought we might have had a better run than usual. My mom called for directions to the trial site, and I asked her if she had a calculator handy. I made her do the math twice. Then I started looking at other runs and dogs' time. I did the same thing on Sunday.
Viva turned in the fastest run of any dog on any course all weekend long.
I'm still working on wrapping my brain around this. I know this is a speed sport, but honestly I've never rewarded for drive (at least not intentionally). Perhaps I may think about speed in training more than I have, as a result of this run, perhaps not. It blew away any concept of speed limitations I may have had, so I can guarantee there will be some shifts in self/team-image, qua Lanny Basham's model.
Not one to leave stones unturned, I figured since we'd gotten great speed on Saturday, I might try for some distance on Sunday. The bonus line in the first Tunnelers course looked like something doable, something that wouldn't frustrate Viva if anything went awry, and I wanted to see how Viva would do. I definitely didn't want to try the bonus line on the second Tunnelers course. There was a lateral section way at the other end of that second course, and I didn't think that would be fair to ask of my dog, given our distance training level. I got Viva revved up at the start line of the first course, and sent her through the first tunnel. She charged through the second tunnel, then noticed I was yelling, "Go, tunnel!" from what seemed to her like an awfully long ways away, and she turned to look at me. She stayed out, but her glance had put the wrong end of that tunnel in play, so when I asked again for "Go tunnel," she ran happily into the wrong end of the tunnel. I yelled "GOOD GIRL!" and brought her back through the first two tunnels in reverse order to me. I thanked the judge, and we ran for a treat jackpot. My mom was really perplexed. So were most of the other handlers (at least the vocal ones). After all, I had just rewarded my dog for doing the wrong thing. I explained to my mom that I was really happy that Viva had responded to my "Go tunnel" command by going into a tunnel. I figured we can hone this later, but I wanted Viva to know that her distance effort was something to celebrate.
Then the judge talked me into trying the bonus line for the second Tunnelers course. (Thanks, Michelle!) Viva charged through the first tunnel, charged through the second tunnel, *charged through the third tunnel* (at the distance that she'd felt insecure about just one run earlier), through the fourth tunnel, the fifth tunnel (at which point I'm pretty much jumping out of my skin with happiness and pride), then took the wrong end of the sixth tunnel. I smoothly got my happy fast dog to the finish line (skipping a bunch of tunnels on the way so I could reward as soon as possible) and we celebrated with lamb lung and liver biscotti. Good girl.
Those were the highlights. To summarize how the rest of the weekend went, well, in the past two trials she's collected sixteen blue ribbons. But the happiest moments? Two non-qualifying Tunnelers runs. I love agility. And my little red dog who can run like the wind.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Going Positive
Welcome back. This is the new home of the agility addict formerly known as Agility Spaz, now Agility Muse. Right around the time I last posted to my Agility Spaz blog, I got thinking about the power of the positive, especially as it applies to my teamwork with Viva. I didn't post much in 2008, initially because I was overwhelmed by our success at the 2007 AKC Agility Invitational in Long Beach, California. Coming in first in the FSS/Misc. Group blew my self-image as Agility Spaz. It's not that our runs at the '07 invitational were free of handler error. Some of my handling felt overcautious; I didn't always run the way I wanted to. But leaving the invitational, I had to acknowledge that I wasn't a novice handler anymore. I was better than I thought I was, and much of the success that weekend came from thinking positively. Inspired by Lanny Basham's story of shooting in snow for the first time at the world championships, I paced around the convention center muttering affirmations that seeped into my subconscious mind far enough to keep my conscious mind from sabotaging myself or my dog. Returning home, I wasn't sure I wanted to keep going as Agility Spaz. I also wasn't quite ready to assume a new mantle, a positive one, at least in such a public space as a blog. (Okay, so my public here may be a tiny one, but anyone can read this who runs across it.) A year later, I'm ready. It's not that my posts will be more positive than they were at Agility Spaz (the Agility Spaz posts were pretty positive), but I want to affirm that I can handle smoothly, confidently, and effectively, and staring at the "Agility Spaz" moniker on a frequent basis seemed counterproductive. So, welcome back to the home of thoughts and comments on the general topic of me-and-Viva, now reframed as ongoing musings. Maybe this will keep me from falling off the blog wagon the next time we experience more success than my conscious mind expects.
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