It’s hard to discern exactly what my overall feelings were this weekend. Elation for sure, as I had finally made it to the big times, getting to ride on the bus. But with the elation came insecurity. Being in the big times requires a certain level of performance, which is not securely within my fitness capabilities. Then there was pure fear. The questions piled, one on top of another, exploiting my insecurities and amplifying my innermost worries. Will I do well? Will my teammates accept me? What if I fail? How do I fit in on this team, since no on has seen me compete in the past three years? There’s an unbelievable feeling generated when the bleak hopelessness that accompanies injury meets the stark contrast of racing, feet once again placed in the fire of competition. And with that feeling comes the resurgent hopes and dreams of the athlete I once was, vying for the top spot on the podium. However, a vast chasm segregates my hopes and my abilities at the moment, as I can still count the number of workouts and the number of weeks post-injury on one hand. Indiana could be my bridge; a fine tightrope stretched taut across the gap.
The nerves were odd. Not that I don’t remember them, I just remember them stemming from alternate origins. Back in the day, a strong field, tough conditions, or even a teammate in my race could shake my confidence. On this bus ride, the main thing on my mind was improvement. I wanted to simply beat a week old version of my self, at my own game. The only way to achieve that was to go out and RACE. Last week, I described in frustration my lack of focus, and inability to keep my head in the moment. For the upcoming 1500, my focus was to lie solely on the back of the jersey I was chasing. Still, every passing minute I was fully aware that I am much older, more mature, and not a tad bit wiser. Whatever it was that I was supposed to learn on my way from lowly freshman to standout senior (ha), I apparently missed out on while I was in the time machine that is the training room.
Read a book to pass the time. Eat light and right at dinner. Get to sleep early. Lounge all day. Eat a fulfilling breakfast. Follow the routine. Mental preparation lies in the ability to convince yourself that all stepping stones on the way to race day are properly paved. Routine is the morphine to placate the anguish and insomnia.
The hours rapidly melt away as the seconds tick slowly en route to 8pm. The TV can only temporarily cage the butterflies now flying rampant in my stomach, as commercials come intermittently to set them free. The only wish of a runner in his pre-race self-loathing is to fixate on his watch at a time just past the end of his race. Oh, how I longed to see the liquid crystals on my Timex display that heavenly hour of 9pm. A feeling of doubt envelops all thought, as the time draws near. Why do I do this? How can I possibly think this sport is fun? Words cannot fully explain how much more preferable a glass of Jack and Coke resting in my hand on a futon in Columbia would be than the painful experience of the race soon to be run. A single thought reverberates in my head: “I hate this.”
Time to get on the bus. The butterflies have mutated into evil winged demons, hell-bent on tearing my insides apart. Luckily, I brought the one implement of destruction that can keep my demons at bay. Slipping on the white ear-buds, I slide slowly into melancholy harmonies, ignoring the cacophony around me. The faces of my coaches and teammates are silent and still, stone gargoyles that awaken only when my task is complete. The world is dead to me, and only the melodies ringing in my ears are real. The cityscape of Bloomington slides peacefully by, as the diesel bus engine’s low frequency remains my only tie to reality. Cold rain peppers the window pane, as the gloomy grey sky shows no mercy. The trees whip in random spurts of wind, indicating the horridly unpleasant racing conditions I would soon encounter. Four layers and a wind/water-proof jacket proved not enough armor to assuage my unwillingness to leave my cozy seat.
The bus slows and a demon escapes, as a pang of adrenaline surges through my veins. The quick walk from my seat to the indoor track facility confirmed my fears as a shiver ran down my spine. A hand through the hair to remove the rain instantly turned icy, serving as a foreboding sign of the race to come. Two hours until game time.
The bathroom soon became my home, as nerves do terrible things to the digestive system. Within the hour before warm-up, I had passed an entire week’s worth of excrement. I have no idea where that comes from, but as all runners know, it comes every time. Nervous pacing between my place on the track surface and my home did nothing speed the passage of time. The iPod had stopped doing its job of pacification, leaving me to dwell in the conversation of my teammates who never seemed to be as nervous as I.
