“Running on Empty”-slash-“Running Down a Dream”
With the track season well underway, and my upcoming “induction” (cough cough) into a completely irrelevant and imaginary hall of fame, I have been recently reflecting on how running has affected my life.
Being a runner is a way of thinking, a way of living, and after 2 years of being semi-burnt out (running though not as much, and coaching), I think I am ready to really embrace the running world again. So naturally, I decided to check out what I had written on the subject for Fred’s class.
When assigned the task of writing a “Values Essay,” none were too shocked to see me finagle running in there somehow, and this became the first piece of writing that I turned into Fred that he enjoyed. Which is more attributable to my letting go of the stranglehold I had on the narrative than writing skills per se.
So, without further adieu, I present you Reader with the essay that became Tracks #2 & #10 of Let the Music Play: A Soundtrack (aka. my autobiography) originally dated 3/7/07…
Just four more weeks. Two more races. Two more hard workouts until it’s time to taper. Then, I’ll be free until track season. I cast aside my Bolder Boulder 10K t-shirt, abandon it to dangle on the passenger side mirror of the beat up, white USD van. It’s a crisp Sunday October morning in San Diego, and although I am shivering in a sports bra and shorts, I know that twelve miles down the road I won’t want the sweaty cotton clinging to my back. I clear my race time from my watch and hit start as I take off down El Camino Real in Rancho Santa Fe. My team strides beside me, a myriad of black shorts, the shirtless backs of the boys, and the bright sports bras of the other girls. For the first downhill mile, we roll together, chatting about the race in San Luis Obispo yesterday and Meb Keflezghi’s upcoming New York Marathon, laughing about the time Sarah tripped while this Olympian passed us on another Sunday run.
Coach passes by me bedecked in USD cross country gear with a manic, “Hey, Oz! How are your legs?”
“Ok, Coach, but I’m a little sore.”
He blinks his extra long eyelashes, and calmly dismisses my comment. “No sweat. Run how you feel. We got here early, so you don’t have to worry about racing the post-collegiates.”
The other girls and I exchange glances, and I laughingly say, “Oh you don’t have to worry about that Coach.”
“Ok. Ciao!”
He speeds off to catch the pack of boys, his toes punching at the ground in a bouncy stride.
The pack begins to spread out, and we turn left past the equestrian rings and suburban soccer fields. As we cross a semi-major street we are nearly pummeled by a black BMW. I think about just how thrilled the wealthy residents of this community are to have us running around their houses. The lively conversation wanes. We have, for the time being, run out of stories to relate. When you spend nearly thirty hours a week with a group of ten girls, you seem to run out of things to say to each other. Van rides, two-a-days, track workouts, plane trips, hotel rooms and meals at the Caf each week suck us dry of creative interaction.
The lack of verbal communication also means that we have turned up the first of many steep hills on this run paved only with wood chips. This abysmal running surface tortures the ankles and hip flexors of harriers. Residents of “The Ranch” have spread these nefarious wood shavings across the trails for two reasons: as a better surface for their thoroughbred equine companions and as a vain attempt to discourage bands of runners from traipsing through their upper echelon neighborhood every Sunday morning. My perpetually wobbly ankles see-saw on my trek up the hill; my quads burn with the lactic acid accrued in yesterday’s race, and I curse the cult of running for the discomfort of distance.
At this point, I wonder what I am doing out here. Another weekend draws to a close, and I have spent all of Friday in a van to San Luis Obispo just to warm up, race for twenty minutes, cool down and head back home. Another Thursday night has gone by and I have watched jealously as my roommates got dressed and headed out to the bars while I washed my uniform and packed snacks. Another Friday that I have missed class, another quiz to make up. Another Saturday night that I have declined politely the party invitations, not only because I was worried that I wouldn’t hear my 6:30 alarm, but also because I was simply too exhausted to be social.
As a senior captain, and the only four year member of this program, I feel a disparity in maturity between myself and those who have recently joined the team. A sharp contempt for all those who have quit in the past nags at me. The girls’ team has fought and struggled to come together this season, and even though it’s my job as a leader, I can’t muster up the energy to give pep talks.
I was sidelined for the first half of last track season with a pinched nerve in my knee due to a misaligned patella, so I took a medical “red-shirt.” When I recovered in March, I started training two months early for this cross country season. Since mid-June I have averaged between sixty and seventy-five miles a week, which puts my summer mileage total around 800 miles. Twice a day over the summer I left my house with only my music as a companion, longing for conversation runs with friends, now even surrounded by teammates I feel alone.
