Oct 1, Speed trap: inside the biggest scandal in Olympic history. by: Francis, Charlie, ; Coplon, Jeff. Publication date urn:acs6:speedtrapinsideb00fran: epubef-8bdb3-bb0f-2db97bb4ddb2 · urn:oclc:record. Index of /public/Books/4chan_pol_Archives/PDFs/Fitness/Sports Training & Conditioning/ . Verify Hashes Speed Training Considerations for NonTrack. Aug 11, Charlie Francis To go faster, you need more force. The more force you apply, the higher you will rise off the ground.
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Charlie Francis - Speed ronaldweinland.info - Ebook download as PDF File .pdf), Text File . txt) or read book online. his speed and power, key factors in nine of his ten events. I had worked with. Steen three ronaldweinland.info Uploaded by . In all documented cases, sprinters were exceptional prior to initiating training, .. Ben Johnson's coach, Charlie Francis, testified, “It's pretty clear that steroids. Ibooks Epub-Downloads High Intensity Training - Expanding the Limits of Performance (Key Concepts Book 4) by Charlie Francis PDF. be found in the books Charlie Francis Training System and in more of a background read, Speed Trap.
National Collegiate Athletic Association U. National Football League U. It was Monday, September 26, , in Seoul, South Korea-about 42 hours after my life's great moment On the previous Saturday, Ben Johnson, the sprinter I'd coached for the past 12 years, had won the Olympic gold medal in the meters, breaking his own world record. His time: 9. My caller was Dave Lyon, a manager for Canada's track and field team. In our sport, a positive drug test was the ultimate horror. It was like a fatal car crash: You knew it could happen at any time, to almost anyone, but you never believed it could happen to you.
No News Is Good News When we discovered that reporters had staked out my apartment, Ange' and I found haven at a nearby Toronto hotel and checked in under her name.
I was absolutely incoguito-a tremendous frustration for the media. Canada's greatest international triumph had turned into its most grievous disappointment, and every news outlet in the country wanted to get to the man who had supposedly engineered it-"the missing link in the drug caper that has ruined many lives," according to The Toronto Star. There was one bright spot: Canadian decathlete Dave Steen had won a bronze medal. A member of the University of Toronto track club, Steen had fallen out with his coach, Andy Higgins, in the fall of , and had come to me to improve his speed and power, key factors in nine of his ten events.
I had worked with Steen three times a week for the last three years, and now it had paid off. His success could go a long way toward re-establishing my credentials as a coach. We remained at the hotel for two weeks and ventured out at our peril. When Ange' dropped by the apartment to pick up some clothes, two reporters tailed her car on the way out, and she took them on a grand chase before losing them. One television crew demanded that he unlock my apartment door for them, and he had to enlist one of my larger neighbours to throw them out.
Another reporter actually began scaling the balconies at the back of the building to reach my ninth-floor apartment. On two occasions, Ange' arrived to find my apartment door inexplicably unlocked. Finally she boiled over. She was upset; I was appalled. To get away from our pursuers, we took a trip to Ange's parents' home in Belle River, a small town near Windsor, Ontario, only to find just how far the long arm of the press could reach.
The New York Times had already searched out my future in-laws in its quest for background information. At Paddy's, a local gas station which also served coffee at a four-stool counter, the Times reporter had brandished pictures of myself and Ben, asking if anyone had spotted us in the vicinity. On the highway between Belle River and Toronto, we stopped at a McDonald's, and the woman at the counter asked for my autograph.
When I told my mother about it, she laughed and warned me not to get too excited. On September 30, in a column in The Toronto Sun, I read that Dave Steen had startled Andy Higgins by embracing him after the decathlon medal ceremony and saying, "I owe you a lot, coach. After a few days I began to regroup and think about the future.
I held no illusions of returning to the sport. My hope was to expose the sabotage in Seoul, if that's What it had been, and to move on from there. Early on, I received an offer from an international publishing group.
But we decided to turn the offer down. On October 5th, the federal government established its commission of inquiry into the use of drugs and banned practices in Canadian sport, to be headed by Charles Dubin, Ontario's associate chief justice. I decided that I would wait to speak until I was called as a witness. I knew that I needed a high-powered trial lawyer; I retained Roy McMurtry, former Ontario attorney general and high commissioner to London.
Our hope was for Ben to be represented by Bob Armstrong, who'd worked extensively on other commissions of inquiry, and to co-ordinate our legal strategies. Armstrong was later selected as chief counsel for the Commission.
At this point, however, we were unable to get through to Ben, as his phone had been disconnected; we leamed after the fact that he had hired Ed Futerman, a local attorney. But Ben's line of defence had already begun to emerge through public statements by such IOC heavyweights as Juan Antonio Samaranch and Dick Pound-the people who would ultimately decide his athletic fate. If supporting characters like Astaphan and me could be painted as having coerced an innocent athlete into taking drugs, Ben might yet be saved.
