In the mile, the first three steps take on more importance than they would over it’s metric brother- the 1500m. Why? The mile begins on a curve, meaning that all who start will be bolting for the inside lane- often resulting in contact filled with elbows, spikes, and the occasional fall.
Within the first two steps, I knew that my reaction to the gun has been too slow. I watched as the runners as crashed into each other, sorting themselves out over the first bend. We flew into the first backstretch, and I settled in the rear of the field, feeling that the pace was plenty fast for my liking. Attempting to float, I found myself in lane two around the second bend, running extra yards. The field was quite crowded, and the atmosphere had put the milers in a state of aggression.
We were going for it tonight.
Relax… relax… nothing matters here… let them have their fun… be patient….
I looked ahead at the leaders screaming out of the final bend- tight on the rabbit- still burning on adrenaline.
Up the home stretch, I remained in contact, 15 meters down, trying to go into cruise-control. I looked and listened, but failed to see our first lap split. The noise was deafening but through it all I heard a shriek:
“57 lads!”
We entered the second lap… the announcer singing his approval, attempting to get the crowd into it.
These Irish enthusiasts needed no form of stimulation. They were already as entranced as we were.
Around another bend, the pack moved along. I noticed several familiar faces in front, but also many who were unfamiliar. The pre-race hype had succeeded in guaranteeing a fast race. I had finally found the rail, but found myself in a constant state of stop and go. The crowded field was continually shifting as the runners entered the first waves of fatigue. It would only get worse from here.
I was comfortable but unsure of my status. It was impossible to judge the strength of the others in a race so short. I went back to focusing on the pace, knowing that if I came through the bell in 3:00, I could run a thrilling final circuit…. IF I had the legs…
To the cheers of the crowd, the pack of a dozen men flew through the halfway point…
1:58…1:59…2:00…
That’s fine Jordan, that’s fine… just stay attached, keep burning through the seconds…get ready, get ready, get ready…
The rabbit- spent from a fantastic effort- pulled off, leaving the milers were left with two laps of racing. I continued to bide my time as the front pack begun to contract as each runner began to accept the pain and prepare for the all-important final lap.
At a thousand meters, the thinking began. Caught in traffic, I was forced to stop and go as runners- who had let the early commotion take them off too-quickly- began to fade towards the rear. Stepping to the right, I moved in lane two, around an Irish runner, and to the rear of the main pack of roughly ten men.
I monitored my fatigue, attempting to get a feel for what I had left. The preliminaries had been negotiated, some with better luck than others. Regardless of whatever fortune had occurred early on, there would soon be one lap to run, and with that, the race would truly begin.
At long last, after three laps of positioning, jostling, and pain, we passed the finish line for the penultimate time…
2:59…3:00…3:01
Think Jordan think, pay attention and start to line it up… you can win…you can win… there’s still time…
The crowd erupted as the bell sounded, flooding adrenaline into both runner and spectator…
I was giddy now. There was no pain. I could feel the power in me, urging me to fly, to absolutely scream away! Thirty meters ahead, the milers began to wind it up, each attempting to shift into the gear-box, looking for speed, speed, and more speed.
I was completely lost in it, racing on what I can only describe as pure instinct. Rounding the first bend, I swung into lane 2 and felt it:the backward, forceful flick of the arm, the high horizontal knee drive, the forward lean- carefully honed products, resulting in acceleration!
I heard the announcer, yelling frantically as I shot past a handful of milers, streaking into the backstretch,
Sixth… Fifth.. Fourth…. yes Jordan, that’s it….YES… MORE MORE MORE!!!!!
I was watching myself from a place far away, moving the chess pieces, setting it up like I had before.
With 300 meters remaining, I had abandoned 4-minute-pace. Without even knowing it, my will to win had launched me into uncharted waters. Striding freely into the final 200, I split a gap on the inside, taking me past the Australian national champ over 800 meters.
I felt my body acting on it’s own accord. I was the passenger, watching as my legs covered ground, carrying around that final bend, magnetically pulling me towards the leader’s shoulder.
Four meters…three… two… YES YES YES!!!!!!!! COME ON COME ON COME ONNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The final tactics had been played perfectly. The thinking was done. I simply had to run that final straight-away as fast as I could. After all the commotion, I pulled onto the right shoulder of the leader, having somehow lined it up perfectly. My heart was soaring as I mentally captured it- the crowd screaming, the Irish sky, the empty eight lanes of mondo surface in front of me… I could have smiled right then and there…
Unable to hide my joy, I crossed the finish line, having prevailed in a lifetime best- a time that six months ago would have been self-described as damn near impossible:
3:56.82
On that still Irish night,over half a dozen men dipped under the magical 4 minute barrier.