“If I had a wish from a genie,” one freshman said, “I would wish to never have a dead battery. I mean, think about it. You’d never have a dead phone, iPod, laptop…”
“Vibrator?” interjected a comically challenged distance runner.
“Vibrator,” continued the freshman, “ANYTHING!”
“That’s a good wish,” a voice cried from the peanut gallery, “ but I’d definitely wish for invisibility. Or to fly!”
“I’d wish to be able to stop time, you know?” I said. “You could get so much done, and control everything!”
“Yeah right,” said Mr. Inappropriate, a man who literally has no filter whatsoever. “You just want to be able to stop time so you can take girl’s clothes off and rape them.”
“You’re unbelievable,” was my reply.
“You know what I’d wish?” piped up a quiet member of the team. “I’d wish that I was really good at running.”
A solemn silence followed by a repeating echo of agreement slowly overcame the room, as we once again became aware of our predicament. Even amongst the frivolity and candor of our discussion, the seriousness of our situation was always lurking beneath the surface. There was no escape. The only option was to race to the limit, compiling no regrets.
The minutes ticked by until an hour before the race, signaling the start of our warm up. My teammate and I suited up, and entered the dark, cold evening. Two miles of wind battered and rain-soaked footsteps served as a systems check of preparedness. I was definitely tired, but not from any recent cause. The stress and strain placed on my body in the past three weeks of racing were compiling, and my lack of training was catching up quick. My shin was sore, an injury I’d picked up from the quick transformation from couch potato to collegiate athlete. The new experience of pounding my shins over forty plus miles of terrain had taken its toll, and the shin splint was a physical manifestation of my status as a lowly greenhorn of the sport. My back seemed tight, not surprising as the whiplash had set in from Thursday’s fender bender. Anger boiled in my head as I remembered my beat-up car and my unused ticket to the concert I’d been looking forward to for months. But that was something to be dealt with in the coming days.
Seven minutes into the warm up and the achy soreness had worn off. My legs now felt less like weights, and more like the powerful stalks that could propel me around the painted oval. A glimmer of hope snuck into my mind and I felt a power well beyond my current physical capabilities as I drove up a short hill and rounded the muddy corner. I may not be fit, but I’ll be damned if I don’t have some talent still lingering in this tattered body of mine. The demons were corralled, and for a moment, I felt invincible. A shooting pain from my shin woke me from my fantasy, and the rain reassured me that my world was indeed bleak, cold and dreary. The demons escaped.
Groping around my bag, I unearthed my uniform and quickly slid it over my shoulders in the biting cold. I suited back up in my warm-ups and checked the clock: 7:40. Twenty minutes until the gun. In the rhythm of pre-race routine, I laced my spikes and adjusted the tongues for a tight but painless fit. These Nike Victories had only served me for two races, but I already consider them an integral part of my uniform. One stride in their grasp, and my feet reassumed the feeling of weightlessness and agility only Vics could provide. There’s pop in my stride, but fatigue in my bones. It seems impossible to shake my body out of the tired funk that evolved from the past weeks of training. A couple strides later, the fatigue is still there, but exists only as problem with no solution, and I erase it from my mind. With spikes on, the pounding in my shin is worse, but bearable. My calves are feeling stretched, but poised to perform. As the girls run through the finish line, my last stride confirms that I’m ready to race.
There used to be a time back in high school where I toed the line, looked right and left, and a smirk would emerge on my face as I realized that I was about to put on a show of serious ass kicking. Presently, the smile is replaced by a large gulp and the strong feeling that I am severely outmatched. Needless to say, I miss the smirk.
The crack of the gun jolts my engines to life, as a speedy anaerobic back-stretch puts me into position on the outside middle of the pack. Elbows are held high and legs criss-cross precariously close, wielding spiked weapons eager to bloody the shins of the overexcited chaser. Although in seemingly a sprint, the pack calms down into a methodic pace. Smooth breathing and a calm mind are the only keys to energy conservation. Lap one in 63, as I’m stuck on the heels of a group of ten or so thoroughbreds. However, the screams of the official chanting “63” did not bode well with the pack. Instantly, the pace quickened, and the race began to spread out. By the home stretch I was clinging to the ISU runner with all of my energy. Unfortunately, it was not enough. As the pace began to quicken, I could not will my legs to speed up. It seemed as if I was locked into one pace, unable to go faster or slower, a product of my lack of fitness.
