08/27/2024
An Excerpt from Something I Have Had Saved for a While: Long-read-alert!
In the summer of 2009, I flew across the country to race a US (junior) track championship. I ran well there, bringing my mile time down by almost 5 seconds in two months (almost 30 seconds in 18 months). I rode the momentum from that race all summer, and made the lofty goal of making the NCAA cross country championship the next fall. In order to do this, one has to be on a top-two team, unless your team is ranked high enough to get in at-large. The other way is to be one of the top 4 individuals, excluding members of teams that made it. In our particular region, that usually meant finishing in about the top 12 or 15.
On race day, Princess Anne, MD was under a few inches of mud. I'd performed pretty well all season, and knew I was much better than the year before, but still had doubts about achieving the goal. My plan was to hang in the back of the lead pack the entire time, cover each one of their moves and empty the clip the last half-mile. The ex*****on was different; I hung in the back of the lead pack until the 5k mark, which was half-way, (in photo) and a gap formed. After that, some of the folks behind me started passing. Then, some folks in the front pack started coming back. The incongruous late-race chase pack spat me out in 25th place, about 34 seconds away from the last qualifying spot.
I got home, and this photo came across my feed shortly after. I was so inspired by it that it became my computer background for the next two years. The goal was always right there. The next year, an Achilles injury at the end of the season stopped me from what I was SURE to be the year I'd make it. The next year, I came back in slightly better shape than the year before, but no large leaps; health is wealth, and the law of diminishing returns translates legibly. It was a tale of two everythings that year, and I didn't get too high or too low off any day.
The regional meet at the end of the season was held at the same course as it was two years ago; the only difference was that this time, it was 65, sunny and dry. I went in knowing there was no "next year", and that this would more than likely be the end of team athletics for me. There was a lot of emotion around the looming separation of our community we'd built over nearly a half-decade. Rolling 20-deep into an Olive Garden with people who had become your second family hits different when you know it's going to be the last one with everyone together in THAT atmosphere.
On the way to the course, I was excited, nervous, and sad. I recall crying during the morning of the race two or three different times for a myriad of reasons, reading over my METICULOUS running log, humming affirmations and trying my best to keep my oatmeal from climbing back out of my stomach like Samara from THE RING. This was the day I realized I'd never worked THIS hard for any goal I'd set in any other aspect of my life, bringing about a mix of pride and disappointment.
On the way to the course, I'd taken a moment to reflect, zoom out and recognize that my collegiate career mirrored the race in that picture up to that point. The first 5k of the 10k, the first two years of college, I was up in the front, challenging everyone, exceeding expectations; then, things got hard, and I fought all the way the second half of the race, but missed the mark. I never won a conference championship; I never hit the stupid arbitrary time goals I made for certain courses; I never got a date with Genzebe Dibaba.
Air hissed from the bus brakes, my head went quiet, and the tides of my blood mimicked a wide stream. I made the silent decision to change the course of the pattern to which I was seemingly tethered. "F*ck it" were my last words coming down the steps off the bus.
I stood at the same starting line, almost two years later TO THE DAY, and so much had changed. At the start of the race, three individuals from small schools darted off. I led the pack of people who let those three go. Two miles in, a close friend was yelling words of encouragement; I turned and winked. I looked back and gave a thumbs-up, and he was celebrating as if the race was already over. For some reason, I'd felt the same way.
At 5 kilometers, those three were still going strong with a 15 second lead on MY pack, which had about 35 people stacked up behind me. We went through in 15:40, and I knew what was coming next. I was waiting on the race to begin at the half-way mark, as opposed to two years prior, when I was in over my head, wishing the finish line were in sight. The kids in the lead started fading; we were reeling them in for the next mile. The moment we reached the second of the three fading leaders, Donn Cabral, a man who would make the Olympics nine months later, took off in a controlled sprint. In the next ten seconds, about fifteen more people did the same. This was it. This was the photo from two years prior, just 2 kilometers further into the race. This was the moment for which I'd been preparing. I hooked on to one of the passing blues, and when I felt them start fading, I passed them and followed the next.
The last three kilometers of the race were grueling because it resembled the path of a flattened corn maze through an open field. The finish line was in sight, but it was nowhere close. I hadn't seen that many people dying in an open field since GLORY'S re-enactment of the Battle of Antietam.
I lamented for folks as I passed, remembering how it felt. I knew how it felt to throw yourself at a goal, only to watch others run away with it. I knew how it felt to be cut by the shattered pieces of a dream while trying to put it back together. I had no relatives at the race, but our coaching staff and girls' squad were ACTIVE. We also had a strong alliance with the Mountaineers of WVU, despite being their rival in every other sport.
Cabral, future Olympian, was gone, far and away from the field at 5 miles, but the next twenty people were spread out behind him, all within ten seconds of each other. In the final kilometer, there was one more surge. Every man in the field was both sprinting and dying. I had no idea what the pace was, and didn't care. Place is all that matters.
The goal at this moment had changed from making the national meet to passing as many people as I could before the finish line. Other coaches were screaming at kids around me that they were in the position to make it, and others were saying to keep pushing because they were just out of range. My coach just told me to go, so that's what I did. He knew I was an overthinker, and that I frequently psyched myself out.
I don't know how many I passed in the last mile, but I know I passed 4 in the last 200 meters, including a lean past one at the line to place tenth. I don't know the last mile splits, but I know my last three kilometers were about 8:30. I'd done it. Others had bigger dreams, but this was mine. This was the first time I made a large goal and saw it through, despite the rain and mud. This was the end of a journey with a storyline I now hope to replicate.
