Life Outside the Oval Office: The Track Less Traveled

by Nick Symmonds

  Fatigued, I lay in bed every afternoon with a novel and read. I devoured both fiction and non-fiction at a ravenous pace. Both of my parents had always been avid readers and they kept the books arriving in the mail. I typically alternated between a Dad pick and a Mom pick. Their tastes in literature are as diverse as mine and sometimes I couldn’t tell who had recommended the science fiction and who had recommended the sappy love story.

  On weekends we partied. Coach Gags was smart to give us early morning practices on Saturday, so Friday nights we were on our best behavior. However, Sunday’s long runs were on our own and this meant that Saturday night we were free to get wild. And that’s exactly what we did. Even though it was not the best idea for professional athletes, most Saturday nights the team met at someone’s house and we all drank to excess. We then called cabs, drunkenly poured out into a street, and found a bar where we could hang out until two in the morning trying to pick up women. More often than not I failed, and went home dizzy and alone.

  I remember being lonely in the evenings during my first few months in Eugene. I also remember feeling guilty about how hard I was still partying. I knew that drinking to excess was not going to help me accomplish the running goals I had set for myself, but after running seventy miles each week it was how I chose to let off some steam. It was a young, dumb decision.

  During the lonely times I thought about my friends and family in Boise, and how deeply I missed them. That first season I looked forward to Thanksgiving break every single day. When the time came, I went home and spent almost all of my time watching movies with my mom, and hunting with my dad. The only time I wasn’t hanging with my parents was when I took a friend out on a date. Her name was Chelsea and I’d had a crush on her since high school. We had stayed in touch and were both single, so we met up for dinner. She was beautiful, and into many of the same things I was, hiking, nature, family, reading. Chelsea and I began an exclusive relationship, despite the geographical distance between us.

  From the beginning it was tough. Chelsea was in school at Boise State University and not able to move to Eugene. I flew her to Eugene one weekend a month, though, and tried to get back to Boise every few weeks.

  I enjoyed every minute I was able to spend with Chelsea. Given our limited time together I planned fun outings for us each trip. We went to the coast, the zoo, and to rivers to fish. We often watched movies in bed or went shopping. On one of Chelsea’s trips out we were at a shopping mall in Eugene when we passed a pet store. It was just a few days before Easter and the shop had a dozen baby rabbits in stock. We picked up the tennis ball sized fluff balls and played with them for an hour. Chelsea turned to me and said, “Nick, I want one.” Not wanting to disappoint her, I told her to pick out her favorite. She pulled out a little black bunny that looked more like a rolled up sock than a rabbit and said, “I want this one. His name is Mortimer.” I paid twenty dollars for Mortimer and thought, what the hell am I supposed to do with a rabbit when she leaves?

  My plan was to let Chelsea enjoy Mortimer’s company until the end of her trip, at which time I would take Mortimer out to woods. There I would release him to live happily ever after with all the other critters of the forest.

  Several days later I took Chelsea to the airport and returned to our new pet. But when I looked at him, I knew he wouldn’t survive five minutes in the wild. So instead of a walk into the woods, I Googled, “how to house train a rabbit.” What I should have Googled was, “how long do rabbits live.” Though Chelsea and I unfortunately broke up later that summer, Mortimer has been by my side for more than eight years.

  In Springfield, Mortimer and I were fairly happy bachelors together. Once in a while, my game was solid enough to convince a girl to come home with me. Usually, these women had a thing for runners (or rabbits) or were lured by the hot tub I owned that I had not so subtly mentioned during our conversation.

  This hot tub had the unfortunate location of being just a few feet from my fence, and no more than five yards from my neighbors’ bedroom window. On more than one occasion the Springfield Police were called to my house and I was issued a citation for excessive noise. Today, at thirty years of age, I feel terrible for my neighbors and what they must have heard going on in that hot tub. However, at twenty-three, I didn’t really care, and kept the party going every weekend.

  One day I got a call from Coach Gags. “What’s this I hear about orgies goin’ on in ya damn back yard?”

  “Coach Gags, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about,” I said.

  Gags went on to explain that my neighbors had written a letter to the president of the University of Oregon complaining about the parties going on at my house. I laughed pretty hard when I heard this, considering I had absolutely zero affiliation with the University of Oregon. When their letter, and Coach Gags’s shouting, failed to put an end to my parties, my neighbors sent a letter to the CEO of Nike, who passed it down to their sports marketing department.

  Years later one of the Nike employees told me that when they received the letter they all sat down to read it, laughed until tears ran down their cheeks, and tossed the letter in the trash. “I want an invite to your next party!” the employee said. “These things sound legendary!” It seemed my main sponsor was only concerned that I perform well on the track.

  Though I still kept in touch with several college friends, I was becoming close to the guys on my new professional team. At college I never really felt I belonged. I felt as if I was living in someone else’s world, living on their schedule, jumping through hoops they put in front of me. But here in Eugene I was my own boss, running my own business, on my own schedule. My teammates wanted what I wanted: to have fun and become the fastest person in the world. We devoted all of our conscious hours to these two things, and through our daily struggles, became very close.

