It had been perhaps four years since I ran competitive track and cross- country in college, so my speed on the track was certainly suspect. It was my final year of medical school and when not studying or reading about patient cases in order to avoid being lambasted by my resident or attending, I would be either drinking beer or running long – distance.  In fact, I tried to run a 20 miler at least once a week with several ten milers during the weekdays.  I preferred running in the rain, downpours actually, because for some reason, the soaked singlet and shorts that clung to my shivering skin forced me to run longer and harder, almost like nothing could stop me.  Nasty snowstorms were even better it seemed, and the redder my face was in the driving snow, and the more icicles dangling from my snotty nose the better I felt when I returned to my apartment, spent with a feeling of accomplishment and invincibility.  But I didn’t do much speed work on the track at all.  That’s why to this day, I can’t fathom why I entered an invitational club race for the mile.  I wanted to run the mile again, just to see what I could do with these younger college-aged speedsters.  Not that I was that old mind you, but I really had no business entering the race.  Clearly, I was at high risk of being embarrassed.  But then, it was an indoor race, on a 220-yard track, with a large audience in the stands, and I remembered that for some reason I tended to over-achieve indoors, and in fact, was never defeated in my career indoors.  I had my share of devastating defeats outdoors however.  But then, who cares anymore..

I did my warm up stretches followed by about a mile jog on the track, and I soaked up the feeling of closeness the spectators provided while they occupied the front stretch stands near the starting line.  No one knew who I was, yet each club team had its favorite runner entered in the mile and their fan clubs were loud as hell.  Damn, you’d think it was a football game or something, not a stupid track meet with a bunch of skinny guys who could run.  I was certainly impressed by the amount of female spectators up in the stands, and I appreciated that they dressed appropriately with short shorts and halter-tops.  Very unusual occurrence for a track meet, but I would learn in a few minutes why they were cheering for one guy.

After the first call for the mile, I could see who my competition was and I studied them.  They all had flashy club uniforms on and waved to their friends in the crowd as they did their final half-sprints during warm-ups.  I wore gray shorts and a plain white singlet, but the important thing was that I was wearing my sky blue Onitsuka Tiger indoor track shoes.  No other piece of apparel mattered. After the second call, we all came to the starting line and the nervousness accelerated while we waited to line up at the starting line.   Next to me was a guy waving to the crowd and the girls kept yelling at him:  “Do it again Kenny, blow’em all away like you always do.”  Interesting.  This guy must be quite the stud.  Then, the public address announcer directed the crowd’s attention to the scoreboard, and flashed the current track record for the mile run.  He said, “Ladies and Gentleman, we have on our track the three-time defending champion in the mile and indoor record holder, Kenny Smith.”  He stepped off the starting line and stood in front of me, waved to the crowd and came back next to me.  When the crowd quieted, we were seconds from the gun, and this Kenny guy looked at me, pointed to the scoreboard and said, “I’m going to break that record tonight.”  I had enough of the pompous pretty boy shit and said, “Go f..k yourself.”  Then the gun went off.

It was eight laps to the mile and Kenny jumped out quick and stayed several strides behind the leader at the first lap. I was about three runners behind him. The pace was blistering.  After the second lap, the rabbit fell off the pace while Kenny took over the lead, much to the excitement of the crowd.  But I stayed within striking distance, running third.  After the initial “feeling out” of the pace wore off, I could feel my stride loosening up and and my legs just wanted to accelerate and just grab the track and chew it up.  I just felt it.   I moved up to second after lap four and we were under record pace.  Kenny’s hands were starting to clench and I knew with only three and a half laps to go he was feeling the strain.  But for some reason, I had become one with my Onitsuka’s and they were just barely touching the track as I picked up the pace and purposely ran right on Kenny’s shoulder, breathing down his neck.  I knew this would intimidate him, but I was feeling so good, I was confident I could outkick him or for that matter anyone if I timed it right.  So I blew by him with a burst of acceleration and within several seconds I had put ten yards between myself and the crowd favorite and with only two laps to go, the crowd was now on their feet screaming.  I felt the power and the energy of the crowd and nothing mattered to me in life at that moment except destroying Kenny and the record.  At the bell lap, I continued to accelerate and was in an all out sprint for the last lap winning the invitational mile race in record time, apparently a half-lap in front of Kenny.

After I crossed the finish line, completely exhausted, hands on my knees and bent over heaving with precious breaths, the scoreboard flashed the new mile record, and the announcer broadcast the new record holder to the crowd and they cheered me, not Kenny.

I walked alone out of the stadium with my medal, and a deep satisfaction that is hard to describe, even to this day.  I came back to my apartment, took a shower, and then opened my books to study with a smile of satisfaction.  You see, I had no business running that race with those guys because they were much better trained than I was.  But the lesson it taught me was that the mind can make up for less physical talent when the will is there.

SRC