By September of last year, the high schoolers had gotten to know me -- or, at least, tolerate my presence on their turf since we never officially met. All the better, then, as I had yet to start substitute teaching for the Flint Hills Public School District. Gotta make some money somehow, and the school schedule is really conducive to high level training. I didn’t get my first call from the High School until the first week of October.
Having run road races for most of this year, I think it’s funny how so many people -- runners included -- seem to think that everyone who is fast (whatever “fast” actually means, anyway) is a spoiled professional athlete making thousands of dollars. That notion couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, most of us trying to make it on the post-collegiate scene made little if any money from the sport. We all had to works real jobs to get by, and we’d be lucky to get so much as a discounted pair of shoes. When you’re running upwards of 100 miles per week and going through a pair of shoes about every six weeks and travelling to races and paying inflated entry fees, costs add up quickly. Even the most modest prize purse at a road race can attract athletes from hundreds of miles away, and anything gained is treasured.
That said, coming home with prize money was never about the actual dollars and cents of things; it was a validation of the training you were doing and a signal that someone out there appreciates it. When you’re running for a team in high school and college, your teammates and coaches make up a collective support system where everyone lifts each other up during rough patches and celebrates together during wins. Out in the post-collegiate scene, that camaraderie is simply gone and it’s replaced by the existential truth that no one cares about your performance -- not even fellow runners. In fact, some of those other runners might actually resent you for being fast, whether out of jealousy, misplaced intimidation, or a lack of understanding of the grind. What prize money signals -- even if you don’t win any -- is a race director who says, “We appreciate you, competitive runners. We know that what you are doing is a little bit different than everyone else here, and we want to acknowledge that difference. The concept of road racing wouldn’t exist without people like you, and we want to show you that appreciation.”
Prize money is not about the actual money; it’s about the validation that it provides to those seeking to push their limits.
For the foreign athletes here today, it’s a totally different story. The Japanese have a well-constructed professional system, where corporations sponsor official teams with athletes who are paid a salary to train and compete, just like any other professional system. It’s similar for the Kenyans and Ethiopians, only without the backing of corporate sponsor money. They live and run in these large training camps, often led by one or two star runners who put much of their race winnings back into the camp to support their fellow athletes. When you’re an athlete who can devote all your time and energy to the simple pursuit of covering standardized distances on foot as fast as possible, doing so without having to worry about money can be a huge advantage -- and any money won is life-changing. $1,000 goes a lot farther in East Africa than it does back in the States.
As much as we like to think of Africa as more primitive or less advanced than us, that’s not actually the case. There exists a much more robust infrastructure to support professional athletes which we’d do well to emulate. Hell, I know that even Kelley works part-time at his local running store in Oregon slinging shoes. And he’s one of the best runners in the country! I guarantee no other Kenyans or Ethiopians (or Japanese, for that matter) are working anything similar.
It’s no wonder the East Africans and Japanese are generally faster and have more depth than the Americans, and it’s no wonder why, in the sixth mile, the lead pack dynamics have shifted. The group is now being paced by two Kenyans and a Japanese athlete. The small American contingent, myself included, run in the rear of the phalanx. It’s not the worst place to be -- tucked into the draft, patiently letting others do the mental and physical work -- but it’s also not a position of confidence. Understandable that I would be in such a position, but it doesn’t bode well that my countrymen are in the same spot, especially after two of them had been leading for most of the first half hour of the race.
***
I had just wrapped up my version of the infamous Michigan workout on the school track: one mile in 4:48, straight into another tempo-paced mile in 5:17, then shifting into a 3:32 1200m, followed by a 5:14 mile, 2:19 800m, one more 5:10 mile, and a final 67 second 400m. Six miles of alternating pace running without standing or jogging rest. No, those “tempo” miles were supposed to be “rest.” My general training philosophy is that, since you don’t get to rest during a race, why practice it in a workout? This may be a slightly unconventional approach, but with three weeks to go until my goal race for that fall, it had me excited about the possibilities.
I was cooling down around the infield, dodging the occasional stray soccer ball, when the Amelia started jogging with me. A few of the runners were still hanging around, but it looked like practice was officially over and most had left.
“You know, you can come say ‘Hi’ to us anytime, we won’t bite,” she said. “Well, except maybe Murray. That kid has some ADHD issues and he’s strange even for a Freshman.”
“Oh,” was all I could reply, a little out of it after the workout. I might have run a little harder than I had planned.
“Actually,” I gathered myself after a few seconds, “I should be subbing here sometime in the next couple weeks. You were right to mention that opportunity.”
“That’s great news! I told you so.”
She held out her fist for me to bump in celebration.
“So how much mileage did you end up doing today?” She asked.
“Six miles for the workout.”
“All continuous? No rest?”
“That’s right. I hate resting; it just makes the workout unnecessarily longer.”
“That’s a pretty killer way of working out. Surely you have a half marathon coming up?”
“I do, in about three weeks.”
“So have you thought about going for Olympic Trials standard?”
“I won’t lie, running sub-1:05 has been in the back of my mind.”
“Do it. The qualifying window it just about over, and with another month to the marathon it makes for a nice little springboard.”
“You have this all worked out, don’t you?”
“I have a couple former teammates going after it, that’s why I’m so invested.”
“Are you chasing it?”
“Me? Heck no. My racing days are over.”
A slight pause in the conversation as a soccer ball streaks in front of us.
“Say,” Amelia continues, “I think I figured out where I recognized you from.”
“Really? Where?”
“NCAA Regionals in Austin. Last May. You ran the 10,000m?”
“Wow. Yeah. I did.”
“I thought so. You were the odd one wearing sunglasses in an evening race. Or badass, I’m not sure which one.”
“Probably mostly odd. That was a rough day for me. And they’re prescription lenses, I can’t see very well without them.”
“Well, that makes sense.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize you.”
“No that’s normal. I was in the stands that weekend, cheering on teammates. My college career was done by then.”
“Ah, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. One final hurrah, you know?”
I was done with my cooldown and we had stopped running by that point.
“Well, don’t let me keep you from whatever else you have to do,” she said. “It was nice jog with you, and any time you’d want to run with the team we’d love to have you!”
***
The sixth mile is our slowest one yet at 5:10, thankfully. The pack remains largely unchanged; I’m still hanging in the back with the rest of the American contingent. I think I’m in about 13th place? 30:27 total time gone and only twenty more miles to go. Yikes.
**********
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