  My closest friends on the team were the Jefferson twins out of Indiana. Sean and John were both sub four-minute milers and nearly identical. Gags could never tell them apart and, for some reason, decided instead to just call them both Jeff. Although they both came off as shy, they had incredible wit and intelligence to go with their beach boy hair and good looks.

  Another of my closest friends on the team was a guy named Christian Smith. Christian had gone to Kansas State University and had been one of the top Division I middle-distance runners during my senior year. He and I had traded better marks in the 800 and 1500 all year, and I saw him as my biggest competition on the team. However, I liked his laid back, Midwest personality so much I didn’t let competitiveness get in the way of our friendship.

  The final piece of this puzzle fell into place a year after OTC was created when fellow Division III stand out, Will Leer, joined the team. The five of us spent most of our free time together drinking beer, playing the music-based video game Rock Band, or going out for burgers. We all lamented how hard it was to meet women in Eugene, and started calling the town The Trenches.

  “So fellas, we headed back into The Trenches this Saturday night?” I might ask.

  “Damn it, guess so,” my friends usually replied.

  We were all relatively good looking, fit, and successful, but the tough part about being a young professional in a college town is that if you aren’t a part of the college you are looked at as something of an anomaly. There were very few people our age as, upon graduation, most students left to find jobs in bigger cities. Several times I found a nice girl to date, only to have to say goodbye as soon as she graduated. This was, perhaps, for the best, as it allowed me to focus on my career and not on maintaining a relationship.

  Weekly, I had dinner with Coach Gags and we talked about life, family, and running. He worked hard for all his athletes, but I think he spent extra time with me. Perhaps it was because he knew I needed someone to help keep me focused, or because he saw extra potential in me. Either way, I very much enjoyed our weekly meetings. I loved working with Coach Gags as a coach and still love him to this day as a friend. I fondly recall him yell
ing at me after some of my less stellar races in a thick New York accent, “What was that? Some kinda Division IV crap?”

  But, after a poor race, Gags always sat me down to go over what I did wrong. This was always followed by a giant bear hug. “I love ya kid, and you’re gonna be great,” he’d say before telling me to go cool down. I loved him, too.

  Coach Gags was the reason we were all in Eugene. He was a legend and knew how to get people onto Olympic teams. Not everyone was ecstatic to be living in a sleepy college town, but most everyone was thrilled to be running for Coach Gags. I was certainly one of them and, though my love life was suffering, I enjoyed living in the Emerald Valley, which was what locals call the Eugene/Springfield area.

  I learned pretty early on that if I was going to make this place my home, then I needed to find a hobby. I had been fly-fishing in Idaho and Montana for trout since I was old enough to hold a rod. I also knew that Oregon was legendary for its diverse fisheries, so I began to study up on the various species that ran through the state’s rivers and the myriad sea life available for harvest in its estuaries and coastlines. I made friends who were fishermen and spent my free days with them talking about everything but running. We caught salmon, steelhead, trout, rockfish, crab, clams, sturgeon, ling cod, and tuna. As a result, our freezer was packed full of fresh fish year round. I can say with certainty, that without my love for fishing, I would not have stayed in Springfield, Oregon for the better part of a decade.

  Track Town, USA as the area is fondly known in the running world, is truly the most supportive place for runners that I have ever known. The running community across the United States is fairly small, and in Eugene it is tiny––but dense. When I first showed up I was overwhelmed by the amount of positive support the entire team received from the community. Doctors met with us on their lunch breaks, massage therapists saw us on weekends, and nearly every person we passed on a run waved or smiled at us.

  Before my big races people came up to me during the day to wish me good luck, and after the big wins they patted me on the back in congratulations. This reminded me of those first races in Idaho, when after a race I’d receive the positive affirmation and attention my insecure teen self needed. As a young man I did not need this adulation as much, but I welcomed it, as it made me feel a proud part of the community.

  On one occasion a wealthy and generous man came up to me at a restaurant, put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Thank you so much for all you do for this community and this country.” As he said this, he set three folded $100 dollar bills down in front of me.

  I jumped up and said, “Thank you so much, sir, but this is not necessary.”

  He just nodded his head, patted my back, and walked out of the restaurant.

  Although I was a kid from Boise who had spent the last four years in a Willamette jersey targeting Oregon Ducks on the track, the community of Track Town, USA adopted me as one of their own. At major meets, when the athletes were announced prior to the race, the crowd always erupted after my introduction. To this day the sound of their applause still gives me chills and sends a wave of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

  10

  I had raced at Hayward Field many times. This historic stadium situated on the lush, green University of Oregon campus is known for having many knowledgeable and passionate fans. They rewarded great performance with thundering applause and I had heard it many times. On a few occasions the applause was even for my own performance. But, never had I received such eardrum shattering applause as I did on the evening of June 30, 2008. That evening I raced for a spot on the Beijing bound USA Olympic Team in front of a sold out stadium. It was one of the most amazing experiences of my life.

