In a haze...

The past weekend went by in a blur. A choreographed maze of intricately woven events and participants that only the monstrous 300 meter oval of a coliseum in Ames can provide. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was merely being carted around, shuffling my feet in the appropriate direction elucidated by my coach.

To be fair, my nonchalance and indifference to the race this past Saturday had little to do with the path I was on, and everything to do with my sickness predicament. Apparently being in close quarters with a score of filthy, sweaty, sneezing, coughing runners doesn't exactly bode well for healthiness. Instead of an excited jaunt up Highway 63, I was confined to a bus seat, reduced to coughing and chills as I begged to see the Days Inn at the end of our road. That was bus ride number one from hell.

A night of more coughing than sleeping left me in a zombie-like state for the morning shakeout, and it took me a full thirty minutes to eat a bagel, allowing for regular interludes of hacking and wheezing fits. From the sound of it, I was going to make a lot more noise off the track than on it. But, as I learned from 5th grade musicals, the show must go on! Luckily, I had a fellow cougher in my race with which to commiserate. Seems like two of the three super-seniors tackling the 3k might not even make it to the starting line.

The warm-up was atrocious. The cold air sliced my already raspy throat, as i struggled to alternatively breathe through my sole functioning nostril and my mouth to reduce the stinging burn. It was almost comical to think that Phil and I were Division I athletes, as we slowly fell from the pack, dropping to a dismal 8 minute mile pace. The scraping rubber of my shuffling shoes announced my defeat, even before the race had started.

Rounding the curves, spikes on and sweats off, my throat was feeling no better. Despite having drank an entire 20 pack of bottled water by myself, I could do nothing to quench my throat and whet my lips. I remember thinking, "Damn, this is gonna be bad." Turns out I was wrong.

Rewind about three hours, and you'll find me seeking out a fellow distance runner, a freshman racing his first big indoor race. It was fun to look at his posture and demeanor, and reminisce about those days four years ago when I was in his shoes. Our worlds now look totally different. Like Mark Twain says, there's two ways of looking at a river.

I thought back to myself at that age, in that moment, and fought hard to determine the exact words I'd want to hear from the seniors. Simply put, I wanted to know what it would be like.

"Hey Cush-man. You ready for this?" I questioned, seeing the flutter of anxiety in his eyes.
"Yeah, man. Should be interesting," was his nondescript reply.
"Well I'll let you in on a little "Old-Man-Knowledge," I said, as I began debriefing him on the upcoming race. "It's going to go out fast, like really fast, and it's better for you to hang on and have a little kick at the end than get dropped early and make a miraculous kick on the last lap."
"Second, you have a lot of time. The mile is a lot longer than the 800, especially on an indoor track, and you'll have a lot of time to move around. Don't be afraid if your boxed on the rail in the beginning. The race will thin out and you'll be able to make your move. Just sit in there and be relaxed, you're window will come."
"Thanks, man," he said, as he jogged off down the backstretch to enter the competitive world of Indoor Track. I hope in four or five years he's giving the same advice to another terrified freshman lacing up for the first time inside a building. Dialogue aside, it was my turn to race. And as the gun went off, and the runners packed up, it was almost comical how much I needed my own advice.

Like I said, the weekend was a blur. I hardly remember the gunshot, or my first steps. All I remember is a playful condemnation of the former Missouri high school runners to my left, who indirectly mocked my age. I truth, I am quite old.

The first four laps were extremely mellow. I played it safe and dropped to the back of the mob quickly skirting around the 8-lane track. We moved in unison, steps and breath aligned to the point where each bound became a synchronized leap, leaving the heads in front of me bobbing in unison with my own. I hugged the rail and spread my arms, clearing my space on the rail and taking the race on lap at a time. I zoned out.

In front of me, the pack jostled for position. There were shoves, curses, bloody ankles and frustrated surges as everyone tried to find the perfect balance of pace and position. But that was all nonsense, and I resided out of the chaos, laying low until the break point.

Five laps in, the pack began to spread, leaving me slowly dropping behind the leaders. As we came around the back stretch I saw my window, and bolted to the outside. Now in lane three, I was covering more ground, but in the clear. I stayed on the shoulder of a few Iowa State runners until the lap was over, then slowly nudged back toward the rail. The move had its costs, though. Instead of a comfortable rhythm, I was now subjugated to an erratic pace, wasting precious energy dodging people cutting to the outside. I came across the line at lap six, finally losing my sense of pace, only to pass Phil as coach screamed, "We came here to run FAST! Now GO!"

On cue, I passed a struggling teammate and barreled into the final K. However, my late move had left me off the lead pack by a good thirty meters, and I floundered in no man's land for a lap or two. The race was so much different than my usual mile, as the pain was dull and drawn out. The race seemed to take forever, as a sludge slowly infiltrated my leg muscles, in contrast to the high-octane burning sensation normally felt in my legs and lungs when sprinting around a track at near-top speed for the mile. Therefore I was worried, waiting for the inevitable system shut down realized in every track race I've ever encountered. Here's where four years of experience racing the 3k would have been helpful.

Instead of pushing my pace and catching the runners just barely ahead of me, I settled into a pace and feared my sickness and fatigue would overcome me in a matter of minutes. It wasn't until the last lap did I realize how much energy I had left. Stuck in around 15th place, I heard the bell and moved. Effortlessly, I passed a drove of runners, lacking the foot-speed of a miler. I closed in 60 second quarter pace, passed all but 5 people, and ran the fastest 3k of the year for the Mizzou distance runners with an 8:26.37. Needless to say, I was excited. However, I wish I would have known what a 3k felt like, as I can't help but wonder if experience would have let me win my heat... but that's all conjecture.

Fellow super-senior Quigley went off in the following heat and ran the 4th fastest time in Mizzou history with an 8:11, and I smiled, ecstatic at the fact that I get to train with these guys every day. In fact, I don't think my teammates realize how much it means to me that I'm accepted as one of them in our daily lives of torture. After so many years of being the outcast, labeled as that guy who used to be good, it's nice to finally come to practice and be a part of the team. And after I battle this horrible cold, giving me chills and headaches as I sit here and "tutor," I'll be adamantly invested in training for the few races I have left. It's coming to the end, and each race that passes needs to be treated with respect. Instead of approaching the race with fear and anxiety, loathing the fact that I participate in this barbaric sport, I must embrace my chosen lifestyle. Deep down, I love every second of racing, despite the bumps, the pain, and the occasional unfortunate results. That's why when I line up next to my teammates, and the best runners in the nation, I'll crack a smile, as I'm perfectly sure that I'm in my own utopia.