Just one week after Seoul, Ben took the bait. At a press conference three days later, he repeated that he had "never, ever, knowingly taken illegal drugs. If Ben stuck to these statements, they would No News Is Good News 17 support the theory that I had deceived him by giving him steroids without his knowledge or assent-a scenario that would lead to criminal charges against me.
Angella Issajenko perceived Ben's statement as a betrayal, and she was furious with her old teammate. On October 9th, she took him on in an explosive interview with The Toronto Star. You don't back down and slaughter the people you were in league with from the beginning. I neither admitted nor denied that Ben had taken steroids, but suggested that foul play was involved. Ben's positive, I said, "can only be explained by a deliberate manipulation of the testing process.
Astaphan, by contrast, had opted for a total stonewall; in a September 28th interview on CBC television, he maintained that he'd never given steroids or any other banned drugs to Ben. Meanwhile, Ben was a virtual hostage in his suburban Toronto home, and he was beginning to fray. During the second week after his return, a motorist complained that Ben had pointed a grin at him when caught in traffic; a police search turned up a starter's pistol-the "gun" in question-in Ben's black Porsche.
Ben pleaded guilty to common assault, and received a conditional discharge and 12 months' probation. A few weeks later I was rocked by news of another sort.
The Dubin Inquiry had submitted for laboratory analysis a sample of the injectable steroid, provided by Angella, that members of my sprint group had been using for the past three years. In November, the lab issued its report-and revealed that the sample was not furazabol the untestable steroid we had known as Estragol. It was, rather, stanozolol, the same commonly used steroid that had surfaced 18 Speed Trap in Ben's drug test at Seoul.
My confusion-and dismay-was compounded. I would never have allowed my sprinters to use an injectable known to the bC-I would have feared the possibility that its metabolites wouldn't clear their systems in time.
Oral steroids, which we had relied on before Astaphan introduced us to "Estragol" in , clear the body much faster than injectables. This revelation failed to solve the mystery of Ben's positive, however. As far as I knew, he had received his last injection on August 28th in Toronto, or 26 days before the metre final.
There should have been ample time for the drug to clear, based on our past experience. Using the same steroid, Ben had tested clean on 29 previous occasions, often with clearance times of less than 26 days.
In several instances, he'd taken an injection as close as 13 or 14 days before a meet. Why had he tested positive this time? Amid this swirl of conflicting stories, I bided my time, and waited for the Dubin Inquiry, which was expected to convene early the following year.
I would try to demonstrate that Ben had won on a level playing field in Seoul, and that his spectacular accomplishment should be returned to the record books. Over the next six months, I would prepare obsessively for my eight days in the Inquiry's witness box, retracing every step I'd taken as a runner and coach over 25 years. I would summon up a career rich in friends and adversaries, in breakthroughs and setbacks.
In the process, I would seek to rebuild my reputation as the coach who had forged one of the world's leading sprint teams, whose runners had set 32 world records and won 9 Olympic medals, and who had, by the unwritten rules of my day, developed the fastest man in history.
For years I had been a good soldier. I had kept the conspiracy of silence that governs international track, a see-no-evil world where high-minded condemnations of drug use coexist with the cynical protection of doped-up superstars. But silence wouldn't work any more-not for me and not for Ben. It was finally time to speak up. The Schoolboy I always loved to run. For a boy growing up in the s, in Rosedale, an affluent Toronto neighbourhood, the activity held one great attraction: I was good at it.
In other areas, my gifts were not so clear. In team sports I was a total bust. I had no hand-eye coordination to speak of, and in schoolyard games I would be picked next to last, just before the fat kid.
Although running came naturally to me, my first formal sprint was inauspicious.
In a charge of 30 weaving first-graders in a district competition, I was cut off by two kids and trapped behind the crowd. My classmate Jack Robbins was leading until he dropped his handkerchief, and ceded the race when he stopped to pick it up. But from second grade on I won the district championship every year. I was lucky to have parents who supported my athletic pursuits. My father was a former ice dancer who developed the "Canasta Tango," which remains a compulsory routine in international competition to this day.
He was also an artist who worked in the figurative tradition, despite the commercial trend towards abstracts. He was stubborn in pursuing his passions-a trait he passed on to me. My mother was a Maryland-born teacher, the daughter of the 19 history chairman at the U. Naval Academy at Annapolis. From her I inherited a love of reading and the high-strung temperament that is part of every sprinter's makeup.
In high school I won every yard dash I entered. For summer competition I joined the Don Mills Track Club in Toronto in , when I was 15, and, though the coaches there knew little about the finer points of sprinting, I continued to improve.
