Choke. A simple word that has multiple definitions, many of which deal with a sudden inability to breath, either from an outside influence or from a sodden lump of cracker lodging in ones esophagus. It can also mean to “choke” back emotions; to choke back tears is an example of this usage. However, the way I think of this word when in reference to track and field brings to mind one awful day that has been in the back of my mind every time I pull on my running shoes and tighten the (probably) damp laces for yet another trial of miles, another mile of trials. I think of the word in reference to the athletic slang term that means one was unable to perform well or up to his/her normal standard in a high pressure environment. I think of my regional mile race in May of ****.
The week prior to regionals, the week of the League meet, had gone better than I had ever imagined possible. I had just hoped to run well enough to be in the hunt at the end of the race. Amazingly, I had been able to run down a pack of straining milers in the last 100 meters of the 1600 meter race and take the victory and title of League Champion by the barest of margins, just .07 seconds in the 4 minute and ** second contest. I then proceeded to win the 2-mile race just hours later. I was on top of the world, and the state leader in the mile to top it off. I could not help but entertain the possibility of my first state championship.
For the next week of practice, I worked hard to remain sharp and focused. Everyday I ran the workout that my coach assigned me, knowing that he knew more than I. I ate all the right things, drank all the liquids that would benefit me in my quest to advance to the largest high school meet in the nation, the ******* State Track Championships, and slept far more than my studies would allow. In essence, I became a complete loser with no life after 9:00 P.M. Fortunately, my friends did not care because they were all track nerds like me and understood both the significance of this race and how much it meant to me. I talked strategy with my coach daily. Not only was I preparing myself physically, I was psyching myself up mentally for my assault on immortality. Immortality was my goal; to be the first male ****** trackster to bring home an individual state championship. I feel I should inform the reader that all of this was done in preparation for the state meet, two weeks down the road. Not once did I really consider that I would have a difficult time in merely qualifying for this Holy Grail of meets. In hindsight, it seems that for some reason I looked past my upcoming regional race. All I needed was a top four showing, and if I could win my league race and possess the number one time in the state, surely I could pull out a top four without much difficulty…
The meet itself was held at the school of *******; a nice little school smack dab in the middle of no-where. I found it interesting that as we drove on the desolate two-way highway I was able to see a much greater abundance of livestock and other domestic farm creatures chewing their cud and swatting at flies in the dry heat than I could see homes, vehicles, or any other sign of civilization in general, minus the obviously aged and ill-tended barbed wire fence containing these beasts. I see no need to go into great detail on the smell that bovines and equines make through natural processes; that statement would be both redundant and ridiculously obvious.
Upon arriving at the surprisingly modern and to be honest, impressive, track facility, the team proceeded to conduct the same warm-up we went through before every meet. In distance running, routine is crucial. Following this little exercise in discipline and perspiration, I discovered that it was much cooler, and therefore more comfortable, in the shade under the football bleachers. Now this arrangement certainly isn’t the most comfortable one, as at this particular school there happens to be a gravel pit covering the ground immediately under the bleachers. However, in deference to my coach’s instructions, I remain under the bleachers and above the rocks for nearly three hours. Glancing at my ever present wristwatch a final time, I deduced that it was time for the other two milers and myself to slowly begin preparing our bodies; gradually increasing the heart rate, pumping the necessary oxygen to the far flung, exotic reaches of ones body, from the tips of the toes all the way up to the tiny capillaries atop the cranium. Of course, when jogging around a track in 100°F heat while wearing long pants and a long sleeve t-shirt, I personally don’t think about those minute details. Perhaps my failure to pay attention to the little things such as these are what led to the unfolding of my personal tragedy on this day. But regardless, I was mostly concerned with completing my warm-up so I could again retreat to the relative comfort of the shade to begin my stretching routine. And so I did. I finished my warm-up jog and eventually even finished my stretching routine. Now it was really getting close to go-time. Staying chipper with my teammates, on the inside I was a nervous wreck, suddenly doubting all the preparation I’d put into this next 30 minute time-span. I heard the announcer call for the girl’s 1600 meter runners to report for check in. BOOM! Adrenaline hit my system. Just the combination of those words and numbers held my mind in grip. Instantly I took control again, knowing full well that I still had at least a good 15 minutes until the gun went off for my race. I wished our lady runners good luck and then dug my spikes out of my bag and headed for the infield to begin my strides and getting my legs used to running swifter than was comfortable for such a long period of time. I slid my nude, sock-less feet into the narrow opening that would soon tighten about my feet and allow me to propel myself around the track just a few ticks faster. The new spikes which I had replaced just last night glimmered in the sunlight, looking business-like and mean.
After putting the airy shoes on, I looked over to see that a thin man, wearing blue athletic shorts and an old ******* t-shirt and carrying the official clipboard that commanded the attention of athletes at all important meets, was moving towards the center of the field, calling for all boy milers to report to him. The announcement was followed just seconds later by the announcer making the first call for the boys’ 1600 meter race. Dutifully, I begin to trot over to him, acutely aware of every imperfection and ridge in the football field through my thin, plastic soles. After assuring him that I was present and fully expected to be on the line when the gun went off, I received my hip number stating that I was the number one ranked runner in this race. Sticking it firmly to my rather short nylon shorts, smoothing it out so that there would be no chance of it sliding off or losing adhesion at some point, I tore off down the field to force my legs to remember what it felt like to suddenly take off with all the fury of a desperate man. They remembered, and loved it. Oh yes, today was a good day!
