In my life, I have had the privilege to be afforded with athletic ability. I like to think I have used this ability to my fullest potential, but there is always a lingering doubt about "what could have been" had I not been injured, or had my mentality regarding competition been stronger. These days, I suppose I continue to use that gift, albeit in far less serious and, consequently, far more enjoyable circumstances. This is not to say that I didn't enjoy fine-tuning my body into a veritable mileage monster. I truly loved to run, and, deep down, I still do. The sacrifices I made in my life physically are both a point of pride and a point of consternation to this day...and I would not change were I offered the chance to do it again. Now all I have are the memories and the residual pain of many years wear-and-tear on my body...which tends to keep the memories pretty sharp! So, I figured I might as well attempt to convey what it felt like...to be a runner.
Cross country was, and is, my favorite running discipline. I love to run off the road. I find it mentally easier to break up a long run into a series of segments, and concentrate on where I'm stepping and where the next turn or hill is rather than how fast I am going. Of course, in college, I was pretty much made to be concerned about ALL of these things...speed being the obvious goal. Racing cross country at the Division I level wasn't a big deal in and of itself, but that's as far as I ever got in terms of exclusivity in the running world, so I remain proud of that accomplishment. I figure at one time, I was knocking out miles in greater quantity and higher speed than a good portion of the general public, so there's my justification for this blogular iteration.
Getting to the Starting Line
Miles. Miles by the thousands. Miles of pavement, miles of gravel, miles of dirt. That's what it took to get to the starting line. In high school, I had somehow parlayed workouts totalling approximately 25 miles per week into an extremely successful career, culminating with a victory and course record at the Amateur Athletic Union Junior Olympics. In college, it became immediately clear that there was NO WAY that was going to happen. My freshman year, weekly mileage immediately averaged 75 and above per week. And that meant running 7 days per week. Sure, NCAA regulations maintain that an athlete may only practice 6 days in a week...but the caveat lay in the wording...only six days of SUPERVISED practice were allowed. If you wanted to be successful, you ran the "suggested" 14 miles on Sunday, without the coach...and usually with a hangover.
At any rate, with my mileage tripled, and even quadrupled by the end of the season, it was quite an adjustment to my body. Eventually, the miles won, leaving me to end the season with a stress fracture in my femur. Yes, it hurt. No, I did not stop running. I had worked hard, and wanted badly to compete in the biggest races of the season. Plus, the doctors gave me a 90% chance that the leg would not break completely during the race. There's a sneak-peek into my mentality...and the reason I wanted to write this out...
I ran through multiple twisted ankles, countless bouts with shin splints, patellar tendinitis, pulled hamstrings, pulled calf muscles, pulled hip flexors, the aforementioned cracked femur, a bunion that, according to my podiatrist, could have been from an 80-year-old, and, the bane of my career, a stress-fractured 4th lumbar vertebrae. Looking back, its a wonder I had any healthy days in those four years.
Workouts
Our program was rigorously structured, and, in some cases, even individualized, with each athlete shooting for goals ascribed by our meglomanical and ever-present coach, Christopher Buhler. The man was an AMAZING athlete who ran nearly every work out with us, and despite spotting us 15+ years in the age category, he consistently beat about half the team in some workouts. I could go on for days about this man, but, for the purpose of this story, a small vignette is all I will need to get the idea of what it was like to run for Coach Buhler. Prior to a track meet at Purdue University, he handed each of us a slip of paper in our individual scheduled meetings with events and times written on it. He handed me a paper that said "800 meters - 1:59 1600 meter - 4:00." Keeping in mind I was a DISTANCE athlete (5000m and 10,000m were my track events), this would not exactly be a cakewalk. He looked at me in the eye, and said "You WILL run these times." I ran exactly 4:00 for the 1500, puked my guts out, and came back with a 2:00 for the 800...both were the fastest I had ever, and would ever, run in those events. Myself and my teammates, would do just about anything we could physically to meet the expectations of this man. That is the sign of a great coach. The title of this post is a phrase Coach Buhler liked to use with impunity...I never quite understood why...
My all-time favorite workout in college was on Mondays in mid-cross country season. We would get in a van and drive 12 miles off-campus, out into the farm fields surrounding lovely Muncie, Indiana. After a cursory stretch, we would jog out another mile and then back as a warmup, and then begin our 12 mile return trip. The goal would be to increase our pace every mile. We started at a leisurely 7:30 pace, and by the time we hit campus, we were knocking on the door of 4:30 miles. We would be FLYING through campus, dodging vehicles and pedestrians...it was exhilarating.
College cross country races are 8000 meters (8 kilometers) during the regular season, and 10,000 for NCAA Regionals, so the kilometer was a vital instrument in training. A 3:05 minute kilometer was equivalent to a 5:00 mile....we would regularly knock out 1k intervals in 2:45 with minimal rest between. On a good day, it was an amazingly effortless endeavor...on a bad day, it was a death march. We ran a 10k loop regularly in the low 30 minute range...as a TEAM. It was really fun ripping off 4:50 miles with a group of your best friends...and your coach.
The Start Box
Race day was usually accompanied with a bundle of nerves. We had a strict regimen prepared by Coach Buhler, replete with uniform specifications. Black Nike running pants and a grey t-shirt with a sublimated "Ball State Distance" on the front...all go, no show. The idea was to hit the line with a layer of sweat...that way you knew you were warm. We stretched, did a few pull-outs to simulate the start, and, eventually, warmups came off and we were ready to toe the line. Cross country meets start in a HUGE line perpendicular to the course, with each team contained in a "Start Box." You could usually fit four guys across the front of your box, and the final three on the team just behind. Sometimes, you'd be looking down a line of guys 200 strong. Starting fast was imperative.