Later on, I slowly circled the infield, watching as the setting sun displayed fiery hues of orange and red… I was trying to come to grips with it all, and though it’s still a bit scattered, I’ll never forget that feeling as I roared around that final bend:
Yes, that’s it, THAT”S IT!!! Damn you Jordan!!! You knew you could, but really you did it! You’ve actually done it!!! Now RUN, SPRINT, GO GO GO GO GOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I was sitting inside the warm-up area- beneath the grand-stand- going through my standard pre-race stretches. I had already gone through my usual warm-up jog, feeling hot sweat beneath several layers of clothing. I slowly reached forward, touching the tips of my gently worn shoes, allowing myself to zone out a little…
“All men racing in the Morton Mile, please report immediately!”
The yell of the starter brought me back, causing me to almost jump in an adrenaline-filled panic. These times were always the worst- the storm before the calm. Racing was almost easier than the dread-filled hours before-hand. Thousands of miles spent training affords ample time to think and fantasize, picturing those perfect, distant races that may or may not come to reality. I’ve spent countless hours, visualizing the pace of races, hearing the split as the bell rings, feeling my heart race as I see myself creeping on to the leaders shoulder to enter the final stretch…
I’ve raced more times than I care to remember, and each time brings a different feel. Being 24, I’ve learned to deal with pre-race nerves as best as I can- with a confident, optimistic approach. I remind myself that this is the reward for all the work I’ve put in. Once the gun goes, the fear goes away in an instant, I go into race-time auto-pilot, and the rest takes care of itself… one way or another.
I pulled off damp warm-up attire, exchanging for my green singlet. Next it was on with the feather-weight spikes. The red spikes snugly hugged my feet as I laced up, I felt the prickly feel of goose bumps on my arms.
I’m ready. I’m ready. I’m ready.
I commenced with the final high-knee’s, the short, quick strides, and nimble light-hearted jogging- all for sanity as much as preparation. The other miler’s were here now, all 18 of them, each looking as if they could run forever.
Crowded race Jordan… be careful through the first bend. Don’t do anything stupid.
The final call was made and we were led- single-file- to the outside world. We walked with our heads down, each locked within our own pursuits.
The atmosphere was electric. This mile’s history stretched back through decades, featuring Olympic champions, world-record holders, and legends of the sport. The final introductions were delivered with entertaining charisma by the announcer, who stood- dressed in a business suit- on the infield. I smiled and waved, announced as the “unassuming American”…. whatever that means. In a few short seconds, the hype, buzz, and banter wouldn’t matter. All that would be left to do is to race the symmetrical distance of one mile.
We all waiting, shaking and bobbing, waiting for the agony to be over…
The crowd hushed as the starter slowly raised his arm, bellowing the famed command…
“Gentlemen, on your marks!”
As one, the milers pounced to the line. With a final deep breath, I slowly walked two steps, leaned forward, and waited for the sound that would send us all on our way.
Careful… take your time… careful… ok…here we go, here we go, HERE WE GO JORDAN!!!!!
The few seconds of absolute stillness stretched forever… agonizing fractions of time… stretching on and on and on… until:
CRACK!!!!!
I sat alone on a grass slope, feeling cool ground and Irish grass under my feet. The cool winds, powered by the Atlantic, brushes against my face. I was perfectly content, there, just outside of the red oval, watching the meet enter its closing stages. I had just run the 3000 meter’s at the Cork City Games- a race that represented my first international competition. I entered the race with a shaken level of confidence- the product of an overloaded mind and jet-lag comparable to a hangover felt most within the legs. Despite all of this, I stood on that curved starting line, thinking how unbelievable it was to be on the other side of the world, preparing to run a race.
I tried to take it all in; the lush, green hill sides, unfamiliar landmarks, and outrageously friendly townspeople. I tried to mental snapshots of all that I saw. I had never thought that running circles would give me such experiences. I was in a state of disbelief, unable to really come to grips with it all.
The race itself an adrenaline-charged event, over as quickly as it started.
The crack of the gun erased my doubts and eased my discomfort. In an instant I was entranced, back into The Task itself. Seven and a half times I circled the track, surging and coasting, playing the standard lactic chess with the others. I rallied late and walked away with a feeling of surprise. Sometimes, the legs can remember exact what they need to do. Thank God for that.
