Not Enough

Not Enough

Some runners say the last 100 meters is the easiest. You don’t have to think, you don’t have to strategize. You just run. You keep pushing until the end, hold on, and your body will go on autopilot.

My body isn’t like that. The last quarter of the race, my mind is turning faster than my legs. There’s so much to think about. Pump your arms but keep your shoulders relaxed. Stay on your toes. Get your knees up high, higher. Fast turnover, get those knees up, head straight and eyes forward. Focus on the finish. Knees up high don’t look down shoulders back go harder go now!

I can’t tell if those commands are coming from my coaches or from my own internal critic. Their voices and the one in my head tend to blur together in high-pressure situations, and nothing is more high-pressure than the 400 meter qualifier for the high school track state meet.

This is what I’ve worked towards every day at practice. This is what I’ve envisioned every time I close my eyes. This is my last chance.

As I approach the finish line my legs begin to give out. I strain desperately to keep my speed but my muscles ache from lactic acid and my throat is burnt raw and bloody. I see the girls in front of me increase their lead. I know I should try to catch them, I know I should at least want to catch them, but I can’t find the strength within myself. Mentally and physically, I am spent.

With a final ragged breath and slap of my spikes against the rubber track, I surge forward at the steepest angle manageable, glancing at the clock as I thrust my torso across the finish line with every filament of energy I have left.

1:08:56.

The digital numbers confirm my worst fear in menacing red LED lights.

I hunch over with my hands resting above my knees, head down, eyes closed. Image of that clock seared into my eyelids.

When I can stand upright, I muster a congratulations to the girl in the lane to my left. It comes out sounding more like a breathy sigh, but she smiles and replies, “Thanks, you too.” I find myself wondering how she still has control over her vocal chords.

As soon as I step off the track and onto the turf, a wave of people engulfs me. Athletes make their way to the starting line, their coaches hurrying after them to impart last-minute words of wisdom. Meet officials hopelessly try to maintain order. Everyone has somewhere to go. I stay unmoving, like a lone rock parting flowing water. I feel very alone.

My feet throb in the tight constraints of my neon blue spikes, and I long to sit down and take off my shoes like I always do after a race. Today the pain is no different, but for some reason I feel too ashamed to follow my usual routine.

I leave the spikes on.

I hobble over to the team tent on legs still shaky and numb from exertion. Madison perks up when she sees me and skips over to give me a hug. I have to to force myself not to pull away.

“Great job!” she squeals excitedly, then steps back to give me a bubbly smile and leave room for Sarah’s an Natalie’s incoming embrace. The two freshmen congratulate me and then continue laughing and jumping around, seemingly oblivious to my lack of reciprocation. I can’t believe only four years ago I was their age, new to running, still convinced I would achieve everything my coaches said I could.

Jamie notices my unenthusiasm, like she always does. She gives me a sympathetic pout from her spot by the water cooler and opens her arms wide, motioning for me to walk over. I can feel the wet chill of tears on my eyelashes even before I collapse on the ground beside her.

“I just…” I say before a sob overtakes me. I wipe my eyes with the back of my wrist, take in a gulp of air before trying again to explain myself. “I just don’t understand what I’m doing wrong,” I cry into Jamie’s shoulder. “I wanted it so bad,” the last syllable turns into another sob and Jamie pulls me closer.

“Shhh, I know. I know,” she comforts. She soothes me as my regret and disappointment soak into her shirt, as I struggle to come to terms with what has just transpired.

I failed.

I might not ever fully accept it.

I’ve fought for this three hours a day, six days a week, forty-eight weeks a year for the past four years of my life. Plus one day for leap year, minus two weeks my junior year that I was out with shin splints, times the seven thousand six hundred eighty miles I’ve run equals still not enough. The countless blisters, the ice baths, the missed parties and incomplete family dinners all add up to—what, this? An unhappy ending? This isn’t how the fairy tale is supposed to end. Not with me sobbing on my best friend’s shoulder at the last track meet of my high school career.

My coach once said to me, “Just because you’re not seeing results doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong. It’s just how the sport works. Sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose. It’s a gamble, but you play because you love the thrill.”

That quote used to motivate me. Inspire me. Move me to do one last interval, do one more set of reps, do more. Now it seems like a shallow mockery of my dedication to my training. A gamble? I did more than roll the dice. Every moment I spent in preparation for this race was supposed to be assurance of victory.

I don’t know what went wrong. But I do know I did everything in my power to win that race.

Sometimes everything just isn’t enough.