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- Subscribe - Contact Us - Rate Card - Place an Ad Archives Revels Classifieds Real Estate Menu Guide Wedding Weather Subscribe Contact Us November 21, 2005 Commentary The race begins, a career ends Editors Note : Ryan Pfeil, Southern Oregon University’s top runner on its men’s cross country team, is writing a journal during his trip to nationals at Louisville, Ky. Following is the third and final installment. “I actually slept last night,” “Good, man,” Trevor Palmer says, adjusting his black jersey as he pins on his number. He smiles. Ryan Pfeil He’s smiling because he’s known me for awhile, and knows what a miracle this is. Palmer and I are default cross country trip roommates. For the past couple years, I’ve had a front row seat to the Gettysburg Addresses he mumbles in his sleep, tossing and turning in the dark while I stare at the ceiling, feeling like I’ve just chugged a veritable well filled with fresh coffee. Last night I didn’t hear him; my eyes were actually shut. I don’t have any “first thoughts” waking up. No teen sports movie voice overs beginning with cliches like “today’s the day” or “this is what I’ve trained for all my life.” Nah. Nothing so bogus, really. Just a general feeling of excitement, fueled by the fact that I actually slept more than four hours last night. My mind’s wandering while I shovel my breakfast into my mouth, much faster than I need to. It’s going back and forth between my individual strategy on the course, a show I saw on the Discovery Channel last night called “I Shouldn’t Be Alive,” and why the water to oats ratio in my oatmeal is completely unacceptable, worthy of a nasty letter to the kitchen staff at this particular Marriott. No one talks much at breakfast, our words imprisoned behind teeth and gums, desperately wanting to spill out so we can gush about how completely terrified and excited and nervous we all are. Instead, we force them back with yogurt, granola, and watery oatmeal. The kind that I give up on after half the bowl and discard in the waste basket with a muddy splash. We dress in our uniforms and ride to the course. No one’s particularly chatty, but no one’s silent either. Clearly, we all wish it was a couple hours from now. We’d be done, holding that trophy, smiles on our faces with “Run” by Collective Soul being the sole song on all our life’s soundtracks, blaring through quality, import speakers from Japan. My dad and aunt walk up, holding out cameras in front of them like riot shields, trying to blend into the crowd and catch my candid, awkward stance on camera. My aunt’s raspy laugh gives away their hiding place, my dad’s wheezy one following immediately after. I walk to greet them, thinking how horrible they must have been at hide-and-seek as kids. After I leave them, our team warms up, looping back to the line after 15 minutes to do our strides and strip down to our racing attire. I scan the horizon. The initial start is a long, straight shot of grass, nearly 400 meters long. On both sides are lines of yellow flags. Parents, friends, siblings and coaches are pressed against them, They hold up video and digital cameras, or press their arms in tight folds against their chests, smacking their gum or kicking the grass around them. We’re rushed to the line. I cast a sideways glance down the line, seeing the kaleidoscope of yellows, reds, blues, greens, blacks, and whites. So many Nike and Adidas and New Balance symbols flashing in the sun. So many nervous hops and forced, audible exhales. So much tension and fear and adrenaline. I close my eyes. Lord … let me fly. Not run fast … let me seriously fly. Like Superman. I open my eyes again, my 7-year-old’s prayer too late to retrieve. Somehow I doubt God cares about my constant state of childishness. In fact, I’m fairly confident He wouldn’t have it any other way. My breath comes in leper’s gasps as I bend down over the line. The announcer is standing in the middle of the field, holding up his pistol. He’s wearing a red sport coat, a tie and a ballcap. Smoke erupts into the air in a noxious, gray puff, followed by a tearing crack that’s swallowed whole by a monster made of spectator’s cheers. The ground rumbles. My arms swing like battering rams, my legs smacking against the ground in grunting thuds. My muscles bounce about like lotto balls beneath my skin, compacting into doughy, coin-shaped mashes. My breaths come in wet chokes, my heart rate soaring to somewhere between 180-190 beats a minute. My eyelids hang loosely, my eyeballs darting every which way. Eventually, my name, competitor’s names, the word combos of “move up,” “come on,” and “push it,” and the songs on my mental mp3 disc run together like acid thrown on a fresh painting. This mass of people becomes the largest group of chimpanzees ever known to man, screaming and flailing their arms. The colors, consistencies, and shapes of the objects around me all begin to go dull. Listless, boring hues replace the once poetic palate of Tom Sawyer State Park’s color scheme as sweat pours into my eyes like so many razorblade tidal waves. Any filmmaker would kill for a slow motion montage like this. I’d like to lie and say this story has an ending with an accompanying musical number that builds to a heart-racing surge of violins and trumpets. I’d like to say the audience watching our movie would have tears of joy in their eyes and hold each other while the credits rolled. I can’t. I come away from the finish chute, jumping over collapsed, shaking bodies that greedily lick at the air for oxygen, their shorts and singlets clinging to their skin in wrinkled patches. Fifty-fifth place. 25 places off what I needed for All American status. I’ve let my audience down. I say some things I regret saying, muttering about failure and worthlessness, a textbook “woe-is-me” poster child. As we run our cool down, my childish moments of self-loathing are interrupted by a familiar voice. It’s Kyle Gillette, one of the more quiet individuals on our team. He hugs me, and tells me something under his breath. We keep running. I don’t say anything back. I really don’t need to. After the cooldown, we leave this place. My second home for the last three years fades away like water down a drain. Our team is chatty, and our coach is proud of our 10th-place finish as a team. We’re pretty pleased with it, too. Everyone … Palmer, Dexter, Moses, Krueze, Gillette, and Jeffers … ran tough, and ran well. Our solo girl, Ixel Sanchez, ran well also, coming in the top 50 in the womens’ race. For the first time this entire trip, my soundtrack’s coming in loud and clear. But … I won’t indulge you and tell you the song. Or what Gillette said. Those are just for me. 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