Sub-Five

I stood tall, waiting at the line, waiting for the starter. I was always nervous at beginning, tense for those first few moments before the sound of the gun set us all in motion. My racing spikes dug in, my arms set back as they made contact with the adjacent racers on either side. We were packed along the line that was curved to even the playing field a little by allowing those of us on the outside of the curve to start a little farther ahead. It was common in all track races; the fastest runners started on the inside lanes.

I had always been a capable runner, faster than most other kids and able to keep running too. In middle school gym class, I was able to run long distances faster than most anyone else. My gym teacher suggested that I try running distance when I entered high school.

Bang! The starter’s gun fired its blank shell, and the nervous system of each runner jolted in response. A mass of thinly clad athletes set off, stampeding in organized fashion as one entity like a flood of river water released from a dam. We started on a curve of the limestone gravel track and the battle for pole position began immediately. I was not one of the fastest in the race. I was only a freshman, and we had a number of juniors and seniors on the team who were positioned ahead of me, along with our competition. I would have to weave and pass my way through the light nylon uniforms, avoiding the half-inch spikes on the front of their track shoes. It was rare for another runner to step on your feet but spikes grazing calves were common injuries, especially at the beginning of a race.

We had an excellent coaches at Poland HS; Don Smaltz headed up the distance runners and Dave DiRenzo the sprinters and field athletes. Coach Smaltz taught us how to train in the off-season, how to pace ourselves, and how much energy to save for the final sprint to the end. He taught us through running but also through mental exercise, particularly how to fight through those tough moments of a race when we feel alone on the track, when our bodies are fatigued and our mind is telling us to give in to the pain. He taught us how to win that personal battle, how each of us must think of the team during that pain, and that our performance counted for more than just our own goals.

The first lap is an easy one, as my energy is good and my mind is occupied by finding my position among all of the racers around me. It seems like a blip in time and it’s over. I pass our assistant coach who is providing splits for us and he reads off the times as we pass; “65, 66, 67.” There is a change in the second lap as the adrenaline rush tapers off and my pace becomes established. I am gliding now, and it feels good though my fear begins to build. I pass a few runners along the way but as I make it down the stretch, I am dreading the third lap. This is the hardest stage. This is where racers may hit the wall; the place where running is no longer easy and their legs get heavy and their tanks empty. I need to fight through this one, to keep my pace, to hang around enough to give myself a chance. This is where the voice will visit.

The hardest part about running distance is the time spent alone on the track or course. Each runner must occupy his mind while maintaining his racing pace. There are no teammates to help you out, and your coaches can only yell as you pass them by. You become your own cheerleader; some runners talk to themselves, others allow their thoughts to do their cheering. Friends or teammates that stand along other parts of the track to cheer and encourage can provide powerful lifts to the spirit, but it is all too often an unknown or forgotten part of high school track. You are left with the repetition of each stride, the sweat pouring down your face, and the pain that builds in your quadriceps, your hamstrings, and your gut. It’s the last one that is the hardest; it tears away at your strength and stamina, but it strikes right at your soul. All you need to do to end it is to slow down or stop and admit defeat.

As I turn into the first curve of the final 440-yard oval, the cheers of the crowd, my coaches, parents, and friends dissipate and I am left to tackle the far straightaway on my own. The runners are fairly spread out now, though there are a few ahead of me, in range of my stride. I gear myself up for passing them on the front straightaway, avoiding the turn. We had been taught not to make any moves on the curves; passing on them requires that you run a longer distance to get around someone when using those outside lanes. I’ll wait for the crowd’s cheers to lift me up, to refill my spiritual tanks for the final stage. No voice visits, no wall emerges, no stopping me now. The weather is a perfect Ohio spring day, warm and sunny. The smell of blooming flowers from the lowlands of Yellow Creek that runs just below the outside fence surrounding the track filled the air. I had been trying all season to do it, to break the barrier that kept eluding me. There were no meets left for me after this one. Summer would be here soon, and the track season would end. But not yet. Not for about another 67 seconds.

I quicken my pace, just a little, and pass an opponent or two before entering the turn again. I am feeling good; I’ve made it. Now I just need to pick it up, catch a couple more runners. As I enter the back stretch I realize that this is the day, this is when it will happen. My stride lengthens, and I can feel my spirit rise with each footfall. As I go into the final turn, I pass a senior who squeezes out encouragement for me with all the breath he has left in him. I don’t care about overtaking him on the turn, I have energy left. A few more steps and the afterburners will be lit.

About half way around the turn, I let loose. My legs are churning now, moving as fast I can lift them. This is a tricky maneuver to perform sprinting the last 100 yards or so. Bodies are tired, and extremities are flailing. Distance runners lack the great form that sprinters employ, so there is always the danger of a collision or fall during this stage.. As I approach the finish line, my ears perk up for the sound of my time. I cross the white strip, and hear the magic words from the time caller. I had done it – 4:56, a sub-five minute mile.