I never thought it would happen, but after graduation it only took me three months to start missing cross country.
I was one of those weird distance specialists who preferred track to cross country. Distance races on the rubber oval get a bad rap for being monotonous and boring -- I mean, at the college level we’re talking 12 ½ laps for 5,000m or 25 for 10,000m -- but I always liked the element of speed that comes into play. It’s a flat, uniform surface, so that neutralizes anyone’s muscular advantages over me. And track races have a much more intimate field size, which usually prevents them from stringing out too far. Evenly matched competitors going up against each other on a surface that’s non-advantageous for anyone makes it all about the competition. And if you’re going to be great, you’ve got to love the competition.
I may never have had the natural speed of a mid-distance runner, but I like to think that I always had solid speed reserve. By that I mean I could close the last lap of a long distance race close to my top speed. In an open 400m I don’t think I could run much faster than maybe 58 seconds, but I once finished a track 10,000m in 61 seconds. Not world class, by any means, but not too shabby for a second-tier college guy. I knew I’d always miss kicking people down at the end of races.
Cross country, on the other hand, is run over uneven surfaces across hill and dale through mud and muck. It takes a special kind of runner to succeed, especially in bad conditions, and I was never that person. Just running on grass would throw my ankles all over the place, such that I never felt I could get into a rhythm out on the course. Being a distance guy, I was never challenged aerobically, but I didn’t have the muscular strength (or coordination?) to power over the earth. No, take me to the track where it’s nice and even for everyone.
I didn’t think I’d miss cross country because I felt I always underperformed relative to my fitness level.
But I started to feel some vaguely sentimental pangs doing intervals late last summer, preparing for my first half marathon in a few weeks’ time. I guess it was a combination of factors, really. For the first time in four years, I didn’t move back to school come mid-August. Summer break was always a nice pause on college, being able to steal some nostalgia going back home for a couple months with the promise of returning to your adopted scholastic family a week before school starts. Being a fall sports athlete, it was always nice having the campus (mostly) to ourselves for that first week. It gave all the new freshmen a chance to get their bearings straight, and the rest of us to catch up after summer.
I remember one year, my sophomore year I think, we were met with a surprise in the dining hall: there was an ice cream vending machine! Rocket pops, ice cream sandwiches, drumsticks; you name it, they had. We’d always had a crappy soft serve machine that usually didn’t work, but this new addition was a revelation. And as you no doubt know, no one can put food away like runners. You’d be amazed at what those lithe frames can hold while in peak training; I once saw a teammate eat 11 bowls of cereal for dinner. And then a 12th as a “victory lap.”
But anyway, the very first day of the ice cream vending machine, we put it away. Literally. The team of 30 men and women completely emptied it. Of course, some of us hoarded piles of the frozen treats because we wanted to impress the freshmen girl we just met...I’m looking at you, Jones. When we came back to the dining hall for lunch the next day, the vending machine had been removed. It never returned. We killed it for the entire school.
That’s the kind stupid stuff you remember most from running in college. And so when move-in day came around last summer and I wasn’t moving in, I missed it. Instead, it was goodbye forever to that chapter of my life. As ceremonious as graduation day was, the farewell was distinctly unceremonious. Just an awkward hug with the roommates of four years outside of a Chipotle on a gloomy, misty day. See you...sometime. Maybe never? Have a good life.
It’s bittersweet and I wasn’t ready for that chapter of my life to be over.
Aside from that, I also missed running for a team; for a cause larger than myself. Running can be an obscenely selfish sport, but when you add in the team aspect of cross country it provides a sense of purpose that is greater than the ego.
I’d been doing workouts on the local high school track, the same one that I regularly lapped four years earlier as a student. It’s funny how college works like that: you grow up somewhere for 12 years, itching to branch out and experience the world. You do, of course, and it’s a life-changing experience and eye-opening and it expands your horizons, so when you graduate you’re supposed to move on to bigger and better things, but instead you don’t have a job so you might as well just move back home where everything’s the same only you’re different, and this time you’re not moving back to college; all the rest of your classmates are moving on with their lives and you’re right back where you started and what the hell are you going to do with your life?
