I gave it all gave it all I had. 12th in the region. About a month ago not even thinking I could even be all conference. I find out tomorrow if I make nationals. 4 teams need to make it in order for me to go. Regardless of whether I make nationals I must say that I’m proud of how far this team has come and damn proud to be a SCIAC athlete. A couple years ago no one would have ever thought to see La Verne battling for a national spot, or even sending a team much less an individual there. It’s been a wild ride and it’s been a great journey. – November 16th 2013
As years go by, memories tend to blur together. Almost two decades in this sport will do that to you. I’m no longer the kid and that just feels just weird to me. I’m 31 now, just a few years shy from an entire new age group. Running has almost become second nature to me, an almost daily routine that very rarely has major highs or lows. I joke that I generally care about my own running about ~2 hours of each week. Everything else is just necessary motion. It’s a hobby. I don’t make money from it and I’m generally okay at it. I can’t say I don’t love it. I can’t say that I’m not obsessed with it. Why else would you continue to dedicate 10 hours a week toward something.
Being around for this long you learn a lot of lessons. I guess you have to for the sake of self-preservation. Those that don’t learn from those lessons have a short life span in this sport. If you’re lucky you’ll continue to just jog around a couple days a week as an enjoyable endeavor. Others are spit out, never wanting to ever associate themselves with it. And once you’re out long enough, that mountain becomes much steeper.
Over the last couple of years I’ve had the pleasure of watching new runners grow in their own journey. From past athletes in other disciplines, to just people taking something up during a very lonely pandemic, our community has grown just due to the accessibility of running itself. As I’ve created and interacted with my own community, both locally and virtually, I’ve continued to watch enthusiastically as new barriers are broken and goals once thought impossible are set.
But with time in this sport comes inevitable setbacks and disappointments. Some controllable, others not so much. It’s not ever a question of if, but more when. If there’s one thing that running teaches us, it’s how to find the silver linings in those moments of disappointment. Despite success feeling almost binary, we can find victories in even some of our lowest moments.
Running can be a cruel endeavor. I’ve had my heart broken more by running over these last two decades than anything else. A running career filled with injuries and setbacks has forced me to learn how to pick myself up, put the pieces back together, and go forward again.
As I’ve learned over the years, it’s the low moments that truly test who you are in this sport.
The thing is, everybody wants to be a winner. And when you’re psyched up, you’re willing to make any sacrifice. After a great workout, you’ll happily go hit the weight room, or add extra miles, or eat spinach and broccoli. But what will you do when you’re feeling like crap, or all your friends are going out, or it’s pouring rain, or you’re running poorly? To keep striving over the course of years, you need to smooth out the natural highs and lows of your desire, so that you have a constant and unrelenting force that drives you off the sofa and out to run. Every day. Twice. – Once a Runner
My running career has been full of those tests. None more-so than my final cross country season at La Verne.
I entered that final season of undergrad with one last shot to make the NCAA DIII National Championships in green and orange. During those years if you asked anyone on that men’s squad what the mission of La Verne Cross Country was, it would have been the same. To make the National Championship. We were united in this goal from the moment we stepped on campus. When AJ, the first national qualifier in our school’s history, returned from nationals our freshman year he told us:
I want you there with me next time.
My Sophomore season our team was snakebit when it when it came to Regionals. AJ was out due to an injury between conference and regionals. Our top runner that year, Alex, who was in battling for winning the region, aggravated an injury during the race. Sean was unlucky and battled a cold. I was our top finished in a slightly disappointing 28th place finish. Good for All-Region but hardly enough to help the team. We finished 9th as a team, heartbroken.
My Junior year, I came in with high expectations. I had capped off my Sophomore year with a school record in the 5K, one that would absolutely be destroyed in the following years, but a school record nonetheless. My goal was to step up and hopefully be part of an interchangeable 1-2-3 for our team. It didn’t matter who finished first, just that we had a team of low sticks.
Just days into arriving on campus, my season was over before it started. I fractured my middle toe walking at team camp and had to redshirt the rest of the season. The team kept rolling without hesitation and had the best season in school history. A few short months later they would make good on the promise they made to AJ during that run, La Verne qualified for the National Championships.
The feeling of conflicted emotion was something that I have yet to ever experience again. There was a profound sadness that despite being there from the early days, I sat there in my dorm room as my best friends achieved a goal we had talked about countless times. But that sadness took a back seat to pure happiness for those hard working gentlemen. I was excited for the team. They busted their asses for years to achieve what no one thought we could years prior. To not be excited for them would be selfish. Against all odds, they did what they set out to do.
As their season came to a close, so began my first steps post crutches. Weeks later AJ would knock on my dorm room door and hand me a gift. The national qualifier medallion.
I already have one of my own. Plus, you were as much a part of this team as anyone else. You can give it back to me when you get your own.
You dream of your final season as a movie like crescendo; three years of trials and tribulations leading to breakthrough. This was nothing like that. I capped off another Track season with a school in the Steeplechase one place off the podium at conference. I was ready for a breakthrough in my favorite season. This season would be different. I would be the only returner from that group of five men that bonded my freshman season. Alex, Matt, and Sean graduated that spring and AJ had made the decision to not return to the team. That season was solely about unfinished business.