  Coach Gags and I had prepared diligently for two years for the team selection process, knowing that it would be mentally and physically taxing. To make the USA Olympic Team in the men’s 800 meters, you must do two things. First, you must have an Olympic A standard––a time set by the International Olympic Committee (IOC) that athletes all over the world must hit to compete at the Games. There is a less competitive B standard, but the United States is so deep in talent that in most track and field events this does not come into play.

  Second, each American must go through three rounds of competition. The sum of this is a grueling four-day process in which more than thirty of the country’s best athletes are narrowed down to just three team members. Each country is allowed a maximum of three entries per event, and we were all racing for these spots.

  My training had been going well and I felt I was physically prepared for this test. Mentally, I was confident and eager to prove myself. However, on a scorching hot day in Carson, California in May, my Olympic dreams were almost crushed. I had traveled to The Home Depot Center (now called The StubHub Center) with Coach Gags and a few teammates to compete at the Adidas Grand Prix meet.

  The plan was to run a 1500 meter race as a last strength test before switching our training over to prepare for the shorter 800 meters. That day the temperature on the track was well over one hundred degrees, and the meet director had allowed close to twenty people to toe the starting line. This size of a field is too large for a professional 1500 meter race. Not a fan of the heat or the field size, I considered withdrawing from the competition. Ultimately, I decided that I had flown all the way down there and might as well have a run at it.

  Dripping sweat, I stepped on the line and waited for the gun to go off. I was completely immersed in elbows the first 50 meters and finally, with a lot of pushing and shoving, was able to get into position behind American miler Lopez Lomong. Just as I did though, someone’s feet ahead of him tripped him up, and he went down. I never claimed to be much of a hurdler, but I did my best to jump over him. I had just about cleared him when my right knee came sliding down along his upturned metallic spikes. I could feel the steel ripping through the thin skin of my knee.

  The starter fired another shot calling all the competitors back to the line. This is common practice when someone goes down in the first 100 meters of a race. As I walked back to the line I could tell something wasn’t quite right. I looked down at my knee and saw a two-inch gash dripping blood. In the center of the gash was the glistening white bone of my kneecap. I knew it needed stitches, but I felt it could hold up for three and half more minutes, and got back to the starting line.

  The gun went off again and this time, despite an equal amount of pushing and shoving, all competitors managed to stay on their feet. I tucked into the back of the pack and tried to move through the bodies and heat as efficiently as possible. I felt a dull ache in my knee, but no serious pain.

  With each step, however, I began to wonder if I was doing serious damage to my knee. What if this keeps me from running in the Olympic Trials, was the refrain that echoed through my head. With one lap to go the pain and fear got the better of me and I stepped off to the inside of the track. In ten years of racing I had never once failed to finish a race ––until now. To this day, that race remains the only DNF (did not finish) to my name.

  As I hobbled across the track towards the medical tent I asked if there was a doctor around. The massage therapists and trainers looked at each other and then back, and assured me there was one somewhere. I sat down in the tent and waited for twenty minutes until a doctor finally showed up.

  “Yep, that’s gonna need stitches. Gonna have to get you to a hospital,” he said after examining my knee for all of two seconds.

  I was upset that I had not finished the race and terrified about what this meant for my training going into the Olympic Trials. To make matters worse, the meet did not have anyone who could drive me to the hospital a mile away, so my agent picked me up in his rental car and drove Coach Gags and me over. As we approached the entrance, Gags told me not to worry, that it would all work out. His words did little to easy my worries.

  We entered the emergency room through sliding glass doors to find a horrifying scene. In a waiting room made for fifty people there must have b
een more than one hundred. It was hot, and the smell was rancid. There were people coughing and babies crying. Some sat in chairs while others remained standing or lay on the floor. There were people who looked sick and others who looked injured. Though I don’t specifically remember anyone with a nail sticking out of his or her head, that affliction would have been quite appropriate for the scene.

  I approached a receptionist who was sitting behind a shield of bulletproof glass and told her my knee needed stitches. She slid a clipboard and some paperwork under the glass and told me to fill it out and bring it back to her.

  “How long do you think it will take?” I asked looking around.

  “Honey, don’t be in a rush cause there’s a lot of people ahead of you. Could be eight hours before a doc can see you.”

  “Eight hours?” I asked in disbelief. “But I need to catch a flight out of LAX in four!”

  She shrugged her shoulders and pointed at the clipboard. As I turned to walk away she shouted after me, “Wait, do you have health insurance?”

  I turned back to her and said, “Yes, I do.”

  With that, she took the clipboard back from me and said, “Then just walk across the street to the other hospital.”

  With Gags by my side I hobbled out of the building, into the sunshine, and across the street. Again we entered through sliding glass doors, only this time what we found on the other side was a cool, quiet, pristine waiting room with soft jazz playing over the speakers. I approached the receptionist and explained to her what the problem was. Like the receptionist across the street, she handed me a clipboard and asked me to fill out some paperwork. Unlike, the other receptionist, however, she then asked me for a copy of my health insurance card. I handed it to her and sat down to fill out my paperwork. A few minutes later a nurse came to get me and took me back to see a doctor. Within an hour I had ten stitches in my knee, a lollipop in my hand, and was on my way to catch my flight out of LAX.