It’s funny. When I was in high school, I ran track and cross country and, when I started, I was remarkably slow. My first race as a freshman was the 1600 meter run: four laps around the track totaling one mile.
Now for many who don’t run, a mile may sound like a long way, but it’s really a short race. As far as distance running goes, a mile is almost a sprint. And getting lapped in a sprint could be disheartening for some, but on that first race, though I got lapped once right before beginning my final loop, I was really just happy to finish. I was new to running and the idea that I could run for any amount of time longer than 400 meters was a new concept for me.
So during that first race, I barely even noticed I got lapped. I finished. What’s more, I finished with a time I could now own: 6:26. That would become my benchmark for improvement. Anything faster would be a step forward; any slower would be a misstep.
Over the next few years, I marked slow, but continuous, progress. I went from the freshmen who got lapped to the fastest distance runner on the (albeit tiny) track team and I wound finding myself in the top three on my (slightly larger) cross country team. I even made it to State once. I choked hardcore when I got there, but I still made it.
My trajectory as a runner during the course of my high school career was one of constant progress, but that progress was slow as all hell. It didn’t bother me how slow it was though. I could see my times coming down. Even if they only lowered by a matter of seconds with each PR, they still lowered and I loved to watch that happen. I loved making that happen.
* * * *
During high school, at least as far as running is concerned, I had only two real goals: I wanted to break a 5:00 mile in track and I wanted a sub 18 minute time in cross country. Starting at 6:26 mile time and a 21+ minute 5K, these goals seemed incredibly daunting. Somehow, though, I never once doubted my ability to get there. (Which I realize seems oddly optimistic and out of character.)
Fast forward to my last races in track and cross country. It was Regionals, senior year. Our league had shifted around a little bit, so I knew State was out of the question. There were just too many kids to compete with and I knew how fast some of them were. I also knew what place I would need to achieve in order to advance to State and that was simply not logistically possible.
Instead of setting the bar at State, I set the bar at breaking 18 minutes. My closest race to date had been something in the vicinity of 18:26 or thereabouts. I would need almost a thirty second PR if I were to hit my goal time for my high school career.
I donned my spikes, removed my sweats, and lined up with my teammates in the brisk November air. The gun went off and I attacked the race like I never had before. I tore through the course and didn’t look back. My goal was tangible, but the journey wouldn’t be over until I crossed the line.
The last stretch is always crazy. You’re tired, your form suffers, you see everyone ahead of you, you can feel the breath of those approaching from your six, and you redouble your efforts because the last thing you’re going to allow is someone coming from behind to steal your thunder.
That last stretch, as hard as it is, was always my favorite part. I started out as a sprinter so I could stride with the best of them when it came to the final push. I passed person after person, knowing that each person I passed brought me closer to my goal. And finally, I crossed the finish line.
After I staved off the seemingly inevitable advances of death, I found the presence of mind to consult the time. Had I done it? I checked and discovered that seventeen minutes fifty-two seconds after the gun went off I crossed the line. Mission: accomplished.
* * * *
My high school cross country career ended as a success story. Not success in the macro sense, but on a personal level, I achieved exactly what I wanted and then some. Not only that, but I can look back on the journey as a whole with few regrets and nothing but fond memories.
Now let’s move on to the final race in my final track season: the mile. This is where everything started. This is where I hoped to end with a resounding finale. I wanted my first mile and my last mile to be bookends, highlighting the journey of my high school running career.
On the day of the meet, I did everything right. I ate right, warmed up well, and readied myself for the rigors of one last race. My strategy was simple: run faster than ever. I knew that wasn’t an actionable strategy, though, so I devised a different plan, one that I knew had a shot at succeeding.
When the time came, I lined up with the other runners. My peers. My competition. Many of these kids had been on a journey similar to mine. And for many of them, this was their last shot at glory as well.
Coming from a small school, I raced against other small schools. I became friends, or acquaintances, with many of the other runners in the league and, at the very least, I knew what many of their times were like.
I scanned the other runners for my target: a runner from a school my team had always been relatively chummy with. I knew his better times and guessed that he’d be going to State after this race. So he became my focus.
“Runners to your marks!” Bang!
We shot off the starting line as though we were the bullet in the gun’s chamber when the starter pulled the trigger. I fought my way through the crowd for favorable positioning and caught up to my mark, passing him without hesitation, but not going further than a pace or two ahead of him.
In much the same way I knew how fast he was, my mark must have known how my times were. He passed me back not long after I passed him. Immediately, in the most urgent sense of the word, I passed him again. I didn’t think. I simply moved my legs and forced them to carry me ahead.
