Let's go cross country

It's simple to like things that I'm good at and nearly as simple to attribute liking them to success. In high school, I had immediate success in cross country. I flirted with victory on more than one occasion. Even as I protected my underdog status and often played unaware, I knew people were talking about me. That felt good. There were times when the success kept me going.

My junior year a boy named James joined our team. He had a good heart. He ran and trained every day like the rest of us. As far as I know, he was putting his all into running, or at least all he could spare like most of the team. During races, he was often near the back of the pack, even last. Week in and week out we waited and cheered James to the finish. This is not a tortoise and hare recollection. By the numbers, James lost. At the big meets his place was in the triple digits. Five runners on a team contribute to the score, James was consistently number seven. As far as I know James didn't get down on himself, at least not any more than any high schooler. He kept running. When I thought about him then, I wondered why he kept going. My collection of newspaper clips was growing. I was battling for the top spot on our team, and on the really good days a spot among the area's best. James was plugging along. "How did he do it?" I thought to myself.

Last night, I ran in a local club cross country race. I pulled my blue and grey nee white Zoom Country spikes from their original but faded, torn, orange and grey box. I went through all the motions, albeit in an abbreviated fashion, that lead to high school success. The striders, the plyos, the deep breaths, the handful of grass rubbed between open hands, and the nervous butterflies were all there. The starter signaled "Go" and a hundred runners poured off the line, with only a little less intensity than a hundred high schoolers. The lead is not often my consideration any more, but at first I battled to stay with that first bulge of runners. For 9 minutes I was feeling good and making progress. I was passing more than I was being passed. I even took a moment on the crest of one hill to look at the rays of sun poke through the remains of the thunder clouds as they shone down on a sweeping curve of runners pummeling the half-inch freshly groomed green grass.

After 9 minutes, the fun transformed into pain. After 9 minutes my body began asking certain questions, the loudest of which seemed to be, "Why?" My brain picked up on the vibe and started making suggestions as my pace slowed. "You could drop out." I took glances behind me and saw I had some time before I would be passed. But passed I was. With each group that passed me, I tried to tuck in and let their momentum carry me forward. It did manage to change my speed and keep me going a little longer. At some points, I could hear my high school coach hollering my name. I had to keep going. I don't drop out of races. I briefly wondered how I would tell this story in this space and then quickly reminded myself, "NOT NOW." I was passed some more. I'd settled in to a new slower pace, but I was still fighting myself. With 500 meters to go, I was passed yet again as I trudged up the last hill. I knew I had enough left to finish, so only one question remained.

How was I going to finish? Nobody knew me. No one was cheering for me. The only people that cared were immediately behind me and looking to move up a place and me. I cared. I didn't know what place I was in, only that their place was better. As I rounded the tennis courts I gained on the two that had passed me up the hill. I moved to pass them and the younger of the two challenged me. With 150 meters to go, I surged and put him out of sight. Then I felt the pounding foot steps of another challenger. I never saw him, but I felt what he felt- "I want to get to the line first." Everything I had left I put into staying in front of my challenger. This time I succeeded. I had successfully defended what turned out to be 20th place, nearly 2 minutes behind the winner. I contemplated none of that as I left the chute and proceeded to lose my dinner in body shaking heaves.

After the taste wore away, I started to remember that running wasn't about the newspapers', or the friends', or the families' definition of success. It was about the good feeling I was currently stumbling along with. It was about a battle against me that only I could win. Running is about testing myself, pumping my body full of endorphins, and then icing my legs when I get home. Maybe James knew that all along.

(18:38)