Push (1/4 of "My Track Career in 400m")
I took a sports writing class in the fall, and it reminded me of my passion for writing and sports. It also produced this piece, a personal essay called "Push, Pace, Position, Pray: My Track Career in 400m." When I first started the sport, I was introduced to a famous 400m race plan by former world-record-holder, Michael Johnson. He broke it into the four P's listed above, with each word representing the race sequentially by 100m. I forgot about it for several years but was reminded by it in this class.
There is no denying that running teaches so many life lessons--hard work, patience, rest. I have always known that the 400m, with its pain and glory, pertained to life, but in this essay, it pertains to my life. Specifically, my track career. It starts with my initial decision to run and ends with a reflection the week before my sophomore season opener. I won't spoil the rest!
I shift my weight from one foot to another, creating a rhythm of horizontal momentum. With my hands on my hips, my stomach flutters as it inflates. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Slowly.
Left, right. Left, right.
Push, pace, position, pray.
As I stare down the track, I envision myself executing the four different phases of my race.
“Runners, take your marks.”
My body has ten years of routine in response to that cue. I take two big steps over the blocks, bouncing off the giant “5” on the ground and into the air. I tuck jump twice, shake my right leg, then my left, crouch down, look up, inhale, feel the track with my palms, look down, exhale, jam my left leg back onto the pedal with my toes sitting ¾ of an inch on the ground, squeeze my right leg back, foot ¾ of the way on the ground, right knee smushed on the track, fingers ½ an inch behind the line, flip my ponytail, inhale, exhale. I sink my spikes into the blocks.
“Set.” I rise and press my heels to the pedals as hard as I can. The only noise in the stadium is my violent heartbeat.
Bump.
Bump.
Bump.
…
POP.
Before I know it, I am launched into the race.
*
I was first thrown into the heat of competition at age eight, when the other little girls plugged their ears to dampen the pop of the gun. I never did. It took too long to bring my hands from my head to my body, and the race would start whether I was ready or not.
Truthfully, I was never ready to race my first few seasons. With uncontrollable tears before and during each event, I was more ready for the race to be over than to start. My dad recalls questioning his parenting decisions at my first track meet.
“What did I get her into?”
His little girl was running with the wolves, howling, just trying not to get eaten alive.
I now remind him that it wasn’t his fault; really, I got myself into this sport. When I was seven and mostly using the computer for Webkinz, I typed “Track teams Parker CO” into the search engine. I don’t remember what exactly inspired the most influential click of my life, but I think a commercial of sprinters coming out of the blocks played a part. Besides, I was the fastest girl on the soccer field. The pink ribbon in my hair streaked across the field as I rushed towards the goal with the ball. No, I didn’t dribble, just kicked it several meters down and then chased after it until both the ball and I were decelerating into the net. The other parents urged me to try track, either out of support or the desire for their daughter to touch the ball more (I admit, I was a total ball hog). Either way, before I knew it, I donned my baggy Parker Panthers uniform for the first time. My track career was off to the races.
*
PUSH.
*
I thrust my hand toward the sky while simultaneously pushing into the blocks. Dragging my toe along the track, I clear half of the large number on the ground with my first step. In the 100m, I can sense how the distance and timing of my first step compares with my competitors beside me, but the 400m race affords no such opportunity. Instead, the stagger is my unit of measurement. I lock in on my first target: lane 6. It’s a bad habit, but I rush out of my drive phase (when a runner leans low and forward in the first 30 to 50 meters of a race) and into my top-end speed. I prefer keeping my eyes up to gauge the competition and my hips up to open up my stride. It’s representative of my impatience and need to be on top of things. I like life to happen on my terms. One of my life mottos is to be the hunter, not the hunted. That motto stems from the early moments in a race. As I push, I am suddenly a predator running down my prey, lured by the scent of fear ahead of me. As the gap falls to one meter between us, I smell blood. Weakness. Passing is the only option.
Then I keep pushing: lane 7 is next.
I repeat the process until the 100m mark or until I pass the outermost lane, whichever comes sooner.
*
My first few seasons of track were a continuous push out of my comfort zone. Even practice stretched my bravery muscles. I hid behind the equipment shed each day, full of tears. My dad tried to encourage me into practice. Or, we could even go back to the car. I hated both options, but I hated quitting most, so I mustered my courage for the warmup. I jokingly wonder still if it was the two boring laps of jogging each day that scared me into the sprinting events. But I know it’s because I have had a need for speed ever since I was born. “Faster pease, faster!” I would cry out to my dad before I could say my L’s as he pushed me on the swingset. This was different though: I was pushing myself.
Despite strong suggestions from my coaches to run the longer events (a recommendation that continued until high school), I competed my first season in the 100m, 200m, and 400m. When I stopped crying long enough to race, I finished in the back of the pack. One kind spectator told my parents, “She’s not very talented, but she sure has a lot of heart.” Even though I was obsessed with the color pink (my bedroom walls then and now might give that away), I didn’t like it on my eighth place ribbons. I kept pushing until the shades on my wall became yellow and white, then later on red, and eventually, blue.
*
My first taste of success in the sport was also my first experience with pain. Thus began a long, love-hate relationship with both, starting with my first state championship meet when I was eight. The other parents must have realized before mine that the 400m was borderline child abuse, because the field was weak. I poured my all onto the track that day and finished state runner-up with a time of 1:24. I don’t remember the race, but I do remember being carried off the track afterwards with a burning sensation in my legs, unable to stand on my own. A teenage girl lifted me onto the table where an orange gatorade tub towered over me. If getting out of the car for practice pushed me out of my emotional comfort zone, the 400m was physical discomfort like no other. It took me years to run another 400m, and years after that to grow to love the pain.
*
That race pushed me in two ways. First, it propelled me into the next season with the smell of victory. I chased after it, but I had no idea how far–or long–it would take me. Second, it alienated me from the 400m and into the 800m (though I still, unconventionally, competed in the short sprints). At that age, it was a much more comfortable race in terms of lactic acid build up, a sensation of burning pain that results from an oxygen deficit in one’s legs. To my surprise, I was good at the 800m (just don’t ask me to run one in warmups). The first USATF race I remember winning was an 800m on a smoky day in Fort Collins the next year. Not long after, I was on a podium at Indoor Nationals with a fourth place medal the size of my little face.
I was nine years old, the age when the National Junior Olympics felt like the real deal. As I got older, the stage got bigger and the names changed: New Balance Nationals, Nike Outdoor Nationals, U20 championships, and NCAA’s. I’ve won national youth titles and regional races, but my 2:49 800m that day is still the highest I have placed at a major national championship.
I came close a few times in my pre-high school career. One qualifying round for nationals, I came around the final turn in position to advance when I got tripped by another runner and finished one spot out of qualifying. A year or so later at indoor nationals, I won my prelim heat and secured my All-American title. In the top 8, it was just a matter of where I would finish in finals the next day. Official results came out as I submerged into the ice bath (lactic acid, right?), but my name wasn’t at the top of the list. It was at the bottom. With a “DQ” next to it. I had apparently stepped on the inside line.
Denied the chance to compete at these big shows, I entered high school hungry to return to Nationals. I had pushed myself this far; turning back was not an option. Instead, it was time to settle into a new pace.
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