After eight years of running, I am just tired of it. Tired of the early mornings and subsequent in-class narcolepsy. Tired of explaining to others the benefits of the sport, and my sales-pitch has recently become all the less convincing. I miss USD cross country alumni, the ones I was always excited to see at practice, the ones I shared sweat, tears, and secrets with during fartleks and long runs. I usually have a love-hate relationship with this sport, but as of late, the love is fading.
I marvel at how automatic running seems to be for me this season. I have never considered quitting the team before now. After my first cross country practice eight summers ago, it wasn’t long before I had immersed myself in running culture. I was the stand-out freshman runner and held a coveted varsity slot on a state champion team, my first ever individual athletic success. I became addicted. I used to believe the best drug was a runner’s high. I took pride in the pain. I savored the salty taste of water poured on my head after set of mile repeats. I used to know my times from every race as well as the PRs (personal records) of teammates and competitors. I reveled in axiomatic running quotes, and worshipped Pre, but now the thrill is gone.
Running has become a chore; every morning I lace up my Supernovas and take off, all the while counting down the minutes until I finish my run. The hardest part of this is that no one is forcing me to run besides myself. My coach certainly expects me to return every season, but I do not have all that much pressure on me to continue. If I were to call my family today and say that I am going to quit running altogether, they might be shocked, but probably would not have a problem with my decision. Yet, I still pound the pavement every day. There has to be some reason I am still out here.
I swing around the lake of the seventh mile. I feel a single drop of sweat trickle down my back and come to rest on the waistband of my black shorts. The sun has emerged from the clouds and will beat down on me for the next six miles. I smile to myself. No wonder I can’t seem to get rid of this pesky criss-cross tan line on my back. No wonder my upper thighs look ridiculous in my racing buns, legs finely-tanned until the typical cut-off of my shorts when all semblance of color abruptly disappears. At times like these, I can’t help but laugh at the idiosyncrasies of running, like how I tend to define my day by the quality and distance of my run.
It may not be until the end of the run, but I can usually elucidate the value of these early morning half-marathons. The running joke—no pun intended—goes that Sunday long runs separate the runners from the joggers. This weekend masochism has been a part of my life for the last six years as my ritual, my weekly church service. Unconsciously I begin to make to do lists in my head for the next week, and I wrestle with plaguing thoughts. I get a fatigued satisfaction in returning home to roommates who have just gotten out of bed. But, like any devotee to a higher force I constantly struggle with my faith. I am not the fastest in most races, and I have never even been the fastest on any team I have run for. The financial promises of running for me do not extend beyond the occasional road race place-winner prize.
I climb the last half mile back to the vans isolated from my teammates and glance at my watch, 1:28:24, another PR for this 12 mile loop. But just where have all these miles taken me? The most obvious answer to this question is no doubt that I continue to stay fit and healthy. The values of running extend far beyond simply the act of staying in shape. In training, I learn the harsh reality of my mental and physical limitations. At the same time, last Tuesday I amazed myself with as sixty-seven second quarter at the end of an impossibly daunting Michigan workout, an ungodly amount of repeats of various lengths. Just when I thought I couldn’t even make it through a cool down, my coach asked if I wanted to step up and wail for one lap. Egged on by members of the boys’ team who said they would pace me, I let loose and for four hundred meters. I purged my demons and my apathy. My brain silenced my screaming hamstrings down the back stretch and entered euphoria of endorphins.
Cross country and track programs have played host to my surrogate family for eight years. I share some connection to the sport with most of my friends: some future Olympians, some teammates, some roommates of teammates, etc. I have had the benefit of experiencing my college years with teammates who share my priorities and devotion to pushing our bodies to their physical and mental limits. My first semester of college I already had new siblings and cousins to show me the ropes. I go on vacations with my USD family—though our trips are always centered on competitions. We argue about music in the vans. We delight in each others’ successes and deliberate over family problems. As a member of a collegiate team, I have spent four years balancing homework and sleep, practice and naps, races and parties.
At the end of this track season, the collegiate chapter of my running career will end. As I move into life without team workouts, I take with me the knowledge that while runs end, running doesn’t. I no longer have to focus on preparing for a season. Even without teammates and a coach, I have the ability to lace up and go. I don’t need other people. The title of “runner” has been a consistent identity in my life as I have transitioned between high school and college, and I can still be a runner when I have to negotiate life beyond school come May.