I won five national age-class championships and set a Canadian juvenile under 18 record of 9. Though I'd also won titles in the , the was always my favourite event-the blue-ribbon competition, the one which told who was fastest. The metre champion rules the most elemental of contests, the truest test for sheer speed. In the very first Olympics, held in ancient Greece in B.
The event is seemingly if deceptively simple and literally straightforward. It crosses cultural lines like no other, and is by far the most competitive-and the most glamorous-Olympic endeavour. More than nations contested the in , as compared to about 80 in swimming and 30 in gymnastics.
From Europe to South America and almost everywhere in between, hundreds of millions of children line up in schoolyards and run, to see who will finish first. The losers switch to other sports or become milers or marathoners, milieus where gamesmanship and grinding effort can compensate for more limited physical gifts. The winners race on, in ever narrowing fields. They start in local clubs, then move on to provincial and national meets. A few might make their national teams and enter international competition, ranging from two-country dual meets to the Olympics.
Only the very best will make it to the Olympic final of the metres, and then one man will stand alone. The world's fastest human belongs to everyone-and when I was 15 years old, no other title seemed quite so royal. Running became my obsession. I followed the career of the American Bob Hayes-the fastest human of that day, and the Olympic gold medallist in the way other teenagers followed Bobby Hull or Willie Mays.
My great thrill came in , at the Canadian national championships in Edmonton, where I met one of my boyhood heroes: Harry Jerome, the fastest man in Canada. Jerome was a freak of nature, an aberration. You could say he was the greatest sprinter Canada had yet produced, except that Canada had nothing to do with it. He competed years before Sport Canada was established, at a time when his country provided its athletes with neither financial help nor technical support.
The son of a Saskatchewan railway porter, Jerome showed just how far a fast man could go it alone. Jerome was unknown outside Canada when he tied the world record at flat for the metres in , as a freshman at the University of Oregon.
He was an inexperienced kid, not nearly ready to face the best veteran sprinters in the world. But the press anointed him as the nation's great hope to win a gold medal at the Olympics in Rome. He was sent there in September, after a summer in Canada without coaching or high-level competition.
But Jerome was good, and too young to know his limits. He was leading his semi-final when his lack of preparation betrayed him; he pulled a hamstring and limped to a stop. Jerome discovered that a star disappoints the Canadian public at his peril. Long after Rome, he was dogged by the press as a "choke. He also became one of only two men ever to beat the brilliant Hayes in the In the fall of , after another wasted summer in Canada, Jerome travelled to the Commonwealth Games at Perth, Australia.
He was moving full-bore in the yards when his spikes ripped away from his shoe. He hyperextended his leg and ruptured his quadriceps, the set of long muscles at the front of the thigh; a tendon was torn from the knee joint. Jerome landed in surgery and was still in the hospital when he came across a Vancouver newspaper.
He was reduced to tears by a banner headline: "Jerome Quits Again. Though he would never run as powerfully again, he improved his start and worked his way back to the top: the bronze medal in the metres in the Olympics; the gold in the Commonwealth Games of and the Pan Ams of ; yet another world record for the yards.
He remained world-ranked from through , a rare feat of longevity. For all of his accomplishments, however, Jerome remained a voice in the wilderness.
By advocating public financing for athletes, he alienated a sports establishment content to emulate Britain's upper-class amateur tradition. By the time the country came to accept his ideas, Jerome was a sick man; he died of a brain lesion at the age of Stanford As I approached the end of high school, I knew my destiny pointed south, to the United States.
The Canadian universities had litfie in the way of indoor training facilities and virtually no track scholarships. America represented adventure and opportunity, and I wanted to be part of it.
When Stanford began recruiting me, it all sounded promising: the California climate, the best competition, and not least the school's head coach, Payton Jordan, who had developed Larry Questad into the National Collegiate Athletic Association yard champion. Jordan secured his reputation in , when his yard relay team set a world record and Stanford placed a surprising second in the NCAA track and field championships.
He'd already been named head coach for the U. Olympic track team. I had my own Olympic dreams, and I hoped he would help me realize them.
He would be my mentor, I thought, my first real coach. I left home for Stanford in the fall of Jordan had starred as a sprinter at the University of Southern California in the s, and he still cut an impressive figure: ruggedly handsome, ramrod straight, and terrifically fit for a man in his SOs.
There was no question that he knew his stuff. But 23 24 Speed Trap it seemed to me that his heart was no longer in it; I found him inconsistent in his attentions and follow-up.
In the wake of his mid-sixties breakthroughs, he'd turned down the head coach's job at the University of Southern California, only to see his good work at Stanford rewarded by a crippling series of budget cuts. By the time I'd arrived, he was left with only three scholarships a year. Jordan knew his team would never reprise its Cinderella story of , and thought longingly of USC's advantages, including an unlimited number of scholarships and an admissions department which could be flexible where athletes were concerned.