The dust settled and I sat on that grassy slope, staring at the 2nd place medal, a great and unexpected beginning to this unreal adventure.
After a long time, I left the track, now nearly empty. I breathed deep into the foreign air, enjoying the walk to my athlete-housing. Moving purposefully slow, I reflected on the race, the sudden trek to uncharted waters, and the past few months that have brought me something special: life in the purest form. Sifting through it all, I laughed out-loud, smiling to the heavens…
I knew it then.
I know it now.
For better or worse, this was meant to be.
-Jordan McNamara
On July 5th, I underwent a surgery that represented my most serious athletic challenge yet. I spent five long months on the shelf, left with time and energy to question myself, explore my doubts, and ultimately, strengthen my resolve. I made a promise to myself to put aside the doubt, the overwhelming uncertainty, all to chase a life worth chasing.
Isn’t that what it’s all about? Finding what gives you life and committing to it for the betterment of both yourself and hopefully, those around you?
I believe so.
I don’t know how far I’ll go with this running thing. A small part of me doesn’t care. At the age of twenty four, the most comforting thought is knowing that I’ll one day be able to look back upon these times when I was so fit, so light, so able, and hold no regret. I’ve wasted little time in my youth. I’ve literally put years of life- thousands and thousands of miles- represented to the public eye only by short periods of concentrated competition. I’ve done this for reasons that even I cannot fully fathom, reasons that are mostly indescribable…
Mostly.
Two nights ago I won a race.
The race itself was of little significance, approached (and executed) with planned accuracy. There were no medals, no trophies, no cash purses to be awarded. I didn’t care. I was curiously excited to feel the mixed bag of race-day sensations, ranging from tear-jerking pre-race nerves to post-race shock, a sort of numbness that occurs when something that takes everything from you gives it all back.
Under a cold, rainy night, I imposed my will into eight minutes of running. I floated through the laps, tranced within the moment. I monitored the tell-tale signs with an elevated alertness. I flew past the mile in 4:16, feeling full of running, waiting for a sudden race-crippling wave of lactic acid, the kind that seizes your entire body, leaving you helpless as you watch your competition dance away.
I had fear, but most importantly, I had prepared. I sometimes forget that races are often decided in the weeks, months, and even years that precede it.
That wave would not come… at least not on this day.
The charged excitement in my mind began to build as the lap counter showed the numbers:
……3….2….1….
In close contact with the leader, I charged into the final lap, splashing through puddles that still held my sweat from workouts done only days before. Down the back-stretch I ran, internalizing the rhythmic clapping that is Hayward Field. All around the final Bowerman Curve I waited and watched the race unfold before my very eyes. After so long, I made it to that last beautiful straight-away, feeling like a Boeing 747 making it’s slow, hair-pin turn before being given the clear throttle up.
Right then and there, I felt a clarity of thought that said one thing:
Remember this…
Instinct took control. With the finish in sight, I moved into lane two and put what I had into it.
Instantly I was free, with a grimace on my face and an uncontrollable grin in my heart…
I can still vividly remember the rubbery feeling against my palms, the crutches that once imprisoned me- stationary and immobile- to the fantasy movements of my imagination. Believe brought me back from that point when all seemed so distant, so unlikely…
I won’t always win and that’s okay. Part of me enjoys not winning, for it reminds me to savor those rare moments of feather-weight immortality. Until the next one, I’ll carry on- thankful as ever- looking for my next opportunity to be like that mechanical bird; to slowly taxi all around that final turn, waiting for the moment to fly away again.
-Jordan McNamara
I’m Jordan McNamara, and I’m a runner.
The past decade of my life has been a journey, a ride that has taken me to places I’d never thought I’d go. As a 15-year-old high school runner, I ran without incentive, killed myself in training, and loved every second of it. To this day, little has changed.
A few weeks ago I sat, cruising along at 30,000 feet, returning from a trip to Los Angeles. The trip was for a Nike global photo-shoot, in which I, along with a select other few, demonstrated the upcoming 2011 clothing line. The experience was eye-opening. 7,000 photos, fifteen miles of running, and amenities that left me speechless. Maybe it was a mix of fatigue, fear of flying, and excitement, but as I sat on that plane, I became overwhelmed with humility.
As a youthful runner, I never would have envisioned myself one day striding along an urban Los Angeles bridge, flanked by police escorts, hearing the constant click, click, click of high-speed camera shutters. To partake in such a once-in-a-lifetime event for the world’s most prestigious sporting brand made an already unforgettable venture adopt dream-like qualities. Route change.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful beyond measure, but this isn’t meant to be the almighty “grand view from the mountain top”.
