The Race

I wrote this a long time ago.  It is a true story.  Only the names have been changed. 

Like most people who have reached middle age, I've done some reflecting.  I remember in high school and college that I wanted to be a good runner.  Running helped me come out of my shell and learn about hard work and goal setting.  I had a friend who was one of the top runners in the state of Illinois.  He seemed to always do well enough in a race to either win or receive a ribbon, medal, or trophy.  I remember after many races, he'd be out jogging and would miss the award's ceremony.  I dreamed of running a race where I put it all on the line and after the race was done, missing an award at the ceremony because I was out jogging.  What follows is that dream race.

Having already finished my warm up run, I put on my racing flats and concentrate on the task at hand.  Finishing this 5 mile race in 28:45 is a big step from my previous record of 29:16, but I feel it is a realistic goal.  Earlier, I determined and memorized the times for each mile.  Now I must do it.  I take off my sweat pants and put socks on my hands to keep them warm.  Once again, I jog and enjoy the scenery to relax on this cool, crisp, sunbathed autumn morning.  The melting frost glistens as runners leave their footprints in the grass.  I exhale purposely and watch the "smoke" escape my lungs.

I do some sprints and contemplate another goal.  Coach says that medals will be given out through fourteenth place.  I am certain I can get a medal. We've raced here before and against most of these teams.  I like this course and want a medal.
I hear last call and take off my sweat top and meet my teammates at our starting box.  The starter begins giving the last minute instructions while I shake hands and extend good wishes to my teammates and competitors near me.  In the back of my mind I wonder how many I will beat.  I am civil now but once the race starts that changes.  I always stay within the rules but in my mind, other runner are the enemy.

"Runner's set," the starter screams.  The tension rises.  I hear someone yell, "You can do it, Billy!"  A runner to my right screams, "Let's do this, guys.  Let's do it, let's do it!"  This is a moment when time stands still.  You are lost in your thoughts and the world appears to go on without you.  It's like you are visiting this planet and not a part of what is going on.  Nevertheless, the memory of it all can stay vivid as the day it happened.

The gun sounds triggering the release of a hundred taunt bodies that begin sprinting down the open grassy field.  Before the smoke can dissipate the runners are already vying for positions.  We race down the quarter-mile stretch of grass to a trail through the woods.  A traffic jam appears at the edge of the woods as the harriers bunch up and try to avoid getting spiked. Each of us are looking for an opening to dart through to bypass this bottleneck.

The sun sprinkles its rays through the branches and falling leaves.   The air is cool and crisp and the leaves give off a delicious aroma.  I'm not sure why I notice things like this when I should be concentrating on the race, but it seems that I always do. Nonetheless, I enjoy it.  I pass a runner, slipping through a gap before I would be cut off.  I have already passed all of my teammates but one and I plan to do that for the first time today.

I have busted my butt for a long time to do so.  I know I would have last week but he didn't run at that meet.  Today is the day.  I know it.  I believe it but what is my body telling me?  I feel like I am running smooth but I feel slightly fatigued.  I've never had this feeling before.  The first mile is my barometer for the remainder of the race.  I plan on hitting the first mile at 5:30.  I go up the hill and around to the left and I hear the caller yell, "... 5:24, 5:25, 5:26, 5:27...."  I'm feeling better than I thought.  This is great. I just hope I don't burn out.

I'm nearing my favorite place. It's open, flat and on pavement.  I run best on pavement.  I am at the back of the second pack and I see my teammate, Lance, at the front of the second pack.  I am in the perfect position.  I am finally going to beat him.  The pace is brisk but palatable.  Ever so slowly I begin to work my way through the pack.  I am amazed at how long it can take to catch someone in a race like this.  A couple of yards can take tens of seconds.

The asphalt turns to grass and we shoot up the short incline and into the woods again.  Lance is still in front of me, but upon passing the two mile mark I find that I am ten seconds ahead of my projected goal of 11:20.  The path heads straight for the creek and takes a sharp right turn followed by another right and a ninety degree left.  We go up a hill and come out the woodlands behind the starting line.

After counting the runners in front of me, I find that I am in twentieth or twenty first place. I know that I am still in an optimal position to get the medal and make my time goal.  I am starting to get warm, so I pull the socks on my hands down till they only cover my fingers.  We are now on a path parallel to the first four hundred yards of the race.  The pack has stretched out and now is a string of runners.  The coach, Doug, is encouraging Lance who is about five places ahead of me.  He screams his words of exhortation to me and his excitement urges me on.

We are running in familiar territory now as we do a U-turn and on into the woods.  The rest of the course covers the same loop.  I pass one runner as we glide down a straight away next to a fence but he surges with me.  The inevitable first tremors of fatigue sweep over me.  A flash of panic bolts through me as I mentally kick myself for going out too fast.  Pushing such thoughts aside I set my face on running this jerk into the ground.  I feel the spring leaving my step.  It's time for total concentration in everything that I do.  I give it a little more gas to pass him and I see Lance right in front of me.

