In fourth grade, my mom signed me up for Cross Country. I hated it. I thought I was league bound in basketball, and wanted to focus on that instead. In my first ever race, my coach told me it was okay if I had to walk, so I did for most of the race. It was in a pretty nice park, so my friend and I walked and chatted, trying to make the best of a pretty terrible situation. That walk was the best part of the race. I didn’t want anything to do with running, and this persisted into that year’s track season that followed my dream sport, basketball. I kept at it for the next few years, but really I just did it as something to do in between basketball seasons. I never found passion in running, but my mom kept signing me up for it. Some of the races turned out to be at least somewhat bearable, but frankly what I liked best about those sweltering cross country meets were the ice pops my friends and I would devour once we got to the finish. We competed in some track meets on high school tracks that started right after school but finished long into the dark of night, but again, it was mainly just fun to hang out with my friends, goof off together in the middle of the field and maybe get some fast food for dinner afterwards. But running itself? Definitely not for me.

It wasn’t until the school’s team retreat the summer before my freshman year when the spark was ignited. Though I did participate in middle school cross country and track, I didn’t really love it. I didn’t even want to go on the retreat. I hardly knew any of the people on the team, and I just couldn’t imagine wasting a whole week of my summer to just run. Something changed in me on that trip though. I’m still not sure what exactly it was, but as soon as the trip ended, I was absorbed into the team’s culture almost immediately. I even got a bit better at running and made some friends. In the ensuing years, interest turned into obsession, which turned into 70 mile weeks, which turned into three workouts a day and an undying hunger.

Coming into my junior year, I was coming off the best block of training I had ever had. Zero missed days, consistent undisrupted training and eyes on the school three mile cross country record of 14:52. After a few rust buster races, I lined up at the Woodbridge Invitational, the biggest meet in the country. Heart pounding with both uncertainty and determination, the gun goes off. I’m executing the race like I had in practice dozens of times before, throwing elbows against two hundred other bodies as I fight for my position. The first mile comes and goes. I’m off from the pace I should be. The second mile finishes. Better than mile one. The record is within range now. I crossed the line. Stopped for a second, and looked back at the timer. I see 14:52 come and go. The record was now mine.

After breaking the school record as a junior, I was on cloud nine. I was unstoppable, the happiest I had ever been. After a long night that continued into the morning, I laced up my shoes for yet another training run. Exhausted and still flying high from the previous night, I wearily set out to run 11 miles. At mile nine, the cement had other plans for me. I tripped and fell, tasting the dusty Brentwood road beneath me. I split my chin open, oozing blood. And of course I still had to run two miles back to my house. After shamefully shuffling home, I got several layers of stitches in my chin; but even with this big gash, the only thing on my mind was how I was going to complete my workout the next day.

After an underwhelming and unfulfilling end to my junior cross country season, I knew I had something to prove during track. With recruitment weighing heavily on my mind, every race felt like a full college application. Ironically, this pressure took away from my academics, as I would often forfeit work or
studying in return for that extra hour of sleep or extra recovery. I forced myself to believe that mere seconds on the clock decided my future, so I trained like it. I left the season with solid times, but still wanted to go much faster. I was getting ghosted by college coaches left and right, feeling lost and confused.

Coming into senior year, the pressure felt different. I was now a team captain, a leader on the team with the eyes of the younger classes set on me. I had become the runners I had looked up to when I was a freshman and sophomore, and needed to set an example and cement a legacy, not only with fast times, but with the right attitude and motivation to bring the team together as a unit and mentor the next generation of team leaders. In one of the first meets of the season, I was able to chip 30 seconds off my previous school record, and run a nationally ranked time of 14:18.

Looking back on my previous seasons, my biggest fear wasn’t injury, being slow or even splitting my chin open. My biggest fear was plateauing, failing to improve or give my best every time I lined up. Giving up wasn’t an option, not only for me, but for them. Maybe the pressure I put on myself as a senior wasn’t different from junior year after all. Looking back though, most people looking at my journey
through this sport would see it as sunshine and rainbows, having no major injuries, blowups or atrocious performances as many others had. Despite the ups and downs I personally faced, with the sport often seeming like anything but a utopia, I always was able to look forward to practice at the end of the day for one reason: getting to run with my brothers for yet another day. Such a simple sport, putting one foot in
front of the other, yet we all showed with our own complex goals and desires, uniting in the shared struggle of everyone’s least favorite activity. From the leaders who came before me, instilling unforgettable values and creating my love for the sport, to the younger runners who I could be a leader for, I wouldn’t trade my athletic experience for anything.