One day, after receiving a particularly disappointing grade on a chemistry test, I jumped in my SUV and started driving as tears streamed down my face. I drove south for an hour, until I finally pulled to the side of the road and called my mom. Sobbing into the phone I told her that if I continued to get grades like the one I had just received, no medical school would ever accept me.
She asked why I wanted to be a doctor. I thought about that for a minute, then said, “People look at doctors with respect, and they make a lot of money and get to wear pajamas to work.” Hearing myself say that I added, “Oh, and I guess doctors get to help people too.”
Mom laughed, and then patiently explained that there were a lot of jobs that had those kinds of benefits. She went on to say that, although wanting to help people was a good reason to become a doctor, wearing pajamas to work was probably not worth the amount of time and money it would take to earn my MD.
Deep down I knew this, but I desperately wanted to be successful at something and medicine seemed a logical choice. In the back of my mind I wondered if I could ever be really successful at running. Certainly I’d had some success, but it was small compared to what my Division I colleagues were accomplishing. More to the point, my career had stagnated. At the end of my junior year my personal bests were still very similar to the times I had run my freshman year.
I was bored at school and unhappy with the lack of progression in my running. I also felt I had met everyone there was to meet at tiny Willamette University and was bored in Salem. In addition, I often sat through class staring out the window wondering what life would be like as a professional runner. Where would I travel and what kind of people would I meet? What sort of crazy adventures would I have? I imagined myself crossing the finish line at the Prefontaine Classic, the most prestigious professional track and field meet in the United States, as thousands of people cheered me on. I wondered how I would celebrate when I crossed the line, and how I would answer reporters’ questions. Invariably, I was brought back to reality when a professor called on me to answer a question about tiny bits of matter that I finally understood would never matter to me.
Every day, when classes were finally over, I ran back to the fraternity, packed my gym bag, and headed to practice where Coach Kendrick and I argued about what I should do for the day’s workout. I needed a change.
I began to make calls to ask about transferring to a different school. Although every coach I spoke with was interested in having me run for them, all wanted me to redshirt, or suspend, my first year with them so as to extend my collegiate eligibility. I, however, wanted to be done with school and be out in the real world, so this was not an option for me.
My only choice, it seemed, was to drop out of school altogether. Toward the end of my junior year I called my parents to break the news that I was going to leave Willamette University and focus on running full time. Needless to say, Mom and Dad were not thrilled with this plan. I told them I could be really good if I put all my energy into running, but that school prevented me from doing so. I added that I could always come back and finish my degree at a later time.
“Could you put all your energy into running and still get passing grades?” they asked.
I figured if all I did was show up to class I could eek out C’s. Knowing that it was either C’s or nothing, my ever-supportive parents told me they would back a plan that involved less than stellar grades, but strongly urged me to finish my degree.
I went to the list of priorities tacked up in my mind and pulled it down. It had been: family, school, running, social life. I mentally ripped it up and wrote a new one: family, running, social life . . . school. As soon as this change had been made I felt a giant weight lift off my shoulders. Sure, I was going to get shitty grades, but I could always go back and retake classes if I decided to go to grad school.
This new plan would also allow me to put my youth to better use, and I made a promise to myself to find out just how far I could take my running. The first step was to log some serious miles in the summer before my senior year. Aaron Hollingshead (a teammate of mine and one of my best friends) and I took to the Internet to find a remote location at high altitude where we could train like Kenyan marathoners. Given that neither of us had ever been able to study abroad, due to the fact that we had athletic commitments in both the spring and the fall, we also wanted this location to be outside of the United States.
Our search led us to a town not far from Mexico City called Toluca. Neither Aaron nor I spoke much Spanish so we asked a teammate of ours who was fluent in Spanish if he wanted to join us. His name was Carlos Ruiz and once he was in, we purchased tickets and set about making plans.
I was thrilled to head to my first real training camp, and to live, eat, and sleep running. There was only one thing that separated me from this Spartan existence; the NCAA Division III National Championships. This time it was being held in Wartburg, Iowa, and I was again trying to pull off the 800/1500 double I had managed my freshman year. Without too much struggle, I did.
You might think that these wins would make me happy; I was running well and had just won my fourth and fifth NCAA Division III National titles. But, my triumphs actually made me less happy and more frustrated. I clearly was not racing tough enough competition. Where was the challenge?
Fortunately, I found the challenge of a lifetime when we arrived in Toluca. Situated at 8,750 feet in the mountains of central Mexico, I struggled to walk in the dry, thin air. Aaron, Carlos, and I ran almost every morning and evening of our ten-week stay. When we weren’t running we were studying Spanish, eating tacos, or stumbling around aimlessly having consumed a few too many shots of tequila.
My fitness and my Spanish came along quickly during that trip. Both were largely due to the fact that I had begun dating a girl named Betty. She had a dark complexion and curves that conveyed her Mexican heritage. She spoke little English and laughed at my terrible Spanish. However, she was patient and allowed me to butcher her language as I stared into her beautiful brown eyes.