I’m not a celebrity. Now Charlie Sheen, THAT, my friends, is a celebrity. (sad but very true but that is a different topic for a different time) Back to the point:
I encourage you to sift through my previous blogs. Analyze my messages (as confusing as they are), and try to really buy into what I am saying. I’m simply trying to say that we all have incredible potential. My life is the product of choice, not inheritance. I’m not some freakishly rare person who has repeatedly gotten lucky due to genetic gifts, overflowing riches, or Obama-care. I’m just a runner, who chose a path. I’ve worked as hard as I can; ready to accept the rewards, consequences, and all that fall in between.
Track is almost here; another season filled with opportunity and promise. As a professional athlete, I’ve thrown myself into the soup completely, holding nothing back. I’ve operated without selfish pride because of a self-imposed will to share my “gift”- though I wouldn’t describe it as such, at least not accurately.
My life, and yours even, are a reflection of choices: thousands upon thousands of them that equal the same amount of results- small and large, good and bad, reversible and irreversible.
Even in my youth I made my choice, without ever even realizing it. I ran because I loved it. I run because I love it. In an uncertain world, running has been the unmovable anchor that has filled my life with purpose, satisfaction, and passion.
These blogs are a small attempt to inspire you, yes, YOU, to make your choice, whatever it is.
Search yourself. Pay attention. Get out there and find what you love.
I’m Jordan McNamara. I’m a runner.
What are you?
What a road it’s been.
For those of you who have followed me for the last six months, you have witnessed a comeback that is far from complete. None the less, it’s been a comeback filled with more hope and progress than I could have expected. Despite the several instances of joyful excitement, this road back has been far from perfect.
After cross-training for months, my first few weeks of ground running were filled with tedious, nervous steps. Despite quick progress made through the bike, underwater treadmill, and Alter-G, ground running proved to be a whole different ball game. Often, my first half mile of these runs would be spent favoring my foot, which radiated with an expected soreness that would quickly disappear. In a sense, I literally felt like I was “running on egg shells.”
Every three days I’d go to the track, psych myself up, and start jogging with hopeful optimism that my soreness would forget to show up that day. Why did I continue to run despite some periods of discomfort? If anything, I’d call it faith. Faith in my doctors, faith in my coaches, and faith in myself. Moving through such an injury has been incredibly fascinating to me. With each new run, lift, or exercise, I’d take mental note of every sensation, knowing that such a time, though challenging, tends to teach lessons rarely taught. I’ve always believed that there is no better knowledge than that gained from personal experience.
I knew that my soreness was minor. The fact any adverse symptoms would clear up after a few minutes encouraged me to believe that such symptoms were likely the cause of a lack of strength in an area that had been put through a traumatic operation in combination with an extended period of complete atrophy.
My coaches and I, after much communication and consideration, formulated specific exercises aimed at strengthening my foot- to enable the muscles and tendons to better support the pins locked within the navicular bone. Though nervous, I completely bought in to their words, lifting thousands of pounds of weight per session. Quickly, improvement occurred.
A month later, I am continuing on my journey to whatever greatness may or may not await. Each day I wake up and chip away, working to mold every fiber of me in to a machine of sorts, towards something that can resemble the closest thing to flying without actual lift-off.
Flying and running… words of very different meaning.
To most, at least.
I highly doubt that I’m alone in this theory, but when asked to describe- in one word- what running feels like, my answer would be simple:
Flying.
To exist as a distance runner in the highest state of personal fitness is to achieve a state that brings us closest to our distant winged cousins, from which just maybe- ions ago- we shared genetic ties. To this runner, prone to inquisitivity, there are few acts that offer more appeal, such rapture than the all-powerful feeling of “flight”.
I want to gain unstoppable momentum, all through the final oval, bearing down on those fearful souls ahead with stead fast determination, down that long shrieking back-straight, around the bend, until the Moment of Truth…
I want to come shooting out of that final corner- knees pumping, fists clenched, heart screaming, crowd in complete pandemonium- with fiery blurred spikes. Whether in battle or complete solitude, I live for that pulling feeling of G-force, acceleration in the flesh. Describing such experiences is difficult, comparable to an ocean’s description to one without sight. I love to try.
I can not wait.
