A Tribute to My Coach

In life, we meet people who shape us, people who stand by us, people we love, and people whose voices still echo in our minds long after their departure.

I have been meaning to collect my thoughts and write this short essay for almost two years — I think of him every day. I long to share my life and my experiences with him. I long to listen to his voice once more, praising me, guiding me, encouraging me.

I used to call him every day after school: “What’s for training today, Coach?”. He always planned it spontaneously — and like magic, it worked. I’m sure he had a plan, but he also had intuition, and more importantly, he assessed my state — my feelings and body.

He saw the good in life. “Everything happens for a good reason”, he told me while I stared at the trees subtly swaying in the wind. Is it still for a good reason that you’re no longer here?

I embraced his wisdom and learned to see the positive side of things. I became optimistic, focusing on what matters, on what’s good — and I always found something.

”You’re at the start line alongside fifty other cyclists. Your heart rate is elevated, your breath deepens, your belly expands — then the gun fires! Uphill, you focus on your legs — push and pull. Downhill, you stay cautious, loose, eyes locked on the corners ahead”. He walked me through this visualization before my first national championship. We celebrated a gold medal, unveiling the road ahead.

His voice still echoes, almost twenty years later: “Πάμε Θααάνο” — “Allez Thano” — running alongside me on the steepest uphill of the race. His presence gave me the energy to switch gears and accelerate, leaving the rest behind and gaining a minute’s lead in the final stretch.

Racing was the facade of what brewed inside me. He had the ability to see — truly see — the good in people, to unearth their potential. I’m sobbing while writing these words. It’s powerful when someone believes in you long before you can believe in yourself.

My coach showed me the magic life could be.

”You’ve gotten what racing could give you; don’t waste your health and youth on competing — live your life.” What coach would advise their athlete not to pursue a professional career in the birthplace of cycling? Maybe not a coach, but a father.

His voice and instructions were enchanting. Though he couldn’t attend major races — I deeply respected his devotion to his family — his thoughts were with me. Racing alone, imagining him beside me, I pushed further. I was ecstatic to hear his voice again after each finish, congratulating me. I cared more about his thoughts rather than the result itself. I always felt connected to him, and I still do.

His gentle foot on the gas, drafting us behind his car at 70 km/h, pushing us bit by bit, more and more — you either get caught by the wind and left behind or push through and stay in the drafting bubble — exactly like the peloton. His car bore the distinct markings from our tires rubbing against the rear bumper; he was proud of those.

He was there for us, at his own expense. He cherished being close to us kids — in our local hills, in the forests overlooking the sea and Olympus. He nurtured souls over athletes.

Tasos was a teacher, not a coach.

You never know when it’s going to be the last time you see someone. I cherish our final handshake, our last hug, his parting words to me, and that closing moment of praise. His guidance — pushing me to exhaustion and pain — meant the world to me. I knew he understood. I knew he had truly seen me.

I’m fortunate to have been part of his life and deeply grateful that he was part of mine.

I cherish our runs during my university years, and once again, he was instrumental in what was to follow. I picked up running because of him, and it eventually led me to the mountains, where his whispers still linger. I wish I could share my adventures with him once more.

My coach taught me how to suffer and when to let go.

I find him in the suffering.

All photo credits go to my brother — thank you.