What I Learned from Running, Part III

So, all week that spring of 1975 I knew that I'd at last have a good chance to win a race.  I had already run PRs (personal records) in the 2-mile, getting down to around 10:00, so was running much better than I ever had before.  All that stood in the way of my crossing the finish line  first was the cocky sophomore who had spent most of the winter playing basketball while I was out in the wind in the cold putting in my 50 miles of base training a week.

In the days before the race, though, I made what might have been a critical error.  Whereas I was a very methodical runner, Jeff ran more on adrenaline.  He was highly competitive.  So I would have been wise to tell him that I didn't think I had much of a chance against his talent, that he was obviously the superior runner.  But of course I was too proud to do that.  Instead I told him that he'd go out fast, I'd hang with him, then I'd break him on the third lap.  So Jeff was fired up to prove me wrong, not, as I had hoped, intimidated by my superior experience and strategic acumen.

But when the race finally came, it looked like my strategy was working.  Jeff wasn't able to just run away from me.  He took off pretty fast, but I stayed in contact, tucked in behind him for two laps despite the rising pain.  As we crossed the start/finish line for lap three, I shot ahead and pushed the pace as I had told him I would, doing my best to break him as he had tried to break me.  But he stayed right with me, and one lap later, with one lap to go, 440 yards, he shot past me.

So, it was time for Plan B: Hang on his heels and then outkick him.  I was really hurting, but I was a faster sprinter than he was, and I often passed people in the last couple of hundred yards of a race.  So I hung with him and was right on his shoulder with half a lap to go and thought the race was mine.  The prospect of passing him and winning the race started to override the burning sensation in my legs.  So I got right on his shoulder as we went around the curve, then swung out into the second lane as we came onto the final 100 yards and started to sprint.

And Jeff just pulled away from me.  There was nothing I could do about it.  He crossed the finish line with his hands held high, his head thrown back.  I crossed, dejected, a couple of seconds later, with a PR of 10 seconds, having run what my coach would soon describe as the best race of my life, staggered to the grassy infield and started retching, the taste of defeat and vomit bitter in my mouth.