You are worth loving. You are worth protecting. You are worth respecting. And because you’ve been made to reach for your dreams, God provides cheerleaders and supporters to help you achieve your goals.
Who Are You Cheering For?
Encouragement is never a one-way street. Yes, God has allowed me to be surrounded with precious ones who’ve stood with me and for me, but God has also called me to cheer others on to victory as well.
Since my husband Ross and I met, I’ve been his biggest fan. In college, I’d attend his football games, proudly wearing my big “My Boyfriend’s #31” button! My heart’s desire has always been to see him be great. In fact, over the years, we’ve pushed each other to be the best we can be. I have loved being his cheerleader and seeing him enjoy success as an athlete.
I also support my friends in the track world. When my friend Bershawn Jackson runs, I’m usually more nervous than he is! Despite my own bumps and bruises at the 2008 Olympics in Beijing, it was a joy to see him stand on the podium for his performance in the 400 hurdles. I’ve been rooting for some of my friends—like Nichole Denby and Lauryn Williams—since we were in college! The three of us formed a bond in 2002 when we competed in the World Juniors meet. I’ve cheered for them, followed their careers, and wished them every success. It’s been as much fun supporting them as it has been supporting Ross.
Of course being a faithful cheerleader doesn’t just happen on the track and the gridiron. We all need cheerleaders! I have found such joy in partnering with Shari as she’s started her own company and hair salon. Her support helped me be great, and I hope mine has buoyed her as well. I continue to be amazed at her talent, drive, and business savvy. My hope is that I’m able to reflect for her—with my face and voice and body—all the beauty and gifts God has given her.
If you’re an athlete, you might have friends who’ve shown up to support you, waving a sign or screaming their lungs out. If you’re competitive academically, you may have a classmate who studies with you and pushes you to be your best. If you’re an artist and post your work on Facebook, your cheerleaders are the ones who share your stuff and brag about your work. If you’re a singer or a musician, they come to your concerts. If you write, it might be the aunt or teacher or friend who’s taken the time to read your work and offer you feedback. As you look around, I hope you’ll start to see the beautiful village of supporters who reflect God’s own delight and support for you.
No matter what your dream is, you need fans by your side.
RIGHT ON TRACK CHALLENGE
Are you able to recognize those who’ve been cheerleaders in your life?
•In your earliest years, who was someone who cheered for you?
•Today, who do you turn to when you need to be seen, known, and loved?
•Who is someone that you show up for consistently, helping them to reach their goals?
•Who might you begin cheering for?
Think of one person who has been with you and for you on your own journey to reach your goals. Take fifteen minutes to write them a letter—a real one, on paper, in an envelope, with a stamp—thanking them for being your cheerleader.
CHAPTER 15
SAVOR THE WIN
The year I got married, I experienced my first season-ending injury.
The grand calendar of the track and field world has a predictable annual rhythm: World Championships, Olympics, World Championships, year off. Then the cycle begins again.
In 2009, one of the World Championship years, I ran my best season to date. The pinnacle of that great season was that I’d won the 400 at the Worlds. I was flying high. As I was planning my wedding, I knew I was heading into a year without one of those major competitions.
Though the wedding in February of 2010 was perfect, the season was not. Early in the season I tore my quad. You may be saying to yourself, “Not the worst season for an injury. No major competition.” And you’d be right. My team and I decided that the best thing to do would be to take the season off to recover. We’d rehab and I’d be back. It definitely felt like the right move.
In the 2011 season, though, I really wasn’t running like Sanya Richards-Ross. I had recovered from the physical injury, but I wasn’t able to compete at my best mentally. A tear in the quad muscle is very painful, so even after the physical therapist cleared me to run, I was still hesitant. I just wasn’t able to get going in 2011 and run my best race.
If you’ve ever had a painful injury, you might be able to relate. When you’re hurting, your body compensates by walking gingerly, bending carefully, or reaching gently. An instinct kicks in to avoid pain. But once your injury heals, you might still move in some of those same ways—to avoid pain.
I really struggled that season. In fact, I lost more races than I won, which was very unusual. Especially after the beautiful season I’d had in 2009. During the 2011 season, I only had one good race. It was a meet in London during our regular season competition. Coach Hart was there, my mom was there, and my physical therapist was there. The whole team saw me run like the old Sanya. I broke 50, running the 400 in 49.6 seconds, the fastest time in the world. As I was running and crossing the finish line, I caught a glimmer of my old self.
Oh, yeah, this is what it feels like: push, pace, position, poise.
Oh, yeah, this is what it feels like to fly.
Running an excellent race makes all the grueling training worth it. The endless rigor of every early-morning practice, every sit-up, every protein shake, every mile logged fades into the background as my legs stretch out in front of me, doing what they’ve been trained to do.
I was back. And as I looked forward toward the 2012 London Olympics, it was time to believe in myself again.