Too often, I drift and envision myself- light, nervous, and nimble- standing on the Line like so many times before. The crouch, the gun…even the very smell of tartan mixed with fresh-cut grass- Track season in full bloom. I picture myself- filled with anguish- stretching into my preliminary sprints, crescendoing all the time, waiting until the top of that God-awful final stretch…
But there is still time, unyielding and unforgiving time.
Until that moment, I’ll train. And train. And train. I’ll do everything I can to gradually morph myself into that featherless being that is capable and ready, to spread his legged wings and fly again.
-Jordan McNamara
Let me start with a brief formality.
To those of you who have followed me over the past six months: Thank you. While my blog is no diamond in the rough, I sincerely hope that you, the reader, have taken something of value from it. In writing this blog my goals have been simple: reach out to others, share my journey, and inspire. That’s all.
The past six months have been an incredible journey, one that has been filled with experiences -both thrilling and terrifying- that I will never forget. Athletically, the momentum has continued to build. You have been able to watch me transition through various high-tech machines, ironically toward the simply low-tech act of ground running. At this point, I have reached my closest step in the long process back to the oval.
After running on an underwater treadmill for a month, I was given the clear to progress to a special treadmill made by the Alter G company. This treadmill, revolutionary in its engineered technology, has enabled me to come back quicker and more importantly, safer than I thought possible. Running on an “Anti-Gravity” treadmill, I’ve been able to meticulously control my environment, increasing my weight-bearing running sessions by 1% increments, allowing my body to realize the gains it has made.
The underwater treadmill, though enjoyable, didn’t give me the sensation of running. The chest-high water, slow movement, constant resistance, and altered gait combined to give me a workout that felt more artificial than intuitive. Despite this, it was a step that I was lucky to make…
I simply wanted to feel the real thing, unfiltered. Since I’ve started on what my coach calls “the bouncer” I’ve gotten short-lived tastes. Today’s run gave me a surreal glimpse, a reminder of what it feels like to be a runner in full-flight.
When the work has been done, running can be absolutely exhilarating, filling you with an excitement that lasts long after the run has concluded. During unstable times like these, such days are unexpected, and embraced without a seconds hesitation.
A mere, month ago, I could be found power-walking the hills of Eugene, making lemonade out of lemons. Though slightly embarrassing, I took my advice in stride, practicing a daily positive attitude.
It’s crazy to think that only three weeks ago, I was gingerly jogging on the Anti Gravity, stumbling through my 20:00 sessions with an uncomfortable gait thinking, ” I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
Despite my concerns, I persisted, encouraged by my coaches and my optimism.
On this day, I’m glad I did.
Today’s instruction from my coaches were simple: Warm up, and run 40 minutes at a steady yet tolerable pace.
I had expected this run to be like its predecessors; challenging yet slightly satisfying in the sense that I had made another deposit, another productive step toward that which matters most.
Four miles later, something happened.
By that point, I was movin’( metaphorically speaking), bouncing along without worry. After slowly warming up, I had reached cruising altitude, finding myself humming along at a springy 11.2 mph. Without any fore-warning, I felt a sudden rush, a wave of pure excitement that sent me into a brief tranced euphoria. Headphones in, techno blaring, sweat pouring, I savored the sudden feeling of effortless power.
This wasn’t your typical feel-good emotion. This was a forgotten thrill! In stationary motion, I smiled wide. With a refreshingly high heart rate, I felt alive!
I can remember, quite clearly, the feelings felt by a runner existing in the all-to-rare state of absolute fitness. So many things have to go right, so many sacrifices made, but to get there, and I mean really there, is a feeling of indescribable contentment.
As the beads of sweat wicked from my hot skin, I got goosebumps! I spent the last four miles in a trance-like state, picturing races that have been, could have been, and even some that have yet to come. I focused on the rapid breathing and quick turnover, letting the rhythmic steps- 170 per minute- hypnotize, removing from the confines of the bouncer, away from the artificial, to the warm spring-time air of track season.
Six hours later I sat, simmering within my post-run endorphins, reflecting on such a rare experience. I had a great run, but my comeback is far from complete. I have months to go until I’ll savor the sticky grip of spike on tartan track. Despite today’s run, I remain level-headed, trying my hardest to never get too high or low. As I soldier on, I’ll face days that challenge me, days that discourage and compel me to gather my strength for the uncertainty that is tomorrow.
Bring it on.
-Jordan McNamara
I had always expected it to be different. Looking back, I wouldn’t have had it any other way…
63,360 inches. 5280 feet. 1609 meters.
These distances, equal in length, represent an event that continues to inspire, excite, and even intimidate harriers across the globe:
The one mile run.
