Mike Cour’s Life was More Than Just a Tragedy

By Jeff Stinchcomb 

There are many people who pass through your life and leave an indelible mark – a kind of reverse scar you carry always, even if no one else can see it. For me, Mike Cour was one of those people. 

On a whim, I went trolling the web today, looking for my old friend and distance coach, thinking we might catch up. 

Was he retired or was he still out there, coaching cross-country or track? The last whisper I’d had put him – stopwatch and clipboard in hand – at Patrick Henry. 

I couldn’t find him, except in a headline from 2011: ‘2 bodies found in burned home of retired teacher/coach and ailing wife.’ 

I never knew it, but things had been going badly for Mike. His wife Janice had cancer; both of them were unemployed and had declared bankruptcy. The couple tried to re-negotiate with their lender – to no avail – and the bank was about to take their home, Mike had told his neighbors. 

So, with his life seemingly disintegrating, Mike called the Sheriff’s Department and told them what he was about to do – and warned them to stay away. Then he shot Janice and turned the gun on himself, all as their Santee home burned to the ground on top of them. 

During his call to police, he warned them that he’d shoot anyone who tried to save the house from burning. He’d be damned if the bank got it, I guess. 

The deputies had little choice. They set up a perimeter with the fire crews and waited till they could be sure Mike wasn’t going to shoot at anyone. They could hear ammunition cooking off as the house burned, according to published reports. 

Today, I can’t fathom what Mike’s last moments were like: My friend standing there, his wife dead, gun in hand, with the walls and the flames literally closing in around him.   

The Mike I knew was such a kind person. I can’t imagine him wanting to hurt – let alone kill -- anyone. Part of me hopes – and I know this sounds desperate – part of me hopes he and Janice made some sort of pact. I want to believe my friend is not a murderer. 

Maybe that’s not fair to Janice. In truth, I have no idea. And in the end, what does it matter?

Two good people are dead. And I’m just finding out now… 

*** 

I didn’t see an obituary online for Mike. So I hope this fills that gap in some way. 

The Mike Cour I knew made an indelible mark on me – and dozens of other athletes -- in the 1980s. He was a teacher at Mt. Miguel High School and my cross-country and track coach for nearly four years, from September 1981 to June 1984. 

He was like no coach I ever met. He was a lanky, light footed animal that was built to run. He could -- and often would – train with us, running step for step with guys like Martin Weston, Richard Farmer, Richard Sarabia, Eric Bobo, Richard Saldana, Renato Barrameda and Tim Kaiser, just to name a few from my era. 

We must have run a thousand miles with him. 

Mike had a deep, radio announcer’s voice, a great sense of humor and a quick smile. 

I never saw him wear any other shoes than running shoes. When I knew him, he worked a second job at a local shoe store in La Mesa to make ends meat.  

On practice days you could find him wearing his thin, wire-rim glasses, Dolphin running shorts, a cotton sweat shirt or an old ‘fun-run’ T-shirt. 

Almost always, he wore a weathered baseball cap, the kind you keep for its sheer comfort or because it holds some unnamed sentiment. That tattered cap must have been something special to Mike. It looked like hell. 

At his core, Mike was an old-world track-and-field man. He loved the sport the way Bob Costas loves baseball and could talk with authority about its history and its heroes. 

He had run at San Diego State and had once competed in the Olympic Trials in the 10,000-meters and He used to tell me about running the steeplechase, the most mysterious of all track and field events, in my view. 

I only met his wife Janice a couple of times, at team banquets and stuff. 

In my junior year, I injured my calves, overtraining on the weekend. Mike arranged for me to get a free deep-tissue massage at their La Mesa apartment, just down the hill from where I live today. If I remember correctly, Janice cooked spaghetti for dinner for us before their friend, the masseuse, came by to torture me.

And it was torture. The next day I could hardly walk, but two days later I had one of the best races of my life, all because Coach Cour went out on a limb for me – no pun intended.  (Even in the pre-Internet era, fraternizing with students was probably frowned upon.) 

After I graduated high school, I stopped by Mt. Miguel a few times to talk with Mike. (Not as often as I should have, looking back.) At his suggestion, I went on to run for Grossmont College’s storied cross country program and had fun competing, if only on the B-Squad. 

Mike taught me that distance running is about 70 percent mental. Thanks to him, I had the work ethic to train with guys who won the state championship in 1985. (And by train, I mean they tortured me on the blistering 8-mile sprints the elder Griffins hosted almost daily.) 

Mike opened those doors to me. Looking back, running for the Griffins kept me in college when there were a lot of reasons to drop out and drift. Who knows what you’re supposed to do when you are 19? I didn’t. 

Mike made me believe I could compete at that level, which kept me there, in the books, until I figured out what I needed to do. Years have passed since then – God, more than 30 – and I always meant to look him up, to say thanks. To tell him how much his time and attention meant to a runt of a distance runner who never did win any medals, except the one he gave me after my first season running for him. 

At the time, he told me it was important for high school athletes to be honored for hard work, even if they never broke the finish tape themselves. The medal he gave me at our 1981 team banquet reads: “Most improved.” 

It’s still pinned to my letter Jacket, that Holy Grail of a garment that now resides in a box in my garage. 

When Mike Cour pinned it on me, it left a lasting mark. I can still feel it, 32 years later.

Jeff Stinchcomb is a writer living in La Mesa, CA.