There I was, hunched over a plastic trash can behind the team tent, arms gripping the rim tightly. I waited to hurl my guts — a common experience for distance runners. But nothing came. No vomit. Just tears. They hit the bottom of the trash can one by one, quiet but full of everything I’d been carrying. Not pain. Not defeat. Joy. Pure, overwhelming joy. Because in that moment, I felt it — all the early mornings, the miles, the workouts, the setbacks — they had finally paid off. My race was done, and I had run the best I ever had.
My mom always said she knew I’d be a runner, but growing up, that didn’t seem likely. I played the usual sports — baseball, soccer, basketball — and loved to compete. Over time, soccer became my focus. I made the jump from AYSO to club in fourth grade and was known for my nonstop energy on the field. Even in middle school, cross country was just supposed to be my fall sport. I played school soccer and volleyball in winter and spring, plus club soccer year-round. I only signed up for cross country because I knew I was good — and I liked to win.
But I didn’t like running. I thought it was boring, not nearly as fun as kicking a ball or spiking one. Still, I was talented enough to place 7th at a competitive league final as a seventh grader. That was enough to convince me to try high school cross country — after a year of sitting on the couch playing video games. I figured it’d be like middle school all over again. I assumed I’d be one of the best guys on the team right away.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. The same runners I used to beat easily were now sophomores — and miles ahead of me. That’s also when I met the man who would change not just my running career, but my life: Coach Sharpe.
That first summer practice was a whirlwind. There were so many new terms — mileage, PVA, threshold, tempo — I was completely lost. But my teammates had my back. They guided me through workouts longer and harder than anything I’d done before, helping me through every rep. They taught me how to build mileage gradually, how to stay healthy, and how to train with purpose.
Most importantly, they introduced me to a team culture built on hard work and earned results — something more genuine and motivating than anything I’d experienced in other sports. It felt simple: the more you put in, the more you got out. Progress was visible, earned. And I wasn’t alone — I had a group of guys willing to grind through every rep alongside me, breathless and determined.
But I can’t say I was fully hooked until our annual Big Bear trip that summer. It was the perfect mix: canoe races and sand sculpture contests balanced by brutal workouts like the 40 ’40 and our infamous hilly long run. That’s where I really saw what this team was about — the joy, the challenge, the grit. Whether it was playing endless basketball games or finishing my longest run ever on the last day, something clicked. On the bus ride home, I knew: I didn’t just want to run in the fall. I wanted to run track in the spring.
My entire freshman year was a blast. As I got more training under my belt, I slowly climbed the depth chart, eventually finishing the season as the team’s 8th man — just missing a spot in the varsity seven. But even as an alternate, I got to travel to all the postseason meets. I experienced the energy of high-stakes racing and supported the guys who had welcomed me so warmly. I knew my time was coming.
Coming into sophomore year, expectations had changed. I was no longer the new kid — I was expected to be a key contributor to a strong team. Things started off great. I was hitting my highest mileage ever and broke the 16-minute in the 5k barrier at Woodbridge, the biggest high school invitational in the country. It was the second-fastest time on our team — and a breakthrough moment for me.
But then things started to unravel. I was still playing club soccer, and the schedule was starting to wear me down. Two soccer games, a cross country race, and a long run — all on the same weekend — left me physically drained. I started getting dropped in workouts. My momentum stalled. Then came my slowest race of the season right during mission league finals, right when my team needed me, and it showed how far off track I’d gotten.
As we began our peaking phase and dropped mileage, I finally started to feel better — lighter legs, sharper focus. But right when I felt ready again, I got sick. At CIF Finals, I placed dead last. 117th. It was the lowest point of my running career.
That race forced me to make one of the hardest decisions of my life: quitting the club soccer team I’d played on since fourth grade and captained for years. But I knew it was time. I was all in on running. I couldn’t let another season end like that.
Starting my junior year, I was determined to turn things around. I embraced higher mileage, peaking at 65 miles during track season. I just simply had more motivation and wanted it more than anything.
By senior year, I had become a captain. I led by example, pushing myself to 75-mile weeks and incorporating double workouts four to five times a week. We added double threshold sessions, and I saw my fitness reach new heights. The guys I had been chasing for years were now my training partners. We pushed each other, shared the grind, and celebrated the progress together. It was an amazing feeling.
This final season has been my breakthrough, but it’s the culmination of steady progress since freshman year. The setbacks, the lessons, the miles — they’ve all led me here.
When I reflect on my journey, I owe much of my growth to the runners who came before me. They set a standard of dedication and discipline that defined our team culture. Without their example, I might never have discovered my passion for running. Now, as a seasoned member of the team, I strive to uphold and elevate those expectations. High mileage weeks are the norm, not the exception. Doubling isn’t just encouraged — it’s expected. And double threshold workouts on late-start days have become a shared challenge we embrace together. This culture of commitment and camaraderie is our legacy, one that I hope I have passed on to the next generation of runners.