When I’d competed in the Athens Olympics in 2004, I was nineteen. I was thrilled to have made it to the Games. But 2008 had been different. When I’d gone to the Games in Beijing, I’d been struggling emotionally and spiritually. It had been a terribly difficult experience and I fought to even hold it together as I received my bronze medal. I wish I could say that experience was completely behind me and never entered my mind. Unfortunately, that’s not true. With London on the horizon in 2012, I trained hard during 2011 and 2012. I kept my eyes fixed on the win. But if I turned my head to the side for a moment, I saw Beijing in the rearview mirror. And I was determined to do better.
I started 2012 training like a mad woman. That’s the part you never see when an athlete stands atop the podium to receive a medal. You don’t see the grueling physical and mental work that goes into being a champion. I was completely dedicated and I trained hard. I ran longer miles. I did two thousand sit-ups every day. I drank plenty of water. I ate well, juicing veggies and fruits. If you’ve ever seen the movie Rocky—or at least the classic scene where he runs up the seventy-two steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum during his intense training—you can kind of imagine what my life was like. Eyes on the prize, I was single minded.
I don’t always run the indoor winter track season, but that year I did. In fact, I won my first World indoor title in Istanbul.
But then I went to Jamaica and lost to Jamaican sprinter Novlene Williams. Losing is bad enough, but when the biggest track fans in the world go wild for the woman who beat you, it’s pretty brutal. The land that was so good to me as a child proved harder to conquer as an adult! I knew I’d been prepared to run well physically, but I hadn’t been able to run the race I wanted to run.
The loss was a very emotional one. Later that night, I was talking to Ross and my dad on the balcony of our hotel room about the race. The second hundred meters of the race is where I’m supposed to pace, but I was so pumped up and anxious that I went too fast. That meant that in the final one hundred meters, I was too tired to take the win. That said, I wasn’t beat by twenty meters. Or ten meters. I lost by a “lean”—just a tenth of a second. While no loss is easy, that’s a really hard way to go!
As we were dissecting the race, the way we always do, I had a mini meltdown. I fe
lt disappointed, sad, and confused.
My dad, who I’m sure was also disappointed, put the loss in perspective for me. “Forget it. Move on. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.”
I wanted to protest, but in my heart I knew he was right.
After Jamaica, I ran the Prefontaine. That was the year I had that amazing moment with the Lord on the track when the wind and my heart were still and at peace. And . . . I won!
I was ready for the Olympics.
London
I went to London filled with confidence. With the exception of that difficult race in Jamaica, I’d been winning all my individual races that year. I felt physically and mentally strong. But of course, the biggest challenge for me in London was going to be releasing the enduring memory of that huge disappointment and staying focused on what was before me.
London included some off-the-track drama for a lot of the athletes, including me. International Olympic Committee Rule 40 says that—with the exception of official IOC sponsors—no competitor, coach, trainer, or official who participates in the Olympic Games can allow his or her name, picture, or sports performances to be used for advertising. Specifically, there’s a blackout window that begins nine days before opening ceremonies until three days after the closing ceremonies.
Honestly, though, I was going to be okay. Nike, and my other sponsors, took care of me. I was concerned for a lot of the other athletes who were working with smaller sponsors. Disallowing Olympians from giving shout-outs to their smaller sponsors—a local car dealership or a regional sporting goods chain—when they were most visible was a deterrent for businesses to sponsor these talented and deserving athletes.
When all the athletes had arrived in London, but before the start of the Games, I booked a large room for an hour to discuss the issue together. About one hundred athletes showed up. Nick Symmonds, also a track and field athlete, was fired up like I was and had also been speaking out.
I challenged the room, “I know that not everyone is paid to be here. And for a lot of you it’s limiting the money you can make. It’s not fair. But we can take a stand together.” I suggested that we use the hashtag #wedemandchange, the slogan Adam Nelson (an Olympic gold medalist) and I came up with the night before, and all of the athletes who agreed tweeted it out. The hashtag went viral, elevating the conversation within the sporting world. Because our meeting was the night before our team’s big press conference, and because I was one of the more well-known athletes to do it, I was bombarded by the media.
Some fans gave me grief, calling me ungrateful. But there were also plenty of others who called out what they saw as the IOC’s greed. These critics claimed that the IOC was more concerned about catering to its sponsors than caring for its athletes.
I mention this hubbub because, in the days leading up to my big races, I was being viewed by the world not only as an athlete who’d faltered in 2008 but now also as a big-mouth activist.
My teammate Khadevis Robinson, a middle-distance runner, was concerned about me the way a big brother would be.
One day during warm-ups he gently said, “What you’re doing is really admirable. But I don’t want this to take away from you winning the gold.”
I felt the love in his concern.
“I feel like God’s on my side,” I assured him. “I’m doing the right thing, and whatever happens, I’m okay with it. I’m proud that I’m speaking out for athletes.”
I came by my conviction honestly. My dad was a lot like me—a rebel. He’d always been passionate about doing what was right and supported me 100 percent. My mom, though, shared some of the same concerns Khadevis did. She agreed with what I was about, but didn’t like the extra attention it brought. Her advice was to fly under the radar so I could focus on winning my race. I understood that she just wanted to protect me. Ultimately, I chose to speak because I felt compelled to honor the convictions God had laid on my conscience.