Coach Doug is elated.  He is yelling and screaming and pumping his arms in the air.  I take the socks off my fingers and throw them to the coach to hold for me.  Removing them is like taking the world from my shoulders.  Oddly enough, this invigorates me and in a burst of energy I quickly pass Lance just before the third mile.  For some reason the caller didn't yell out my time, but I did hear the time for the person in front of me and guessed my time to be 17:00.

Still being ahead of my goal urges me on.  The concentration begins to flow and I make sure I am relaxed and my form is smooth.  There is a small hill and a left turn.  I know I am nearing the road again.  I pass another harrier as we reach the clearing.  I count the runners and find that I am in fifteenth place.  When I see the distance stretched between me and the one in front of me, my heart sinks.  I feel I will never cross the chasm separating us but I want the medal and I will get that medal.  Now is the time for me to do it.  The pavement is my specialty and the time is now.    

The fight begins and I lay it on the line.  Both pain and pace increase in intensity.  Fatigue is now setting in and I am paying the price for fast splits earlier in the race.  My body begins to rebel at what I am forcing it to do.  I must have total concentration or I will never be able to keep this up.  I glance up at the runner ahead of me and it looks like I haven't gained an inch on him.  I want to give up, but I see Coach Doug, cheering me on.  He is there at the right time and his enthusiasm pushes me forward.  I am nailing this guy.  He's history.

I am trying to squeeze out a little more speed without expending a lot of energy.  I'm pushing off slightly more with my toes and lengthening my stride.  I am red lining it.  Even if I look strong I know that I am dying inside.  My breathing is labored and my body feels like lead.  I am fighting the person in front of me, the clock, and my deteriorating body.  To add insult to injury, I don't think that I can keep up this pace.  Look what this jackass is making me do.  The prick!

Nevertheless, I want everyone to know that I WILL pass this guy.  I purposely have a determined look on my face and pace and movements smooth and like it is no effort at all.  When I pass this moron's coach, I can tell that he knows I'm passing his runner.

I look ahead to see the jerk running off the pavement and up a little hill.  Though it is obvious that I have finally gained some ground on him, I'm worried that I will never make up the remaining yardage between us.  I pass the fourth mile in 22:48 which ties my PR, previous record, for four miles and helps my mental battle a little.

The trail snakes and turns so much that I can't tell if I am gaining or losing him.  I want to give up.  My feet slap the ground on each corner.  I know I am losing it physically and it is nearly impossible to keep my wits.

Everything within me rages and screams for me to stop, but I am committed to giving all that I have to the very end.  I go up the hill behind the finish line and this thought suddenly strikes me:  God will work a miracle.  I wonder what sort of miracle could this could be.  

I fix my eyes on the dumbass in front of me and notice that I have gained more ground on him.  Suddenly, he stopped.  He's walking.  I don't know why and I really don't care.  I send up a brief prayer of thanksgiving as I pass him.  Now I know that the medal is mine.  I only need to concentrate on making my time goal.  

I listen in fear for footsteps to creep up behind me.  I have no idea how close the person behind me is.  I feel I am really losing it and I'm just trying to maintain form and composure.  I see the finish line.  I turn the last corner and start my kick.  I give it everything I have for this last two hundred yard marathon.  My body keeps slowing down but my mind forces it forward.  It's a constant struggle.  It's a war of body and mind.  All the miles I ran over the summer flash through my mind.  I glimpse the hill workouts and late night runs.  I have put forth so much effort for a moment like this.  I push, I prod, I force, and I shove my body to the line.

I cross the finish line and shut everything down and grab my finish stick which will show me how I finished.  Why is it that a few seconds after a race like this hurt more than the race itself?  With eyes closed, I slump over and want to fall to the ground.  I open one eye to look at the stick that reads "14."  I congratulate myself with a smile.  Coach Doug walks up and shouts his enthusiasm for my race and asks what my place was.  Without even looking up I hand him the stick.  Then I straighten up and walk out of the chute.   

I start walking and cheer each of my teammates as they finish.  After I change shoes, Ken, my friend and teammate, and I jog to loosen up.  Coach Doug yells at us that the awards ceremony has started.  We race back as fast as our dead legs will carry us.  When we reach the crowd of people, coach interrupts and says, "Who was that guy who got 14th place?"  The home team coach smiles and calls out my name and gives my time.  Pride and excitement fill me as I receive my medal.  I find out that my finishing time was 28:46 and not the 28:45 that I wanted.  Normally this would bother me but I knew I couldn't have given anything else.  I gave my all in a grueling race and missed the awards ceremony.  It was the best race of my life.