Excerpt

Most of our meets were held at night in order to give the wind time to calm down. When you have meets in April and May, this can mean some rather cool, if not downright freezing, nights. Lets just say those thin silk shorts and skeleton tops did nothing to keep out the cold. I can remember competing in the snow on several different occasions. In any case, just before that first meet, Coach Underwood, in response to concerns he had received over the years from other coaches, had decided to have an asphalt pad installed in the take-off area for the high jump. We were all surprised to show up that first night to find this change in our area, but really thought nothing of it. That is until I took my first practice jump. The instant I planted my left foot I knew I was in trouble. The resulting pain that shot up my leg put me right to the ground. I thought I had broken my leg, but that was not the case. I had suffered what is commonly known as a shin splint, but in reality is actually a painful strain of the muscles of the lower leg. The painful part was accurate enough, thats for certain. Each step I took reminded me I was in big trouble.

That first track meet was a harbinger of things to come. I did poorly in both the high jump and broad jump. My debut as a middle-distance runner was not too successful, either. A trip to the doctor confirmed what Coach Underwood had already told me. The only cure for a shin splint was to rest the affected area. Great! That wasnt going to happen anytime soon, so I just had to live with the situation and do what I could do in my events in spite of the injury.

In reality, the injury to my left leg may have inspired me to run my best race ever. About the third or fourth meet, our competition included the best 880 runner in the conference according to his past and current times in the event. On that fateful evening, Coach Underwood pointed out this guy and told me I had to stay on his shoulder at all times and never, but never, fall any distance behind him. That all sounded simple enough until the starting gun sounded and this thoroughbred took off at a pace I knew would have me gasping at about 220. Actually, I was so pumped up, I easily, I thought, kept right on his shoulder as instructed by Coach Underwood. As we approached 440, the original starting line, he was in the lead, and I looked like his Siamese twin. Coach had warned me to be ready for a breakout at 440, and sure enough, once there he took off at a pace which soon enough had both of us some distance ahead of the other runners. My lungs felt the change immediately, and by 660, I could feel the coffin lid slamming closed. I had hit the wall as they say, and could not see myself even finishing the race much less keeping up with him. We were on the back straight-a-way where there were never any spectators, but for some reason, I heard one of my teammates yell out some encouragement. I knew I somehow had to get to that final 120-yard mark to have any chance, and the words from my teammate urging me on were just what it took for me to hang with my competitor as we entered the final turn.

Many runners do not like running on a turn, but I never found it bothersome. On the contrary, I always felt as if I was running faster on a turn than on a straight-a-way. I guess it was the centrifugal force giving me the illusion of actually moving faster than I was. In any case, we both came spinning out of that final turn; all of a sudden, I was feeling pretty darn good, and my spikes had good purchase to drive me along. I leaned into that final turn, kicked it up a notch and started to gain on him. It was now or never. This, of course, was totally unacceptable to him, and he immediately turned on his own afterburners. I had come too far to let this guy beat me now. At about 80 yards from the finish, I lost all sense of hearing and only noticed the labored action of my own lungs and the sound of my spikes digging into the crunchy black cinders underfoot. I was in my own zone and on autopilot. At about 20 yards from the finish, I could sense drawing even with him, but my tank went dry. The last 15 20 yards were completed with whatever my red blood cells had picked up at 20 yards. We crossed the line together, I thought, but as I stumbled down the track desperately trying to suck in more air than my lungs could possibly hold, I noted the finish-line string hanging on my silk top.

I had to go back to the finish line to see if indeed I had won that race or had simply picked up the string after he had stopped. The look on Coach Underwoods face told me all I needed to know. That kid was a gracious loser and shook my hand. The look on his face, however, told me all I needed to know: he would never let me beat him again. When I took time to run the race over again in my mind, I could come up with only one possible reason for winning that race: I had experience in sprints and knew how to finish a race at the tape. I had assumed a sprinters posture at the end rather than maintain a runners posture at the tape. As a result, I caught the string and he didnt. I was pleased.