While the fervor of #wedemandchange was still simmering in the media, I shifted my attention to the job I’d come to London to do. Focusing on my race, I set my mind on victory.
The Big Race
The individual 400 in the 2012 race was, arguably, the most important race of my career. As it had been in 2008, Olympic gold was at stake.
Typically, I breezed through the prelims. I wasn’t matched with my fiercest rivals, so those early races had begun to feel like “checking the box.” When I was on the warm-up track, getting ready for the first prelim, it began raining. The first several heats of runners had to run in the rain. But the moment I stepped out on the track, the sun came out. Seriously, it was like a movie. I received that as a sign that God was smiling on me and this was going to be my Olympics.
I did breeze through the prelims, but the final was very intense.
Running in the Olympics is a different beast than other races. After we warm up, we’re called in to a staging area where we wait for up to an hour. We’re corralled with our competitors three times longer than we are in any other meet. If you’ve watched any of that backstage footage during the Olympic games, you’ll see some athletes zoned out listening to music with headphones. Others might be stretching. Some might be praying. Others will be shaking out their muscles. The mind games that happen from sharing that same prep space are intense! And it’s often hardest on young athletes. Because of the meticulous schedule being kept, we’re moved down a hallway, from room to room, getting closer to the track. It adds to the gravity of the race we’re facing, which is already pretty fierce.
When we were finally released onto the track, I was in lane 6, and Novlene Williams, who’d beat me in Jamaica, was in lane 7.
Even the hoopla on the track takes longer. The introductions are grander and the audience’s reactions, cheering among fans from the various countries represented, takes longer too. As the announcer was heralding the Russian runner in lane 5, I had a flashback to how that moment had felt for me four years earlier. That’s when Shari had looked up at the big screen and thought to herself, “That’s not my sister.” I had been undone emotionally, and it had showed. That’s why, when the announcer spoke my name in London, I had my game face on. I gave a big smile as I waved, to say, “I’m ready!”
I was.
I was prepared for all the predictable distractions: windy weather, rainy weather, trash talk, races running behind schedule. My head was in the right place and I was ready to do battle.
But when the announcer got to lane 8, the response from the crowd was unnerving. Christine Ohuruogu, running for Great Britain, was defending her Olympic gold title from 2008. The odds of running in the Olympics on your home turf as a defending champion are miniscule. And her family lived just one mile from the stadium! If ever a crowd was dishing out hometown love, this was it. When the announcer spoke her name, the fans went wild for Ohuruogu.
There were three minutes between that crazy cheering and the start of the race. Three minutes for me to get my head back in a good space. Three minutes to focus on my race and breathe a prayer to God. As I stepped into the blocks, I spoke in my mind, “I can do all this through him who gives me strength.” (Philippians 4:13)
BANG!
At the crack of the gunshot, I got out of the blocks hard. Russian Antonina Krivoshapka, in lane 5, also got out really, really fast! Because the Russians don’t compete a lot on the track circuit, I hadn’t raced against her often and wasn’t used to running beside someone with that much power at the front end of the race. Typically, I’m the fastest person in the first two hundred meters. Because my head was in the race, I reminded myself, “Relax. Pace . . . pace . . . pace . . .” I was determined to run my race.
She was leading on the inside, but as we got to the turn we both picked up speed. Coming off the turn, though, DeeDee Trotter was in the lead. Usually DeeDee didn’t turn on the power until the last fifty, so when I saw her in front I thought, Sanya, you’ve got to get going.
I got going, but continued to run the race that Coach and I had planned
.
In the final fifty meters, Christine Ohuruogu turned it up and came down the final stretch strong. The crowd was frantic. Knowing the increasing roar of the crowd meant someone was right on my heels, I dipped forward for a huge lean over the finish line.
Running my race, I made it to the finish line first!
Though the race had been close, with Christine Ohuruogu sliding past the finish line a fraction of a second after me, I was confident I’d won. I kept my eyes on the board, but the names weren’t being posted. Though I’d felt my body fly over the line first, these kinds of delays were always nerve-racking. Had I committed a violation? What was the holdup?
I mentally willed the officials to post my name, “Please be me . . . please be me . . .”
I won’t lie. There was a moment of doubt.
Because of the noise . . .
Because of the delay . . .
Because of Beijing . . .
When I’d started the race, Shari had shouted out to me during my warm-up lap on the big track. So I’d been able to spot Shari, Ross, and my amazing cousin Yollie at the twenty-meter mark. I looked over and saw them pumping their fists. If they had any of the glimmers of doubt I had, they weren’t showing it.
In the most magical display I’d ever seen, the results were finally posted.
1st Place: United States. Sanya Richards-Ross. 49.55.
2nd Place: Great Britain. Christine Ohuruogu. 49.70.
3rd Place: United States. DeeDee Trotter. 49.72.
4th Place: Botswana. Amantle Montsho. 49.75
The delay hadn’t been about first place at all! The officials wanted to be certain that the excruciatingly thin differences between second, third, and fourth place were accurate.
Right on Track Page 13