Attached to this seemingly arbitrary distance is a number, cruel yet attainable, serving as a form of immortality to those willing to pay the price:
4:00.00.
Seemingly harmless to the untrained eye, this number, when combined with four unforgiving ovals of synthetic rubber demand unimaginable sacrifices that encompass thousands of miles, punishing hills, searing sprints, and countless hours spent alone in solitude, racing along a midnight trail.
To all light-footed runners of misunderstood desire, the four- minute mile exists as a daunting challenge; unmerciful in its leaniency, and undeniable in its rarity.
Through high school, I had rarely contemplated the chances of ever obtaining such glory, to feel the other side of such an elusive time. It almost seemed funny to me, to think of actually running a ”sub-4 mile” one day. At the time, such an expectation would have been laughable in its unlikelihood.
Over four years, high school saw my best mile time drop from 5:17 to 4:15. I graduated a “mere” fifteen seconds away from The Goal. From experience I knew that as the time drew closer, the cost became exponentially higher. Despite this silent self acknowledgement, my dream remained, glimmering with the deep recesses of my mind, pulling me from the warmth of my bed at 5 A.M., lacing up well-worn shoes that were still damp from the night before…
Those last fifteen seconds would take another four years of my life to conquer.
I didn’t need to talk about it. I simply needed to do it. As I grew, I began to realize that such a race, while only lasting a few minutes, would need a short lifetime of regimented sacrifice.
The most gratifying, instant moments often take a lifetime of preparation.
I ran… Some times three times a day, for a goal that was in no way guaranteed. Through every obstacle met through life, I ran. Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and even months turned to years. My love of running kept me consistent, my determination kept me hungry.
Of the 550,000,000 American’s who have lived, 348 have run a mile in under four-minutes.
Of those 348, I was number 328, occurring July 16th, 2009. My sub-4 came at the tail end of a whirl-wind season, a season which saw me qualify for my first NCAA and USA finals, both at 1500 meters, also known as the “metric mile”. Through my Junior outdoor season, I had run the “metric equivalent” to a four-minute mile ( 3:42-3:43 1500m) six times! As my season came to a close, I searched the country from a certified mile race that would give the proper conditions for such an assault. No luck. In the middle of July, any races of decent caliber were being held in Europe. With that, I asked my coach to allow me to run a mile at Hayward Field, my athletic home, at a local all-comers meet. I desperately wanted to run this rare event, to finally attempt to capture a personal dream. My coach, demonstrating his powerful influence, recruited a 3:57 miler from the Oregon Track Club- Tom Brooks- to aid with the pacemaking duties. With nothing to gain, he selflessly gave his all to give me my shot. I owe my time to him as much as I do myself.
On a hot, sunny evening, I stood on the starting line, nimbly bouncing and shaking the nerves from my body. Unlike the races I had run only days earlier, the stands were nearly empty. Fifty loyal fans had appeared, having so how obtained news of the last-minute attempt. Little did I know, those few were the ones who would make all the difference.
The starter- who travelled from Canada to certify this one race- called us to our marks. With a last nervous dance I took my final steps and assumed my low crouch, lost in a downward gaze, waiting for the sound of freedom..
CRACK!
Instantly, Tom and I bolted from the starting, separating ourselves from the remaining field. As we rounded the first turn, the track had a eerie stillness. The only thing I could hear was steps and ragged breathing, caused by a system trying to suddenly cope with extreme demands.
The objective was very simple: complete four laps in a hair under sixty seconds… I knew that my fitness was good, but I questioned whether I would truly be able to complete such a feat. Beforehand, Tom and I had agreed that the most efficient way of achieving a sub-4 would be to run even splits of 60, 60 (2:00), 60 (3:00). The real test would come as he stepped off the track with a lap remaining. For then on I would be completely alone, with no one to key off of or help to break the wind. In many athlete’s greatest races, they forget about their time goals and completely lose themselves in the moment- the panicked shriek of 10,000 desperate fans, the adrenaline- filled sprint for the tape, the tunnel vision that comes with a body locked with lactic acid…
28…29…30….
Settle in Jordan, we’re in this for the long haul..
Our first 200 was complete. At this crucial stage, any nervous energy needed to be contained, not released. Running even a single second too fast over the primary stages could guarantee destruction in the coming laps.
I came down the first straight away, at ease but unsure of the pace. The evening was unusually warm, and at 86° my mind and body’s sense of pace was slightly skewed. Today this day, I am thankful for Tom’s veteran knowledge. As a man who had been in the game for far longer than I, he wisely conserved, taking me through the quarter-mile perfectly,
57…58…59…60…
59.5…Spot on.
