rubber track. What was I, 19? Sounds about right. I'm stretching and doing the high-knee jog when my coach comes down from the stands and onto the inner field. What's this? All of our training and preparation had been done. It'll be 'go time' any minute.
"What's up coach?"
"You've got to lean extra hard into the corner," she said.
"Yeah, I know."
"Here's how you're going to do it. Throw your right arm across your body like this," she demonstrated. "It'll feel awkward but it'll pull you into the lean. Adjust if you have to. When you come out of the corner you'll have a bigger sling shot than ever before."
I tried the technique. "Coach I don't know. You know how I—"
"Perfected your form I know. Just do it. And when you get to that back stretch let's hope your 400 meter stamina will gain your some real estate. Just run your own race." She walked away before I could rebuke.
I qualified eighth for the final. Eighth out of eight. That meant I was more than likely going to cross that finish line in last place. This was why I hoped I'd qualified ninth or tenth then I could claim top 10. But now...
Coach Kalaski didn't need to tell me to run my own race. I'd been doing that for the last three years I trained with her. It was always me against the clock. Work for that personal best. No one else existed on that track but me. It probably used to frustrate the other runners that liked to intimidate on the starting line before the race. But I can't say for sure whether or not they were bothered because I was always in my own zone. Some used to say I looked confident. No need to tell them the opposite was true. It was my business. Me and that clock. Still, running for me or not I never wanted to come in last. Dang it!
I could always claim that the 200 meter wasn't my race, which was true or that I hadn't trained enough blah, blah, blah but no. I was determined to beat at least one of those suckas out there that day. I trusted my coach as if she was my lawyer and I'd gotten away with something. Arm across the body, here we come!
My blocks were set, or so I thought. A teammate sprints over to me. "Move your back foot up an inch and a half on the block rail."
"What? No chance, it's already tight and—"
"Kalaski's orders," she says and trots back to the stands.
I reset the blocks and curse that now I'd be more cramped up then a two-hundred pound brother in the last row of an airplane—middle seat.
The starter's gun goes up. "On your marks...set."
I bring my butt up slowly the way coach taught me so that just as I reached the peak the gun would blast. I've got the starter's cadence locked, something that was always easy for me being that I was a drummer. Bang! I get a great start. I'm happy to be out of those darn blocks too. I was never known for great starts but this one is so good I think I'll hear the false start gun go off...but no. Excellent; a slight edge. I get all the way tall and start throwing that arm. It nearly pulls me out of my lane but I adjust...just like coach said. Fifty meters are gone and we're all locked up. No one has pulled away yet. I really must have got a killer start. I feel like I'm going to fall but instead of straightening up I go for it and lean harder...and harder still. I must have looked like one of those racing motorcycles that hug the corners until the foot peg scrapes the ground. I hear the other guys panting all around me.
I stretch out my stride eating up meter upon meter of track. My hands come up high in front and thrust back with vengeance. I see the backs of other runners but only three. Huh? That means I'm in fourth place. Can't be. Oh hell yeah it can be! I drive, drive, drive. Some guy comes up hard on my left, then another on my right. They don't shake me. Move your ass Jonathan its the 400, my race! I knock off the guy to my left, unsure where the one on my right is. Eyes start watering due to the wind. Thirty meters to go. No one has crossed yet. I bring the knees up higher. I should feel lactic acid in the thighs but I don't because I trained for this—the work has been put in. Fifteen meters...dig...ten. I begin my forward lean willing that tape toward me. I've won more than a few races at the tape because I lean so hard I don't care if I face plant. And up to this point I haven't eaten it yet. Three strides left. Get it! Lean into the final strides Jonathan! "Aaaagh!" Whoosh, I cross. Mother*&%$#@ I'm glad it's over. I walk to the line and shake a few hands. Two teammates run onto the track with big smiles on their faces.
"You got fifth place! You got fifth!"
"What? nah uh!" I say and start laughing and hugging. "Unbelievable."
"You're a top five 200 meter runner this year! Woo hoo!"
I've always run my own race. On and off the track and I suggest you do the same. Don't worry about the other guy or what the other girl's got. Just do your thing and it will be the best version of that thing possible. And that my friends will bring you joy at the very least. I didn't win the race that day and had no illusions of doing so but I ran the race I wanted to run. (And didn't come in last!)
Fifteen minutes later I'm up in the stands with my coach and the team. You'd have thought that I won that dang race I'm so happy. Kalaski gives me a very muted congratulatory nod, which I didn't even need. She'd already given me what I needed—her wisdom. The official final results come in two minutes later. The leader board reveals that fourth and fifth place was a photo finish, separated by two-one hundredths of a second. And my name was on the fourth line with a time of 21.85 seconds. Coach Kalaski's mouth reveals nothing, however I do glimpse a smiling eye behind her sunglasses. I smiled too because I'd just squeezed a personal best out of that clock...and we weren't done yet!
**Please leave your comments below, share this blog and if you'd like a copy of my newsletter please let me know. And stay tuned. My book The Big Crescendo comes out November 2019! jonathanbrownwriter.com
penvinapht_ni_1982 Alex Sepulveda download
ReplyDeletefrusisupra