Might as well keep running, I guess. Don’t slow down.
As I was using the track throughout the late-summer and fall, I regularly ran into the boys and girls cross country team. I got plenty of odd looks at first -- who’s this shirtless guy in short shorts running around? OMG his shorts are so short! -- but over time they grew to tolerate my presence and then the brave ones even struck up conversation.
When I saw the high schoolers run workouts, I also saw them cheer each other on and lift each other up, especially for the stragglers who seemed to be struggling. And I remember when I was that guy, getting dropped on easy runs, failing to complete workouts, wondering how anyone in their right minds could ever run three whole miles, much less enjoy it. What stands out in my memory and what stood out upon going back wasn’t the individual suffering; instead, it was the collective cheering from the rest of the teammates.
“Let’s go, Swifty!”
“You got this, keep up the good work!”
“Gut it out today, be strong!”
“Run fast and eat babies!”
That last one came after one of the juniors had read “A Modest Proposal” for their AP Literature class.
That same collective lifting up that existed when I was a newbie was again on display when I returned to the track to do my workouts. The people my change, but the values of runners seem to largely stay the same.
That’s the second piece of the puzzle that made me miss cross country. Post-college, I was running purely for myself -- not just at the moment, but for the rest of my running career. I might have training partners in the future, or I might get lucky enough to join a professional club, but I’d never be racing for a team again. Ever. Eight years of racing for a school name on the front of my singlet simply done. Just like that.
No one prepares you for the utter finality of it all.
But as I glance down at my stride below me, I remember that my current jersey on the day came with a purpose. It’s a simple white singlet with the arched words hand-written in blue lettering, “FLINT HILLS,” and then, on the line below that, “KANSAS”.
I had flown out to Boston the Saturday before the Monday start; on that Friday the high school’s cross country and track coach approached me after their practice. I was just finishing up some final strides on the track, and she carried a small box with her.
“The team wanted you to have this,” she said, presenting me with the box.
“Thanks!” I opened the box, and held up the singlet, trying not to get sweat all over it. It was one of the first truly hot days of the spring.
“They weren’t sure if you had a jersey you were planning to race in, and we get a good deal with team discounts on cheap material, so I figured what the hell and pushed them into it. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to or if you’ve got something else, that’s totally understandable. We just thought --”
“No,” I cut her off, “this is great. I’m racing in it. I was going to wear a blank black singlet I bought, but this is better.”
“Well, now the team knows what to look for when you’re on TV rolling down Boylston.”
“Riiiight, because I’m definitely going to be one of the guys leading the charge.” I was the only one who chuckled at that.
“GOOD LUCK, MR. S!” the chorus of athletes called across the track. I waved the jersey back towards them with a thumbs-up.
“You don’t need luck. You got this.” Amelia said to me with a nod. I returned her gaze before I jogged off on my cooldown back home, new singlet in hand.
A time-tested piece of advice, especially for the marathon, is to not try anything new on race day. Screw that. I had my purpose right there.
And I’m wearing it right now as we glide down State Route 135 east towards the back bay.
In college cross country our primary racing distance was eight kilometers, or just barely shy of five miles. Championship season saw 10k races, but the vast majority of what we did were 8ks. My fastest time was 24:21, which I ran at the conference championship my senior year. Good enough for third (a close third, at that).
Back in Massachusetts just entering Framingham, we split the fifth mile in 5:06, totalling 25:17. Welp, less than two hours of running left, even if I blow up. Not much slower than I ran a year-and-a-half ago, and faster than I had ever run until my sophomore year. I sit in the same position at the back of the lead pack. The two Americans, Kelley one of them, still lead it.
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