At this point, aside from the time I had taken off for my knee injury, I had been running nearly every day since I first showed up at cross-country practice in middle school. My love-hate relationship with distance running had come a long way since those days, but the hate side generally still won out. In Mexico, however, everything changed. For the first time in my running career I learned to enjoy the pain and sacrifice that comes with running ten miles a day. In Mexico I no longer had to try to cram my workouts between school, a job, or other daily commitments. Finally, I had the time to appreciate both the hard work that goes into creating a great runner and the rest that must accompany it. As I clicked off miles along dirt trails through the high Mexican dessert, I truly began to fall in love with the sport.
After ten incredible weeks, I was forced to say goodbye to Betty when I returned to Willamette University to finish my degree and collegiate eligibility. I was in the best shape of my life, and with a new list of priorities posted in my brain it felt like this year would be very different from the previous three.
As expected, my grades reflected my new order of priorities. Where A’s had always been the standard I held myself to, C’s seemed just fine now. C’s get degrees, I told myself as I shoved another barely passing test or paper into my backpack. My professors had begun to worry and asked what was up. I explained to them that running was now my primary objective. They listened and nodded, but were clearly concerned.
I thought my renewed focus in the sport of running might help mend my relationship with Coach Kendrick, but unfortunately, it seemed to do just the opposite. Previously, when he and I had disagreed on something, I had seen it as an annoyance. Now when we disagreed, I saw him as a giant, stubborn obstacle in my way to running greatness.
He continued to give me workouts that I felt were far too easy. I listened as he read out the day’s workout to the team, then shook my head. I ran his workouts though, usually in lane two or three to add distance onto
each rep, thereby making it tougher. Each day, when I had destroyed the workout and barely broke a sweat, I asked Coach Kendrick for more.
Rather than embrace my eagerness, he’d throw his hands up in the air and say, “Nick, why am I even here? Since you seem to know everything why don’t you just coach yourself?”
That was the first thing Coach Kendrick had said in a while that made sense to me! So I did.
On many occasions during my senior year I ran my coach’s workouts and then jogged a mile to nearby South Salem High School where I ran a second workout that I had written for myself. Though I would not recommend that most young athlete do this, out of desperation, I felt I had to. It was risky, but it also taught me to be self-sufficient and to take control of my training. It taught me to listen to my body, for this was the only way I could get through both workouts.
Soon, I began to see all the hard work paying off. During my last cross-country season I set a new personal best for 8,000 meters of 24:49, an average of just less than five minutes per mile for 4.97 miles. That season I also won the cross-country conference title, taking down some very talented endurance runners. I had never been a really great cross-country runner, so I knew that I must have gained some serious strength.
Over the Christmas break I allowed myself to take two weeks of down time. I spent the first week with my family in Boise, Idaho. I think they could see that I was now learning to love the sport of running and could clearly see that it was translating to great returns in competition. They continued to support me emotionally, and encouraged me to follow my dream.
After Christmas, I flew to Portland, Oregon to meet up with one of my fraternity brothers and fellow 800 meter runner, Everett Thomas. He was headed to Costa Rica to see his family for a few weeks and had invited Cooper and me. Everett, Cooper and I had all become very close and were actually living together in a house off campus. When Everett invited us along on the trip, we couldn’t say no. In the warm, humid climate on the Pacific side of Costa Rica, I ate fried rice, drank coconut milk, surfed, and played with monkeys. This time off was exactly what I needed after the long summer and fall.
When I returned to Oregon, my legs felt fresh and renewed. I transitioned from preparing for 8,000 meter cross-country races, to mid-distance track races, slowly feeding my legs shorter, faster intervals, and more weight in the gym. The strength I had accumulated over the summer and fall, combined with the fresh legs I had after the vacation, had me feeling invincible. I was even surprising myself in workouts and crushing my competitors in every race I entered.
I begged Coach Kendrick to get me into more challenging races, but he asked me to sit back and trust him. That was the last thing I wanted to do. We finally agreed that I should fly down to Mt. San Antonio College in Southern California to compete in a national class men’s 800 meter race. I had won the B section of this race the previous year and was certain that the meet director would put me in the A race this year.
Coach Jimmy and I boarded a flight from Portland to Los Angeles. I was very excited to race some of the best athletes in the United States for the first time. However, when we went to get our race packet, I found that I had, once again, been placed in the B race. I was furious, but had already flown all the way to southern California, so I raced anyway. I won, easily. After the race I told Coach Jimmy I would be a while on my cool down. I threw on my trainers and headed out on a five-mile run, grinding the last few miles as hard as I could. I was so angry and frustrated, and tried to let it all flow out through my shoes.
After all the sacrifices I had made, to fly that far and to then be denied a chance to race against the best made me extremely upset. I had earned the right to be in that elite field. In fact, I had never lost an 800 meter final in my entire collegiate career! It just didn’t make sense. Over dinner that night I expressed my frustration to Coach Jimmy, and he promised he would get to the bottom of it.
True to his word, Jimmy found out what had happened. As we flew back to Oregon he told me that I wasn’t going to like what he had to say. Apparently, the meet director also felt I belonged in the A race with the nation’s best half-milers. However, earlier that week he received a call from Coach Kendrick. During that conversation he asked the meet director to put me in the B race. Astounded, Jimmy called Coach Kendrick to find out why he would do such a thing. According to Jimmy, his exact words were, “Because f*** Nick, that’s why.”
