I started running when I was 12 years old because those who joined the cross-country team received a varsity letter, whether they competed on the varsity squad or not. It was an awkward exercise in vanity, but it was good conditioning for basketball season.
On the court I played with every ounce of wit I could muster, but I knew my first step would never be quick enough to play in college. My muscles are hardwired for endurance, not explosion.
I entered high school and grew tall and lean. And I started to get good at running. Before my sophomore year, I trained over 50 miles per week in preparation for cross-country season. All summer, I slept with the words “All State” taped to the footboard of my bed. I visualized the podium in my dreams at night. I quit playing basketball so I could focus on my goal.
I didn’t begin to discover my charm until I was about 16. When you’re in high school, you take yourself pretty seriously, because every minute of your day is an exercise in social development. Those long runs were cathartic, because I believed the harder and longer I ran, the more I could purge myself of insecurities. Through athletic and academic success, I would prove that I was worthy.
The first race I won, it was because I made a decision to take the lead and never look back. By the third mile of the 5k, my closest competitor was 300 yards behind. I gave it all I had left.
Every high school runner worshipped Prefontaine because he was a runner of marginal talent. He was the embodiment of mental toughness. He milked every ounce out of what God gave him. I worshipped Prefontaine because I ran every race like he did. I didn’t have the finishing speed to sit on the leader’s heels and surge with that final kick. My only hope was to go out as fast as I could and simply hold on.
During my junior year, I injured my knee and began to focus more on hanging out and being popular. I never ended up running in college or placing all-state again.
Steve Prefontaine crashed his car while driving home from a party late one night. He was 24 years old. In the movies, right before that inevitable denouement, he’s painted as plotting out the 400-meter splits he would need to win the 5k in the 1976 Olympics.
I’m 27 years old now. The reason I still run is because I can’t look at a picture of Pre without literally feeling it in my blood; without viscerally feeling my lungs burning, lactic acid building, my legs unable to maintain gait. It’s also why I’m still so goddamned competitive. To beat me, you’re going to have to prove you’re stronger.
That sophomore season, I received a recruiting letter from Yale. Maybe I should’ve kept it on my desk a little longer.
