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!!!!!