And again, as summer came to a close I was faced with another injury. This time an IT Band issue that got so bad that I had trouble bending my knee without being in excruciating pain. Instead of running with the guys every morning I spent them on the stationary bike or dropping out of workouts as my knee would once again lock up. While I had made friends with the underclassmen, it was impossible to replicate the bond I had with those old teammates. I had a new coach I couldn’t see eye to eye with, a schedule outside of practice that left me running on fumes, and I could barely run. My motivation was at its lowest. I felt defeated. I wasn’t a good teammate. I struggled to wake up for practice on time to stationary bike while the team ran so I was punished by having to sit out for races that season. I bombed out in my first conference race, finishing 80+. Later that season I told a close friend from a rival team that I was contemplating quitting the team before conference. At this point this was no longer enjoyable. I had begun to hate the very thing I loved more than anything else at that point.
Something in me couldn’t give up on the guys on the team. I was emotionally beat but I definitely was not dead yet. Some of the younger guys hadn’t given up on me. I had done this turnaround before. So I kept going, and eventually I found a stretch where I stayed healthy and could prove my fitness. At the final conference meet I ran the race of my life to finish 9th overall. An improvement from 80+ just a couple weeks prior. As I came through the finisher shoot our top returner looked back in shock to say:
YOU!?
I was back. The stories were all true. I’d be there when it counted. And i’d be there to give that nationals berth everything I had.
I came into regionals confident but hesitant about the level of fitness I was in. I played it conservative and put myself in a position where I was just on the outside looking in. For years, top 15 would be the magic spot to get you to nationals. Land in there and your ticket is as good as punched to the big dance. Outside of the home team, I was the most experienced on this course, it being about 2 miles from my childhood home. The course lined with familiar faces: conference pals, teammates, friends, and family. This was the best I had felt all season. As my competitors began to strain, I began to make my move. I was quickly picking up spots as we neared closer and closer to the finish.
As I crested the small hill leading to the final stretch, I could see one final jersey within sight. 250 meters to go and I hit the track. I hug the curve, pumping my arms as hard as I can as I inch closer and closer to the finish line. There’s not much room left. It’s my last race. I don’t care. It’s all I have now. I tap into any remaining energy I could muster up and attack. I sprint as hard as I could and despite knowing that the finish line would come before I could pass that final competitor, I still give it everything. If I was going to miss out it was not going to be because of lack of trying.
My friends and family embraced me as I tried to catch my breath. AJ picks me up and gives me a giant hug.
12th. 12TH!
Exhausted and almost in tears I can’t believe it.
I’M GOING TO NATIONALS.
I cheer for my teammates as they cross the line, each having given everything they had out there. We celebrate one heck of a season together with no doubt in our minds that we did all we could that day. Three men All-Conference. Two National Qualifiers.
As we begin to calculate the team scores, I’m reminded of something our former coach said.
100 points. If your team finishes third and under that, you’ll go to nationals.
Third place: 109. Fourth place: 132. La Verne: 149.
I begin to count the individuals ahead of me.
If they take only two teams, my teammate Bryan is the final spot in 10th. If they take three teams, I’m the first one out by one second.
As the reality of all this began to settle, I realized that barring some kind of miracle, this goal that I worked so hard for years for, would never come to fruition.
And yet as I sat there with teammates past and present, I felt something that I never thought I’d feel in a moment like this. Thankfulness. As I celebrated the end of the season that night with conference foes turned close friends, I came to terms with the reality that I would never be a national qualifier. And so I celebrated. I celebrated the journey that was those last four years of hard work. I celebrated the fact that an overlooked 4:52/10:26 HS kid from a family of non athletes was even in the position to be here.
Over the last couple of years as running has become more serious to me than I ever expected it to ever be again, I’m reminded of that moment. As I placed the goal on the board to qualify to the Olympic Trials a couple of years ago I find solace in the fact that I’ve failed at almost every one of my biggest running goals. But hell if that 4’10” 70 pound HS freshman with a 20:07 3 mile PR ever thought it was possible for this to be an option.
As I see friends this week crushed by a standard they had no control over, I’m reminded of this experience. Three years later a good friend of mine would punch his ticket to the national championships with a 23rd place finish. Sometimes it’s just the luck of the draw.
While there may be feeling of finality following a moment of disappointment, the beauty of this is in the journey. To have been able to put yourself in contention is something to be proud of. Because that takes work and dedication. We as runners are not defined by a qualifying standard. Sometimes the draw lands in your favor, and sometimes it doesn’t. But regardless of the result, it doesn’t change the pure happiness that came crossing that finish line.
I’ve told myself over the years that if every story was perfect, it just wouldn’t be worth telling. In the thick of training blocks we seldom have time to thing of the growth we’ve made as athletes. Take that time to reflect on it and give yourself credit for sticking to it. Running tends to have more tough days than memorable ones and out of thousands of miles there’s very few that I hold close. Hold those good days close. Celebrate them.
Almost 10 years later those college memories continue to provide me a gentle reminder to take the time to appreciate the journey. 10 years ago I realized one of my biggest fears. That day running broke my heart. I closed that chapter of my life disappointed but happy as hell I even had the chance to be there. Little did I know it at the time, this was just opening up a new chapter to a story that is still being written.
As you wake up the tomorrow to lace those shoes, discouraged as you may be, remember, this is just another chapter, not the finale.
Beers and Miles 