Perfect, wait..
As we circled the second oval, the marching band, located behind the track, played a menacing tune. The small crowd did their best to offer a constant stream of encouraging shouts and calls. I hung closed to my rabbit, trying to draft as closely as possible. Like Nascar, distance runners save precious energy by following in the “slipstream” of another. To me, the energy saved is as much mental as it is physical, allowing me to switch into auto pilot, storing my ambitions for the moment, sure to come.
I rounded the second curve, trying to ignore the lactic acid that had already began to seep into the tops of my thighs and shoulders. I passed my coach,
” Stay relaxed Jordan, long way to go.”
I listened, and waited as we ran down the stretch again, through the wall of sound, and through the half mile marker.
1:58…1:59…2:00…2:01…
2:00.1…right on pace.
The third lap came. In the mile, the third lap holds supreme importance. The third lap is the lap in which the pain fully grips the body, where the slightest loss of speed and make the difference between a night of celebratory laughs or introspective silence- back to the drawing board. Races are lost or made here.
We went down the penultimate backstretch, hurdling along at 15 mph. With 700 remaining, this was the hardest part of the race. The crowd had quieted and again, I heard our steps and breath, more frantic this time.
As we passed through 1,000 meters, I heard our intermediate split; 2:30… still on pace. Though we had run amazing even splits, the race had felt to be a constant crescendo, speeding up all the time.
Accept the pain, embrace the fire, let it fuel you. Stay on it…
I was a man with a problem. With every step, my thighs ached, my calves burned, and my arms tightened. Rounding the Bowerman curve, Tom kicked, determined to take me through 3/4th’s on pace. I suffered and fought to stay close.
Just as I allowed a gap to open, my coach wisely observed and said, so quietly,
“Jordan, get on Tom’s shoulder”.
Why don’t you get out here and “get on Tom’s shoulder?!” I’m struggling to survive!
I pumped my arms, leaned into my stride and got back on as we entered the home straight. The crowd, sensing the opportunity at hand, begun to roar with excitement. Tom grimaced and accelerated, fighting for every step. After 1200 meters, Tom, selfless and brave, moved out in lane two and stopped, having done completely an incredible effort of his own.
CRACK!!!
Relax Jordan relax…still a long way to go. Focus…focus….focus… God this hurts!
The starter’s gun fired, signalling a single lap left to run. I couldn’t hear the timer but was able to sneak a peak at the score board, seeing a flash of 3:01 as I crossed into the threshold of pain and excitement.
Hearing the crowd and gun caused adrenaline spiked and for a brief moment, I was without pain. Unfortunately, the moment was as brief as it was exhilarating.
I was suddenly alone, without a runner to follow or a shadow to pressure. Running with control still, I made the first curve, resisting the ever-present burn of lactic acid that attempting to arch my back, bow my legs, and shorten my stride. Down the backstretch, I flowed with determination. I drove on alone, carefully monitoring my effort, attempting precisely plan my final effort. I wanted to cross the line at the exact moment that I could no longer continue. Such an exercise in judgement requires an intense level of internal awareness amidst a sea of noise, pain, and relative chaos.
Glide, flow, now shift Jordan, get up, get up ,GET UP, GET UP…
I crossed the last check point, 1400 meters, arms pumping, faced etched with concentration and effort. My assistant coach, looking at his stopwatch, sprinted across the infield, screaming,
” JORDAN, YOU HAVE TO RUN 29.0!!!! EYES UP!!!!”
I breezed into the Bowerman curve, waiting still. I was afraid of the mile. I knew that though seemingly minute, the added 109 meters from my earlier 1500 meter races would stretch for an eternity. The loudspeaker blared his approval and the crowd reacted with delight.
Gather, gather, wait for it Jordan, THIS IS IT, NOW GO GO GO GO…
With 150 meters remaining, I shifted into over-drive and absolutely torn through both time and space. Breathing fire, I screamed through the Bowerman Curve, focused becoming a blur.
Sprint Jordan sprint, more..more…more…. pour it on..
Finally, I was there, the final stretch. 100 meters separated me from a share of simple glory. The crowd shrieked, urging me forward. My vision had become a hazy, tunneled view, focused on the red and white lane in front of me. Saturated with acid, I focused my efforts on maintaining my ultimate drive, determined to simply get to the end.
