Running the B Team

Life was always a challenge to me, whether it was school work or physical effort I would try the best I could. I guess that is what made me, well, me. I started out running not as a means to become better than anyone else, I started running because I was doing just that, running away. Not really running away physically, but rather running from my fears, from my problems, and from myself. Each run was, in a since, a challenge to me. It made me feel better about my faults as a person after I was done. It didn’t matter that my stride was short and awkward, it didn’t matter my arms looked stiff and elbows flew, and it didn’t matter that I would stare at the ground when I needed to push forward, I still was running.
I ran because I wanted time to think more than any other reason. I ran because it cleared my mind and I could clearly think about where I wanted to go in life. When I would run for long distances I would rarely get tired because of the run, I had a way of breaking myself down on those longer runs. My thoughts were not as clear as they once were when running was pure, more than the machine like movements my body adapted to. Running was a way of life. I would let all my pain, all my sorrows, and all my hatred out on a run. I wasn’t like the occasional jogger, I enjoyed the pain. I, in a sense, was a little sadistic. I would sometimes run until tears rolled down my cheeks, till blood ran out of my nose, until the inflammation of my knees would give away, I would run until I was physically drained. I liked the feeling that muscle fatigue gave me. I never had to fight against that feeling of heaviness in the legs. The feeling of my body telling to stop was something I craved all my life.
Racing was something that made me feel awful about myself. I never really had a good race. Just races were I would fall apart and run horribly, slower than some practices. It made me angry because I knew I had all these people judging me as I would finish behind the best. Most of them probably thinking that I didn’t train hard. They knew nothing of my training, they knew nothing of the intensity of my runs, and they knew nothing of my heart. Sure, I had the heart of an Olympian, but the talent of a nobody. But that never stopped me, I never used it as an excuse for my poor racing. There was no excuse. All I knew was that I had to keep on trying to prove everyone wrong and show them that I could become the great runner I knew I could be. All I ever wanted to hear was the sound of the bell lap as I crossed into the final lap of the ten thousand and begin my sprint, leaving the other runners behind. But that’s a dream and this is a reality.
My running wasn’t about getting me anywhere. I was lost in my mind most of the time, not caring about people around. I would be so focused that the sound of people talking to me while running was drained from the environment. I guess you could say I was running in the wind, running blind. And that focus is what made me a great runner, because I was always waiting for the next run, the next practice, the next race, and the next opportunity to become better than I already was. I knew I could become the runner I knew I was at heart, but what would be the costs?