Run Don't Walk

I had to face the truth: I was no longer the anchor for the relay team. In my fingers, I held the roster, the roster that had her name as anchor, where my name should have been. I threw it across the room.

I hesitantly reached out to touch my favorite trophy in the center of my collection on the shelf behind my bed. My index finger brushed over my name, and then over first place. I smiled. Until I remembered that my medals ended after eighth grade. I had half an hour to reminisce before it was time to leave for the Draper Invitational.

Speed has always been my thing. I learned to run before I learned to walk. I was always the first to step up to the line whenever there was an opportunity to race. I have always loved the sensation of wind in my hair – but mostly, I loved to win. In the Lower School wrestling room, no first grader – boy or girl – could outrun me. Every Lower School field day, I always won the hurdle races for my team. At travel soccer try-outs, once again I had no competition. When the time came to choose sports after 6th grade, I knew I was going to be a runner.

Seventh-grade track was my time to shine. Every practice I gave it my all and just kept going, pushing through every pain. No one had my stamina. And at every school track meet, I stepped onto the track to win. And I did. I ran at least three events per meet, and placed first or second every time.

When I joined the fall eighth-grade cross-country team, my talent earned me a leadership position. I competed for a top place at every co-ed meet, beating almost all the boys. Girls weren’t even on my radar. At the end of the season, the high school cross-country coach asked me to represent GDS at the Maryland/DC State Championships. Eager to impress my future high school teammates, I accepted the challenge. The coach posted my times for the whole school, and I couldn’t walk down the hallway without a pat on the back. Eighth grade cross-country was effortless. I ran – I won. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to live up to my reputation as a track prodigy.

By the spring eighth-grade track season, I buckled under the weight of my reputation. I realized how much I had to lose. By the ninth grade track season, I’ve become an average runner –an anonymous member of the pack. No longer am I the special star athlete, that runner to watch. No longer can I effortlessly run with high school boys. No longer am I the anchor, the most prized position of the distance medley relay.

I suddenly realized that the trophy was in my hands. I was holding it so tightly that the edge had pierced a cut through my finger. Just like my finger, my confidence and times have been pierced by the nagging fear of losing, by the double-edged sword of success. I never thought that the very thing that made me most proud, confident, would also torment me the most.

Success – you’ve betrayed me!

I shook my head. Turning off my lights, I left my room filled with athletic accomplishments. I boarded the bus, quickly finding a window seat. I blocked out my successful teammates with my headphones, and they let me be because they figured that I was simply relaxing. Two hours later I was at the track with my team, surrounded by competition.

I wrestled with my emotions until the Draper Invitational was finally over. I knew what I had not done. With the display time, the last speck of hope – that tiny ounce of faith that kept me sane – finally evaporated, maybe forever. Shame boiled inside me, and the about-to-burst tears sent me darting off into the woods.

Could I act any more like a child?

I couldn’t even face my supportive teammates, let alone my relay team - the ones who’d just surpassed me. The leader who had once encouraged my frustrated teammates was now hiding in the woods. I crumpled to a heap in the dried sticks and leaves. I hurled rocks at the fence until there were none left. Then I started snapping twigs.

I don’t deserve this talent anymore if I don’t even know how to use it.

But I remembered my dad telling me that you don’t just lose talent.

Two meets ago, I’d started to run better. My times dropped back down significantly, and I saw a glimmer of hope. But after today, I was back to being an unexceptional runner – not even the best freshman. It felt as if G-d gave me a speck of hope and then took it all away.

Really? Am I turning to G-d now?

I recalled another track meet like this, like Draper Invitational. I had run away from my team after that disappointing race. I kept running down this hill that was so steep you couldn’t see where you were going until you got there. I couldn’t get over it. I couldn’t get past that steep part. I just kept trying and trying, running down this crazy hill in the mucky weather all alone. Yes it took guts, but I used to have that. That’s what I used to have, when I was a star athlete.

Do I face the fact I can no longer be a star, or convince myself that I’ve still got that talent somewhere?

I might be okay with it, if I knew that my talent had truly disappeared – at least I’d know. I might be okay with my race, with just fitting in, with not getting over the steep hill and not taking that risk, with not being some great athlete. I might be okay with it if I were any other person. But that’s not me - or at least who I used to be, and who I thought I still was.

I looked down at my healing index finger. A protective scab had formed. I needed to cover my battle wounds, and face either triumph or defeat.

I can’t let go of winning.

When my dad picked me up from the invitational, I told him I was upset with my race, but now I’d gotten past the disappointment, and that sometime, I’d break through. I turned the station to 99.5 and began singing along to the Black Eyed Peas. No one would know my pain, regret, disappointment, shame.

I need to figure this out on my own.

All I could think about was my race and that last lap and not giving that extra push and that full-on striking sprint no one else I’d ever known had. No one had that stamina that used to be mine.

Where is that special strength that was always me?

As the weeks passed after Draper, I found it increasingly difficult to run with the team. It was a Thursday evening practice when I finally escaped from my teammates and ran to the bike trail. Mile one was the longest. As I watched my legs lift up slowly, I checked my watch constantly. It was eight minutes before I finally looked up. Seeing that first mile marker, I felt a sense of accomplishment. My tempo increased to an uplifting beat, my back straightened, and my mouth twitched up. For the first time, I noticed the three boys ahead of me. My shoulders fell, and I surged forward.

Should I pass them?

Yes.

I love this sensation of wind in my hair – but mostly, I love to win.

One day I will again.