The key to being a champion is rearranging your expectations and delayed tales from a 3000m run
I've stumbled into a running club. I'm pretty sure I've paid my dues for another year and a half. This club has what they call a "Championship Series" (CS). In the CS, there are twelve events during the course of a calendar year. To win, place, or show (like the horses) a person has to run five of those twelve events. If a person runs more, the club credits the runner with his/her best five finishes. Kind of exciting. Then, to make sure that lots of runners have a chance to win, place, or show, they break everyone up into age categories. Points are awarded in each race depending on the age-group finish. Win the age group, snag ten points. Get second, take home nine, etc. It probably goes all the way to zero, but usually there are less than seven runners in my age group. I ran the record setting 5k a few months ago. Turns out that was a win, ten points, in the CS. Then that mile came along and it went just about as expected. Turns out that was a show in my age division, second place, nine points. A glance at the CS standings showed that I'd move into 4th place in the CS series with five races remaining. I skipped the half marathon for *personal* (read even my craziness only stretches to a certain point) reasons. That cost me a place in the CS series. I decided I would take on the 3000 meters in last Friday's track meet.

I spent the day at an amusement park in the heat. Nothing like getting dehydrated before a track meet. Rushing to the track, I pulled into the parking lot at 7:15 for what could've been a 7:30 start time. I wasn't sure. It turned out to be a 7:45 start, allowing me to relax a wee bit. I still couldn't work the pain out of my shoulder and I began to wonder if I'd finish the race at all, let alone belong in the "fast" heat. It had worked for the mile, so I thought it was best to try. Pit stop, shot of water, some nervous striders and I was ready to go. A crowd of 15 or so gentlemen embarked on our seven and a half lap journey. Taking pages from my last two races, I again calmly let the leaders leave me. It's sad to see them go, but mid-race explosion is far sadder. There were a few moments where I guiltily hogged the inside lane, but it's not like I was going so slowly that I didn't deserve to be there at all. I just wasn't ripping along. Things settled down and the crowd thinned. I was running calmly, shoulder-pain-free in about seventh place. Somewhere around the third lap I picked off a guy in front of me. Soon after, I felt Marty tuck in behind me. I didn't know it was Marty at the time, but as we rounded every turn, a chorus of "go Marty" seemed to be chasing me. Very quickly I realized that I did not want to lose to Marty. Marty, possibly another body unpopular like me, and I picked off another struggling soul.

I didn't know Marty from Steve Prefontaine. Marty could've been 23, Kenyan and biding his time. I wasn't going to look. I just knew that Marty was smart enough to settle in behind me and that I was stuck dragging him around the track. He had the advantage tucked in behind me, but I wasn't that interested in his advantage. I've won races from the front before and the more "go Martys" I heard, the more invested I became in keeping Marty tucked BEHIND me. We came through the mile in 5:32. It was reasonable and ahead of the worst-case scenario I had plotted pre-race. I like the underdog role, confidence is often a secret I keep even from myself. The leaders were long gone by now, but we started to creep up on a young man. He looked like he could be in my age division. I suddenly had new motivation. His lead was pretty sizable at that point. I'd say 25 meters, which in track is an enormous lead, but he seemed to be fading. There's a little part of me that feeds off others' pain, especially when I'm feeling good. Sadistic? Yes. Pleasing? Uh. huh. I set my sights on overtaking this young man. He turned out to be fairly easy prey. As I passed him, I seemed to gain a step or two on Marty. At that point we had about seven hundred meters to go. With six hundred left, I bumped up my pace just slightly. Marty lost his enviable position as I gained a few more steps. With four hundred meters to go, I began what used to be called a "kick." I say "used to" because the difference between race pace and kick has grown rather subtle. It was something though because I pulled even farther away from Marty and guy that later turned out to be two age divisions younger. I finished in 10:14. One of one and fourth overall.
Pleased, but more pleased to return to fourth in the CS and a mere two points out of third.

Marty. He turned out to be a former club VP and two or three age divisions on the other side.