As Jimmy told me this I sat in my seat staring straight ahead, my body shaking. At the end of the trip I gave Coach Jimmy a big hug and thanked him for his help and for being honest with me. I tried to sleep that night, but the anger I felt deep inside wouldn’t allow me to do so.
The next day I barged into Coach Kendrick’s office. “You pulled me from the A race? Why would you do such a thing?” I shouted before I could even shut the door. Coach sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and said “I heard you were partying last weekend so I didn’t think you deserved to be in a race with the nation’s best.” I looked at him in disbelief before I stormed out of his office.
Looking back, to Coach Kendrick I must have seemed an unruly, arrogant jerk. What he failed to realize was, that to me, he was no longer my coach. He was now simply a guy with a title who stood in the way of where I wanted to go.
Specifically, I wanted to go to the USA National Championships to race the best America had to offer. This annual meet put on by our sport’s national governing body, USA Track and Field (USATF), pits professionals and amateurs against each other to decide the nation’s greatest athlete in each event. I knew that this competition would be my chance to test myself against the best. However, I needed a qualifying mark to be invited.
Every athlete must have run a time under the qualifying time standard, and within the qualifying window of calendar time. Both the time and the window are set by USATF. For the men’s 800, the qualifying time of 1:47.3 was almost a full second faster than I had ever run. I knew I needed to get in a fast race if I was to have any chance of running the time. I scoured the Internet, looking all over the country for an invitational meet, but couldn’t find any. At last I found a tiny meet in Nashville, Tennessee, the Music City Distance Carnival, held at Vanderbilt University. It fit into my season well and happened to have a men’s 800 meter race.
I emailed the meet director, a great guy by the name of Dave Milner, and explained my situation. I told him I was the three-time defending Division III national champion at 800 meters and had not lost a race at that distance in almost seven years. Dave wrote back that he could guarantee me a spot on the starting line, but had no money to fly me out or put me up in a hotel.
Even though I had a part time job delivering flowers for a local florist, the thousand-dollar price tag of a trip to Tennessee was well beyond my means. I swallowed my pride and went back to Coach Kendrick’s office to ask him to pay for it out of the track team’s budget. I explained that I had found a high quality meet on a fast track, in a city known to have great weather at that time of year. But once again, this coach dashed my dreams, this time when he said he wasn’t going to waste money on a trip like that, and that I should be able to run fast in Oregon.
I stared at him in disbelief. Either he was punishing me, or the guy just didn’t get it. I did not believe for a second that the team did not have the money. Besides, I had raced in Oregon dozens of times and never run faster than 1:48. I needed warmer weather and better competition, and the tracks in the Division III Pacific Northwest Conference simply did not offer me those things. I looked him in the eye and said, “Fine. I can’t force you to sign off on this trip, but I’m going to Nashville either way.”
“If you go to that meet,” he said, “you can consider yourself off the team.”
I walked out of his office and decided to call his bluff. As I walked the mile back to the house I shared with Everett and Cooper, I stewed in anger and tried to calm down before I phoned my parents. When they answered, I explained. Both Mom and Dad agreed this was an oppor
tunity that I couldn’t miss. Mom’s main concern was that the race was scheduled the night before my college graduation ceremony. She was worried that I wouldn’t be able to make it back in time to walk with my classmates to receive my diploma. I assured her that because Nashville was two hours ahead of Oregon time, if I left early enough the next morning I could make it back.
Reassured, they booked a flight for me to Nashville, along with a two-night stay at a hotel near the track. Several days later I flew to Music City.
When I stepped off the plane I felt the warm, humid weather settle into my muscles. This wasn’t the cold, rainy weather I had been trying to run through all spring, this was sprinting weather. I received my race packet and looked over the names on the start list. I didn’t recognize all of them, but I did know one man’s name: Jebreh Harris. Jebreh was a talented half-miler who had graduated a few years earlier from the University of Tennessee. He was currently ranked number six in the United States and had a personal best of 1:45.9. I knew if I could stay close to him, he would help tow me to a fast time.
When the gun went off late in the afternoon, Jebreh tucked in right behind the rabbit. In distance running, a rabbit is someone who is hired to run the first part of a race to set the pace for the competitors. Rabbits are not used frequently in collegiate meets, but are common in professional races. The rabbit led the field through the fast first lap before stepping off the track. Knowing the pace was honest, I remained patient, tucking in behind Jebreh, just inches away from his long back kick.
With only 100 meters to go I was still just inches from Jebreh. My legs felt good and strong and my mind was no longer thinking about running a fast time. Rather, I was focused on beating the sixth fastest man in the US to the finish line. I swung wide as we entered the home stretch and pulled even with him. Jebreh responded to my move and we ran shoulder-to-shoulder all the way to the finish line. I lunged for it at the last second and just barely out-leaned my worthy competitor. I had won the race and, in doing so, had set a new NCAA Division III national record. My time of 1:47.3 also just barely qualified me for the USATF National Championships.
Life Outside the Oval Office: The Track Less Traveled Page 6
