The narrator pushes through self-doubt at the cross-country Junior Olympics
I am standing on an open field with Anna, Bea, and Eva, and I am seriously wondering how I got here. If someone had told me a few months ago that my cross-country running season would end this way, I don’t think I would have believed them. Not only because we are in Texas, not only because this is national ranking, but because I never would have thought that I could accomplish so much in one season. I should be more confident, but really I am just nervous.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Katie had said after her race. Oh sure, there’s only 347 other girls with us, all either 11 or 12, all preparing to run 3 km. If that’s not a big deal, I don’t know what is.
But then again, all I’m doing is putting one foot in front of another, for at most thirteen minutes. So why am I so anxious? I haven’t always had nerves. Maybe it’s because it’s important to me. Maybe it’s because there has been so much talk about this race. It is Junior Olympics, after all: I’ve had to make it through two qualifying races to get here. Maybe it’s because I know it will be hard.
There’s no pressure, I tell myself. All I have to do is try my best. This does not reassure me. Because trying my best means starting as fast as everybody else— which is definitely faster than I’d like—and finishing even harder. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know that I’ve done all the training I needed to to get here, that I’m fit enough. But I still wonder, can I get myself to do it?
We start our warm-up strides, one foot in front of the other, arms from ear to hip, ear to hip. We jog back. Do it again. Anna continues to repeat the same three words she’s been saying ever since we got to the airport yesterday: “This is it!” On the sidelines, hundreds of parents, coaches, grandparents, siblings, and volunteers are making a general ruckus. The sky is cloudy but the air is humid. Personally, I do not find this pleasant weather for cross-country. It’s so muggy I’m already sweating a little.
As we are coming back from one of our strides, another team of racers from our section comes and takes our place on the line. Darn. Now I have to stand behind a racer from Mount Diablo Heat. Eva is the only one to stand firmly on the line and claim her territory. Of all the people I couldn’t be less surprised—she is easily the fastest runner on Oakland Cubs, as well as one of the fastest in our section, and people know it. That’s another thing I didn’t think I could accomplish: I can run with someone who can run an eleven-minute 3K.
Two race officials come past us with a camera to wave to. I have to stand on tippy toes so that my mom, who is watching from home, will be able to see me. We finish one last set of strides before the official tells us to step up to the line (or in my case, runner-who-stole-my-spot-on-the-line’s shoe). Anna says “This is it!” one last time before everything goes quiet. All I can think is, Oh gosh. This really is it.
The race official speaks into a megaphone: “Racers on your marks” (as if anybody else should be on their marks). I hunch my back a little and put one arm by my waist and the other by my chin. The next command will be the pow! of the gun, and it is only mere seconds away. The suspense is terrible. My nerves stay with me until the very last moment, but as the anticipated pow! goes off they all disappear, replaced by a thought: all I can do now is to focus and keep an eye on Anna and Bea. If I can stay with them, I’ll know I’ve started fast enough. I am presently lost in a sea of multicolored singlets. The ponytails of the racers in front of me swing from side to side, showing off shiny ribbons. We have ribbons in our ponytails as well, blue and silver ones. The loud pound of footsteps mixes with the uproar of the crowd. Focus. Relax. Those are the two magic words, I’ve found. The rest will do itself.
It’s a fast start, one of the things I’ve been working on this season. It’s quicker than I’m comfortable with, but this is better than having to make up for it later, Andrea says. The challenge now is, can I keep it up?
We come to the end of the first stretch and turn right as the noise from the crowd dies away. I’m doing my best not to go too close to the inside, where I could be trampled to death, or to the outside and having to make up those extra meters later. The amount of people doesn’t make this easy, though, because everybody is trying to do the Exact. Same. Thing.
This is a pretty flat course, all grass. They must not have had very much space to work with, because we go back and forth a lot. There are a lot of bushes and some small trees. Fences mark the course on some stretches, and there are occasional pillars indicating the distance. The grass is damp and the air is still as muggy as ever, but I don’t really seem to mind the heat. As a matter of fact, not very many things seem to bother me, and I am surprised at how alert I am.
We come to a stretch that goes in the opposite direction of the field we started on. On the side, a bunch of excited parents are yelling, all trying to be heard by their kids. If it wasn’t for the fence that separated us from them, they’d probably all flow in like a flood. I can’t hear my dad over the ruckus, probably because he knows I don’t like to hear people yell at me when I run, but I can see him. He’s wearing his orange Oakland Turkey Trot shirt and blue sunglasses. He smiles and snaps a picture of me. The noise dies away just as fast as it came up, and the soundscape goes back to utter silence except for the pounding of cross-country spikes on grass and heavy breathing.
I can’t help but worry that I won’t be able to accelerate. What if I can’t do it?
I must have passed Bea at some point, because I can’t see her, and Anna isn’t that far ahead. I am following my plan, which is simple: all I have to do is stay relaxed and keep the same pace until the only uphill. From there, it’s a long straightaway until the finish, where I hope to pick up my speed. I couldn’t have chosen anything simpler, but I can’t help but worry that I won’t be able to accelerate. What if I can’t do it?
To my surprise, I end up passing Anna as well. She mumbles a few words of encouragement, but I don’t respond because I need to focus on the hill that now stretches ahead of me. I’ve only passed Anna once before. She is a very fast runner. When Andrea first told me to try to stick with her at the beginning of the season, it seemed impossible. She was, of course, a few minutes faster than me and a year older. But you know, never say never. I keep running, and my breath thickens, giving me the horrible sticky spit feeling in my mouth. My arms are sore from the lactic acid, but I stay confident and remind myself that this is all normal. I can make it. Hopefully.
We come up to the hill and I realize that I had all the right to be nervous because the finish line is really far away and this is no story of the finishing stretch being shorter when you actually run the race. It is just really long and there is nothing you can do about it.
I’m worried. Can I actually speed up for this? I remind myself that it is perfectly normal to feel like this. Finishing hard has always been in my race plan, regardless of how fast I start. It’s just hard to get yourself to do it. I’ll accelerate in chunks, I tell myself. This is just a bit too far to be sprinting.
I wish they could at least give you the illusion that you are getting closer, because it feels like I’m running on a treadmill with a picture of the finish line in front of me. I pass a lot of people, however, and the crowd is constantly changing. It gets harder and harder to keep running properly. Whenever I try to speed up, I feel dizzy and my technique gets sloppy. Then, my brain kicks in: I can’t make it. But I can! Yeah right. There’s only like 3,000 hundred meters left. But it will all be done sooner if I just run my fastest.
It’s not.
After a few moments that feel like an eternity with my head spinning and my legs feeling like they are going to fall off, I stagger across the line. My heart beats like crazy, my face is hot and pink, and I feel dizzy.
It’s over, I keep saying to myself, not quite believing it.
I walk through the tent, which is full of racers, officials, and empty chairs all lined up in neat rows. An official hands me a blue Gatorade, fresh breeze flavor— who knew a breeze could have a flavor?
Only a few moments later, Anna comes across the line. She tells me that her mind got ahead of her. Usually I would say something comforting, but I’m distracted. My dad is patiently waiting outside the tent, and I go and meet him. He doesn’t say much, mainly smiles. We walk back to the team tent. I’m proud of myself. Maybe it’s because I came in 153rd. Maybe it’s because I just did something that required fitness and a whole lot of training. Maybe it’s because I did it even if I was nervous. Maybe it’s because it wasn’t easy. Maybe it’s because I really did do my best.