Through the half in 2:08, and already the dream of holding on for dear life and out-kicking a few rubes was dying. The icy air burned my lungs, and the lactic acid pooled in my legs, turning them into cement prosthetics and transformed the track from rubber to quicksand. Digging deep, I drove my legs harder, hoping to catch the pack. The move was futile. I simply had nothing left in the tank. Entering the bell lap I saw the clock gleaming 3:00, almost mocking my pedestrian pace. It was all I could do to bend down and power through the last 400 meters that seemed like an eternity, only to cross the finish line in the same time I had last week, defeated and distraught. I was third to last, and failed to help my team.
Immediately a wave of frustration enveloped me. I was in it! Right there! I want to be in that pack! After a few hunched over moments, I began my return to the tent, a painfully cold and stinging saunter to face my no doubt disappointed coach and team. My lungs were on fire, as abrasions from the cold air caused a bloody pain. The coughing began, and I knew it would not relent for days. I just wanted to go home.
I know that I’m out of shape. I know I’ve only been running for five weeks. I know that I don’t have any speed yet. I know that I did the best I could. I know, I know, I know! But no comforting fact or excuse can make me feel alright about not being in the race. Where’s that runner I once knew who could push himself to limits well beyond his physical capabilities? Where is the champion that blew by the competition, kicking home to a first place finish? What happened to the machine that transformed hours of work into gold medals, completely focused on the task of becoming a high-caliber athlete? Why is that person always so far out of reach?
These questions dwell within me, but slowly I began to draw comfort from coaches, teammates, and former athletes, reassuring me that I’m on the right path. The greatest eye-opener came when Coach pulled me aside, and in Enke-like fashion, stated the obvious fact I recently failed to see: I’m running on pure talent.
Thinking further, I realize just how astonishing my performance today would seem if I viewed it under the right lens. My circumstances are nowhere near ideal, as it takes years of consistent mileage to conjure true endurance strength. I’ve had less than 5 workouts, all focusing on high-end speed rather than interval training. Two months ago, my only dream was to walk out the door with running shoes on and conquer ten miles of Columbia terrain. I was running 2 miles every other day, with no palpable hopes of racing until the fall. Lastly, three weekends of racing in a row is a shock to a body that hasn’t raced on the track in three years. Instead of recovering in ample time, my body is accruing pains and aches from each compiled race. The fatigue in my legs is evident, even on the easy run days. I’m at the point now where a weekend off would be less of a disappointment and more of a medical benefit. I am, in a sense, running outside my league.
And 4:04 is no jog in the park, my former teammate pointed out to me. He made me realize that if I ran a 4:21 mile (4:04 equivalent in the 1500) as a season opener in high school, I’d be ecstatic! I’m only eleven seconds off my PR with no training to my name! It’s, in a sense, unbelievable. Old man strength is starting to rear its head, as I realize now that I can focus on the race, and press through most pain that, as a freshman, I would consider unbearable. I’m on the right track, though at times the results may not indicate that fact.
So now, as I sit through the six hour bus ride home typing out this mini-novel of my experience, I’m torn between feeling happy with my performance or lingering in frustration. I believe after typing all this up, I’ve come to the conclusion that I should take the good with the bad, and turn my frustration into the driving force behind my training. I’m ambivalent about the Georgia trip next weekend, and would be equally happy going home for Easter as I would be for suiting up and getting on the plane to yet another race. My focus now lies in self-betterment, and I plan to hit the weights and training hard this week, after I take Monday off, of course. The feelings of hatred toward my sport are once again a situational hazard, as I realize how much I love and rely on this sport. It’s an integral part of my life, and the simple presence of track in my daily routine keeps me positive.
So my last thought before I pen the conclusion to the Indiana trip, is this: It sucks to suck, but all is not lost, as I securely hold the reins to my destiny. I can’t wait to see what the future holds.
The human body can only take so much then the heart and spirit take over. -Anonymous
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