Burning butterflies
There’s a fire in my calves. It’s like a vertical rope burn that almost overshadows the memory of Friday’s butterflies in my stomach.

I was nervous. Nervous like a ninth-grader. As part of the local running series, I had decided to run in a 2-mile race on the track. My legs were still sore from last weekend. Running all week had done nothing for my confidence. I knew that I could run two miles, but as I munched lunch I reflected on the speed I wanted to attain, 5:20 per mile, and the unfamiliarity with the distance. It had been a regular race in high school, but not a popular recreational event over the last 11 years.

I tried to recall some of my past success at Friday night track meets to calm my nerves, but that did not work. It took two pre-race steps to quiet the jitters. The first was a comforting warm-up with MB who helped take my mind off the race and the second was some striders. The striders made me realize that my dead legs still had life.

The race was large for a track and the pace diverse. This was an 11:30-and-under heat, and the leaders planned to run 9:30. I made my way into the second row at the start and waited for “Go.” It took almost a full 75-second lap before I’d jostled into inside position. The 8-laps-at-80-seconds-each plan I envisioned had already begun to unravel and I’d only just started. Racing is never the same as planning.

Post-race reflection has me running at around 15th place as I came through the half-mile mark in 2:30. For a moment, I had visions of a roaring to a 10 flat 2-mile. Even in high school races of 10 minutes or better were sweet achievements. This wasn’t high school and I haven’t trained for such an effort. So my legs slowed me unconsciously. I settled in to a comfortable pace that brought me through the mile at 5:15. I still had room to slow and meet my goal. Most of the middle laps don’t seem to be a part of my experience, although I do recall one memory quite clearly. It’s the stuff of movies. I was cruising on a straightaway and only the track was visible. Everything else was a blur. The world was quiet, I didn’t hear my steps or panting, I just sensed the exact distance I had remaining and an assured feeling that I had enough inside to get through it. The quiet blur left me when one runner made a move to pass. I don’t remember seeing him, I just sensed that he was coming. I sped up in response. We still had the better part of 3 laps to go and I was able to hold him off at this stage. On the back stretch, I passed two runners and believed that I might be able to leave the runner on my heels entangled in their pace, but as we came off the turn, I found that he was still around.

If my 2 mile is going well, I am able to pick up the pace with 2 laps to go. I’ve always felt that I need to string out my finishing kick more than many of my competitors. The change was subtle and driven by the runner giving chase. I didn’t have the power or the confidence to shake him and he continued to push as I tried to keep him at bay. He was still on my heels as we entered the bell lap. The bell cries out inspiration for every distance track runner. It comes down to this. I pushed through the back stretch desperately hoping my competitor would break before the final stretch, but I still sensed him as we entered the turn. As we came off the turn and faded across the track during the last 100 meters, I gritted my teeth, pumped my arms, and flashed through many races that ended with competitors kicking their way right past me. I always draw on those experiences as I try to avoid another one. I only know what I’m told about the stretch because my muscles were contorted and heaving, but I’m told that neither of us gave an inch. We pushed one another all the way to the finish. I crossed in 10:28 and thanked eighth place for a wonderful race. It wouldn’t have been the same without him.

I can’t fully articulate why it matters or why this burning and butterflies are worth so much, but I’d say that putting it on the line makes me feel alive.