He passed me back again and I returned the favor. We played this game of leapfrog for three laps. It was at once mindless and mindful for me. I knew exactly what I was doing, but I didn’t let myself think about it at all. I simply remembered my plan and responded to it in the moment.
The first place runner crossed the line to begin his last lap and the bell rang. This was it. The race was almost over now. I crossed over into my final lap several seconds later and, as I did so, my mark pulled away from me at a speed which was simply not possible for me to match.
I watched him grow smaller and smaller as he got further and further ahead. I was on my own now. I had no one to pace me and no one approaching from behind. If ever I needed to find motivation within myself, it was now. I couldn’t look to the external for any kind of aid. It was just me against the track for the final lap and I knew I was cutting it close time wise.
Those last 400 meters were brutal. I ran harder the whole race than I ever had and, on the final 200 meters, I lacked my signature kick. I simply had nothing left to give. All of my effort lay on the track and not an ounce of it had been wasted. As I barreled down that final home stretch for the very last time, I heeded nothing but the finish line before me.
I crossed over and checked my time. My heart sank. 5:02. I thought back to the race. Surely I could have found just a little extra effort. Surely I could have shaved off those three pesky seconds keeping me from my goal. What could I have done differently?
But as I thought about it, I realized, I couldn’t have done anything differently. I gave everything I had and came up a little short. It stung, but I still finished a race to be proud of. Even so, I’m sure I didn’t do a great job hiding my disappointment.
Much later, as I wandered around the meet, cheering on my teammates who still had events left, I got a congratulations from one of them.
“I saw your time,” he said, “Great job, man!” I was a little confused. I missed my goal by a matter of seconds. Sure, it was still a great time for me, but it wasn’t the time I’d hoped for.
My teammate told me to go take a look at the official results. They had just been posted. So I hurried to the list of final results and found my name. I followed my finger on the line from where “Jesse Timm” was written over to the right where my official time had been posted. “4:55,” it read. My watch had been off by seven beautiful, spectacular seconds. And I smiled.
* * * *
In the big scheme of things, these are small accomplishments. They aren’t even all that impressive when compared to others on a larger scale. I mean, these days, even I can run a sub 18 minute 5K without too much effort. I’ve grown as a runner far beyond what I ever believed possible in high school. This is true to such an extreme that, if you were to ask people who don’t know me that well what they do know about me, they’d probably tell you, “Jesse? I don’t know. I guess he runs a lot.”
But even though my love of running has existed from day one, it’s taken me almost ten years to get to where I am now. Not only that, but I wouldn’t trade that journey for anything. I wasn’t a prodigy and I didn’t want to be. I wanted to earn every accomplishment I achieved. I wanted my running to be something I took for myself, not something I was given as a birthright.
* * * *
Over the past few months, I’ve realized that if I could apply the mindsets I use on a run to my life as a whole, I would be just the most impressively healthy individual there is…inside and out. Nothing is a problem on a run. Everything is an opportunity: an opportunity for growth, an opportunity for a new victory in the face of overwhelming odds, an opportunity for improvement and progress in the face of failure and disappointment.
But I’m not the healthiest person inside and out. Right now, I’m basically that slow freshman. Unlike high school, however, I’m not grateful for where I am. I’m not excited about my potential. I’m not expecting progress or improvement. I look around and see others achieving their goals while I stagnate and die in the same place I fear I’ll be forever.
I’ve forgotten that progress is gradual. I’ve never been a prodigy before, so why do I hope to be now? Have I gotten lazy? Am I just afraid I don’t have the gas in the tank to keep passing my targets? Why do I feel like I’m on my last race? Why does it feel as if I fail now, I’ll never get a second chance?
I have to relearn that going slow is not a bad thing. As cliché as this is (and it is cliché), it really is the journey that matters. Arrival is the important thing. The ETA is irrelevant as long as you show up.
I know how high school ended. I lived that already. It’s over. The really scary part is now. I don’t know how any of my current struggles end because they’re still in progress. Maybe I won’t reach that sub five-minute mile, but maybe, just maybe, in the face of crushing failure, I will find out that I didn’t fail as badly as I thought I did. Maybe I’ll make it. Maybe you will too.
For me, only one thing is certain: I’m not giving up any more than I did during my high school running career. I’m getting faster. I’m going further. Maybe I won’t make it to State, but it’s not over until the last race. So until that day, I will improve. I will progress. And I will remember where I started.