I always hated the start. There was always an instant red-line...going as fast as you can and putting yourself in oxygen debt isn't very appealing when you have 5 or 6 hilly miles to go. The most important thing was the ability to come out of that gutted feeling and find your rhythm. The absolute key to all distance running is finding rhythm...if you are out of rhythm, say, due to injury or just lack of mental focus, you are pretty much toast. You will find yourself in pain, and the pain will eventually consume you. I have always been a fast starter in spite of myself. Prior to every race, I would tell myself to take it easy off the line, settle in, and make my move later in the race. Inevitably, I would find myself at the front of the race, sometimes that was a good thing, but many times it simply meant I would be getting passed for the remainder of the race! I came out of the gate at a race my freshman year and found myself in the top five after the first kilometer. I looked at those in front of me, and was horrified to see that Bob Kennedy (a future Olympian running for Indiana University) was not there, even though I knew he was at the race. I was palpably relieved when somebody else asked "Where's Bob?," and another Indiana runner assured us that he would be by...he was simply using this race as a training exercise. Sure enough, before we hit the second kilometer, he passed us like we were going backwards. I was happy to finish in the top twenty.
Cross country can be a lot more brutal than it would appear from an outside perspective. There are flying elbows at the start looking to connect with a chest or a face, sharp metal spikes on the bottom of shoes that shred shins readily (I still have a TON of scars), and there's the infamous turn-flag grab and rebound. I was the victim of the latter by one of my own teammates in a race...the flag sprang back and nailed me between the eyes. All of this, plus the battle against what could occasionally be some seriously difficult terrain. I tended to prefer the more difficult courses....lots of hills and turns were advantageous to a short guy like me. Most races were held on golf courses, which could range from desktop flat at University of Illinois, to extremely "rolling" like Southern Indiana University. Indiana University had its own dedicated cross country course, which was really nice, and quite challenging. Oh...and then there was the weather. We trained in all conditions (my personal record extremes are a head index of 114 and a wind chill of -63), so we would be prepared to race in all conditions. From blistering heat and choking dust to freezing rain and sloppy mud, we did it all. And somehow, we did it with speed.
Pain
At some point in the race, ALMOST without exception, you would begin to feel pain. Sure, there are a couple races I can remember when it all felt so easy...like I was floating...but the vast majority were spent in a constant mental battle against physical limits. I had been trained to embrace the pain and use it to gauge my performance. I knew the pain level that was actually GOOD to be at, and I knew all to well when that pain began to be debilitating. I could tell what my pace was usually within 5 seconds per mile, just by how I was feeling. The delicate balance between pushing yourself and pacing yourself was a constant game of chess contested between body and mind. From the outside, running doesn't seem very cerebral. Inside the mind of a distance athlete is a constant brain battle. Checking breathing. Checking stride. Adjusting for terrain. Looking for teammates. Pass this guy or draft off him for a while? Power up a hill. Stride out on a downhill. Attack a turn. And that nagging thought that never, ever goes away...will I have enough left in the tank to finish strong?
When I was physically well, I was a strong mental runner. I found it easy to convince my legs and lungs to perform at a high level. I was always breaking down a race flag by flag...running from corner to corner and attacking turns like I would have in my days as a soccer player. I made it fun. I talked to my competitors, both to relax myself, and as a psychological weapon against them (How can that guy be talking when I can't even breathe?) I waved to my parents if they were at a race, I looked forward to hills, and when the finish came, although I didn't have the strongest kick in the world, I would generally push myself WELL into the red zone...feeling the pain burning my lungs and crushing my legs...and making the eventual stop at the finish line feel so very good. At those times, pain was my friend.
Then there were the bad times. The times when the pain literally overwhelmed me. My particular cross to bear was my fractured vertebrae. The pain in my lower back would literally leave me crumpled on the ground. It would be as if someone had stuck a corkscrew in my back and was just winding it tighter and tighter...it would prevent me from even breathing normally. It was as if all of energy would be sucked into the spasming muscles around my sacroiliac joint, and eventually, I could not even stand upright, much less push myself to run sub-5 minute pace. The physical pain would bring about a rapid and unforgiving flood of mental pain, and that would generally spell the end for me. It was too much. I met my limits time and time again...like an engine hitting a rev limiter, and it left me as a ragged husk of myself repeatedly. Perseverance faded to struggle. Struggle gave way to frustration. Frustration rapidly ate away at confidence. I was left with nothing. Pain had won.
The Finish Line
By the time I had finished my senior year cross country season, I was mentally burned out. Constantly dealing with my back issues (which remain with me to this day) had broken me down to questioning what had previously been unassailable....my love for the sport. I needed to take a step away from the competitive drive that had left me raw and bloody for want of my prior physical state. I was hurt, and after well over a year of trying everything, I knew my career as a competitive athlete was over. This realization, painful though it was, also happened to contribute to an epiphany of sorts: I didn't HAVE to do this. Call it maturation, call it coming to my senses, call it a sudden onset of sanity...but I made peace with the finish line and came away from years of pain (both good and bad) with an indefatigable source of pride in what I had accomplished.
Running has helped me grow as a person in innumerable and immeasurable ways, and putting the thoughts of that process down has been somewhat cathartic. Of late, I have strayed from putting one foot in front of the other in favor of cranking out miles on two wheels, but always the drive and purity of athleticism that is running flows through my veins....probably why I enjoy the singlespeed mountain bike so much.
So...I started to run again. I'm not fast, nor do I portend to be fast. I run to enjoy myself. I run to BE myself.
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