All the way Jordan, ALL THE WAY.. ALL THE WAY.. ALL THE WAY..
The final 50 meters stretched forever. As the track turned to sand, every part of my body begging for me to stopped. Step by excruciating step I finished, with eyes on the clock. As I approached the final tape, I felt a deep sense of curiosity. I, like the crowd, wanted to know if I would in fact get it.
HOLD ON JORDAN..HOLD ON… REACH!!
3:55…3:56…3:57…3:58…3:59…
Eyes closed, jaw clenched, head high, I mercifully broke the tape. I crossed the line, unsure if I had gotten it, and almost too exhausted to care. The crowd yelled its approval. Regaining some level of composure, I heard random times called out by people who had brought their own watches. I was still in a form of hell, but kept my ears open, desperate to know the official time..
Final, in a loud ,booming voice, the loudspeaker delivered an official time that I had at one time thought impossible, a time that had required years of humble sacrifice, and a time that always be special to me, long after its been defeated- and trust, it will be defeated.
3:59.87
That night, I cooled down alone, a sweaty, sore, happy runner enjoying a rare moment of carefree, blissful existence. With my phone on speaker, I stiffly jogged through the warm envelope of a summer evening in Track Town, calling my closest friends and family to share a once-in-a-lifetime event. As the Olympics draw nearer, I’ll transition towards the 5,000 and possibly 10,0000 meters. I may become a long-distance runner but thanks to one July evening, a part of me will always be one thing:
A miler.
-Jordan McNamara
VIDEO LINK’S OF MY SUB 4:
NEWS BROADCAST:
http://www.thenewsroom.com/details/3742746/entertainment
FULL VIDEO:
http://www.runnerspace.com/video.php?do=view&video_id=15301
It’s been a summer to remember.
As the leaves begin their yearly shift in color, the air begins to take on the chilled qualities signalling one thing:
Fall is here.
The holiday season draws nearer, inspiring me to pause and give thanks. For the first time in nine years, I go into the fall as a “free agent”, with no obligation to the slush, mud, and never-ending pain symbolized by ten kilometers over hill and dale; AKA cross-country. As a new outsider looking in, it has been a bitter sweet experience to see my alma mater begin their fall campaign. While part of me will always miss all aspects of the Team, my pride for the University of Oregon remains unaffected.
The men of Oregon recently won their season opener and continue on with a level-headed aim at the NCAA championships. For collegiate cross-country, one day matters. Every race leading up to the big dance is viewed as a stepping stone, a dress-rehearsal for the one true opportunity to capitalize against the nations very best.
For yours truly, the fall has been a fantastic experience of self-discovery. I really believe that my extending period away from running has been a blessing in disguise. Being injured forced me to confront obstacles that I hadn’t expected, obstacles that have taught me invaluable lessons while instilling within me a deep sense of confidence. As I continue to work hard and count said blessings, my attentions shift towards my athletic focuses.
Sixteen weeks remain until the indoor track season begins, a season filled with tight turns, sharp elbows, and split-second tactics- the perfect springboard for my first post-collegiate outdoor season. As the days continue, my training gains momentum, following the physiological crescendo of adaptation. My daily regime has consisted of a variety of exercises, ranging from stationary biking, elliptical, running-specific weights, aqua jogging, pilates, two-hour mountain hikes, and even steam room sessions aimed at boosting recovery!
My current daily two-hour training sessions have been an interesting display of progress. It is hard to believe that a month ago, I was limited to light 20:00 biking sessions, three times a week. Thankfully, I’ve stayed positive, paid close attention to my body and am thrilled to report that my foot feels 100%. My final CAT scan will be taken tomorrow morning. After this final image, I will be cleared to begin short runs within a matter of days!
While training consumes much of my day, I’ve been most proud of my work “off the track”. Balancing two jobs and professional athletics has been at times hectic but completely satisfying. My work constantly reminds me to remember my destination, but to also enjoy the journey. Today, I took my own advice and brought my girlfriend along for one of my coveted hikes. Together, we braved the rain, mud, and leg-burning incline of Spencers Butte’s western slope.
We both worked hard to reach the summit, retelling old stories between steeper sections- requiring all of our breath. Upon reaching Eugene’s ceiling, we sat, giving thanks for the moment, relishing within the sudden immersion of clouds and white. Such a memorable moment inspired me to snap a quick picture:
We all have something in life that gives us purpose, something that fills us with love, hope, and direction. As I continue forward, I invite you to take a moment and gives thanks for your respective passion, whatever it may be.