The minutes float by as I lazily watch the girls circle the track, conserving my own energy and just keeping my state of readiness and looseness. My teammate and good friend, ******, wins the race convincingly, securing her own bid for the state title. Now all I had to do was my job, and we could consider the night a success.
The starter, a state official, motions for the runners to come onto the track and take position. Onto the track we trot, a pack of highly aerobic monsters, sharpened to a point to attain the speed necessary to run as fast as possible. A few guys take off around the corner to get the feeling of the track beneath their feet once more. I don’t; I feel just fine. After a few more moments of disorder, the starter is able to rein us in and get us in the crouched state of anticipation that every runner hates.
BANG!! As the smoke and sound waves roil from the barrel of the starter’s pistol, I experience both a physical and physiological reaction. The first is the obvious thrust of my body as I hurtle away from the line. Instantly I’m in motion and flying! The second reaction is more subtle on the outside, but to me is just as real, if not more so. Yet more adrenaline has been poured into my vascular system; I can feel my body tightening in excitement. That is a problem, because at this stage I want to be completely loose and relaxed. So just 100 meters into the contest, I already do an armshake, where I drop my arms and let them flop for just a moment to let their tension drain away. It works, and just seconds later I’m attached to the pack of runners and we’re moving way too fast. I’m running faster than I would really feel comfortable in a race this important. But I can’t afford to fall too far back from the leaders, so I just tuck in to maintain my position and use as little effort as possible.
The next two laps fly by at a very respectable pace. Beginning the fourth and final lap, I’m really feeling the stress of the previous 1200 meters of running. My body is honestly trying to wage a civil war to secede from my mind. My body had grumbled before, but the iron fist of my mind had always managed to keep order and put down dissent. However, the hidden and deceitful lactic acid was coursing through my body now, blinding the muscles to all reason other than the fact that this activity was painful and could be stopped at any time. My legs didn’t seem to understand the fact that they were crucial components to my mission of qualifying for the State meet, and that without their continued cooperation, my chances of accomplishing this mission were slim to none. They, my legs that is, are selfish entities, though, and refused to push much harder. With 300 to go, my competitors unleashed a savage burst of speed, and I was left in their figurative dust. I was left leading the chase pack, sitting rather precariously in fourth place. I rounded the last turn of the race, breathing hard and with sweat stinging my eyes, and saw that the finish line was just a short 100 meters away. Merely the length of a football field. Merely an eternity. By now, I was in full kicking mode. My form had gone to shit; there was no reason in my arm swing, nor rhythm to my breathing. All I wanted was for it to be over, and to be in fourth place when all was said and done. When I realized this was likely, as I was just 50 meters from the line and no one had yet passed me, I may have sub-consciously let up a bit and allowed my legs the tiniest of breaks. Mistake. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a flash of curly locks making a burst for the line, trying to beat me there.
My legs were leaden, heavy with the accumulation of lactic acid. My arms wanted to rest. My mind was tired of this pointless exercise in concentration. I had no will to go any more. I gave up. I didn’t even try to catch that little flash of curly brown hair; I let my shot at a state title go down the drain. As I slowed down, my eyes downcast and full of despair, all I could see was the four young men who were across the finish line. Four young men who could run a mile faster than I. “What was the point of all that preparation,” I would later ask my coach.
After I crossed the line and slapped hands with the other competitors, showing them the respect they deserved, I picked up my shorts, shirt, and training shoes that I had left on the infield and headed for the gravel pit. I considered it a welcome place to hide until I could regain my composure. By this time, I could see nothing but fuzzy blurs through the veil of tears that shielded my eyes from the gaze of sympathetic parents and teammates. I did not want their sympathy; I did not want their “But you looked soooo good!” comments. I wanted to be alone.
I sat behind the bleachers for a good ten minutes, just letting my emotions (anger, frustration, sadness, disappointment, and even relief that I could go home and sleep soon!) boil over. I said a lot of words that would not have made my mom proud had she heard them, and I let out a lot of tears that would not have made my dad proud had he seen them. But I was beyond caring; only the realization that my high school career was over mattered. Never again would I have the opportunity to compete in a state-sanctioned meet or a rinky-dink meet in po-dunk ****** with all of my friends’ inches from the track. With that realization came an uplifting. I was able to pick myself up off the ground and went to the tent where I faced my coaches, teammates, parents, and friends. They did not understand how much it hurt; how much it hurt to be finished in such a painful and abrupt manner. I could not blame them though, it is something I would not want anyone else to have to feel if it could be avoided.
The next few days were ones of great joys (graduation, graduation parties) and great sorrows (telling anyone who asked what happened, watching my friends practice while I sat on the sidelines). I had to talk to the reporters, the teachers, the sports nuts after church. They all wanted to know how I was dealing with it… how did it feel?
Where do I begin?