Training time at Stanford was an organized riot. Many athletes devised their own work-outs as they went along. The lazy ones did so little that they lacked the most basic conditioning. Others, like myself, ran themselves into the ground.
Overstressed and underprepared, I had one muscle strain after another through my sophomore and junior years. In fairness, the chaos in collegiate track was not unique to Stanford.
The great majority of college coaches failed to produce a single high-performance athlete. But even the top programs weren't all that well organized; at USC, I knew runners on the same team who trained at different tracks.
In contrast to the situation in Europe, where the various national federations structured meticulous training plans to allow their athletes to peak at the most important meets, American collegians skimped on practice and relied instead on the most rigorous competitive schedule in the world.
They could simply run themselves into form at their competitionsbut only if they didn't kill themselves training in between. Beginning in February, they'd have two or three races every weekend, and by June they'd be flying.
In such a haphazard system, however, only a few would thrive. The super talents sailed through, since they could win going easy or going hard. For the rest of us, our development was a matter of chance. A relaxation therapist who'd trained Navy fliers during the Second World War, Winters was both a fine technician and a great innovator-an early advocate of low-volume speed training and a pioneer in designing individualized training programs for his athletes.
While a few of his athletes-notably John Carlos, Tommie Smith, and Lee Evans-went on to become stars, Winters' sprint team also had incredible depth; at one point he had seven runners going 9. The world had never seen such a stable of sprinters, nor would it again. It was in my junior year at Stanford that I first dabbled with the notion of performance-enhancing drugs. One weekend I was slotted to run the dreaded yards, invariably an ordeal for me.
I'd heard that amphetamines could delay the onset of fatigue, and decided to give them a try. The drugs weren't exactly scarce at Stanford, where every dorm light would be blazing at A. An hour before the race, I popped a five-milligram Dexedrine tablet. By the time I'd gone yards, I knew the stuff wasn't working, and I finished as miserably as usual. I tried Dexedrine one more time that year, in a yard race toward the end of the regular season, and ran poorly once again.
It was my last experiment with speed, though I didn't blame the drug. If you're not prepared by your training, I concluded, nothing will help you.
I later leamed that a number of elite athletes used amphetamines to great effect. In , Mike Mercer, a Canadian shot-putter who'd attended college in Utah, related a story about a U. Shortly before the competition, Mercer had run into a long-jumper who seemed depressed.
The jumper had reached close to 25 feet in high school, but hadn't improved in the four years since then. The next day, as Mercer waited in 26 Speed Trap the shot-putters' area for his turn, the victorious jumper came running through the middle of the competition, shouting, "Mike, Mike!
Twenty-six feet! That summer I resolved to do something drastic. I called Percy Duncan.
I had called Percy once before, on a friend's reference, a week before the Olympic trials in Toronto. He advised me on how to relax and supplied a good "taper schedule"-a series of work-outs of diminishing volume-for that last week. The DPM has been enormously successful in stimulating research on the mechanisms e. For instance, working memory capacity is highly heritable Kremen et al. Similarly, maximal oxygen consumption VO2max is crucial for elite performance in endurance sports, and both untrained VO2max and VO2max responsiveness are highly heritable Bouchard et al.
The DPM is based on correlational studies showing that achievement is strongly correlated with accumulated deliberate practice. One problem with the DPM is that it assumes that deliberate practice drives the correlation, yet it is possible that innate ability, or talent, is causal Ackerman, For example, in the domain of music expertise, Ruthsatz et al. A fourth problem with the DPM is its claim that deliberate practice explains a very high proportion of the variance in the attainment of expertise; the empirical data contradict this Hambrick et al.
Similarly, a study of elite Australian athletes from 34 different sports demonstrated that the mean period of development from novice to elite athlete was 7.
In sum, then, there remains uncertainty regarding the validity of the DPM. Here we provide strong tests of two critical DPM predictions in the domain of sprinting e.
For example, it makes little sense to ask, much less measure, how gifted a child is at playing chess before they have become knowledgeable about the rules of the game. In the domain of sprinting, however, it is possible to assess performance prior to training.
This is because nearly all children run in the course of normal play. Thus, a child who is an exceptionally fast runner can readily assess their ability relative to their peers, as can adult observers. In addition, a limitation of most studies is that there is some degree of subjectivity in the rating of expertise.
For example, factors related to team selection e. We tested the two key predictions of the DPM with three complementary studies. In Study 1 we reviewed the biographies of male and female Olympic sprint champions. In Study 2 we reviewed the biographies of the 20 fastest male m runners in U.
In Study 3 we surveyed male and female sprinters who qualified for the U. To our knowledge, these are the first studies to address the DPM in sprinting. Study 1: Biographies of Olympic champions We examined the biographies of Olympic champions because becoming an Olympic champion shows unambiguous evidence of expertise.
Moreover, because there is often great interest in sprint champions, biographies have been written about many of them.