Life Outside the Oval Office: The Track Less Traveled

by Nick Symmonds

  11

  I was only at the starting line for an instant, but it seemed a lifetime. And, during that instant all the pressure I felt melted away. I felt light and strong, and supremely confident. I had played this exact moment through my mind thousands of times and each time I always imagined that here, crouched at the starting line of an Olympic Trials final, I would experience the greatest feelings of dread and anxiety. But that is not how I felt at all. Instead, my body felt like it was in perfect balance, ready to do what it had done so many times before. This feeling of total readiness is something I had experienced before, but never on such an intense level as this.

  My muscles ached to fire as I remained there, crouched for what felt like an eternity. Finally, with a loud “bang” we were set free. The first few steps felt difficult. Just as a car uses up gas at a much faster rate when it accelerates, my body uses up more of its energy reserves in these first few meters than at any other point in the race.

  There is a common phrase in distance running coined by the Kenyans called “stealing time.” The idea is that your legs are so fresh at the beginning of a race you can take off at a pace much faster than you would be able to hold for the entire race. The energy stored up in your legs is meant for this monumental burst of speed, and you can tap into it without greatly affecting the latter stages of your race. By using this method you can supposedly “steal” a second or two in the first part of a race. I’m not a physiologist, but in my personal experience this theory is complete crap. As much as I would like to believe it, I have tried it in many races and practice sessions and never found it to be true. Any acceleration performed in the race results in a quicker accumulation of lactic acid, and it will ultimately grip your muscles and slow you down.

  As my spikes dug into the track and my legs fought inertia to bring me up to race pace this thought was at the front of my mind: fast, but relaxed. This race mantra was given to me by Coach Shanahan nearly ten years prior to this event. It was still the best way to describe how the first part of a race should be run and I repeated it in my mind over and over again.

  The strain from the first few steps of acceleration was visible on my face, but 20 meters into the race my expression changed to total relaxation, just as we had worked on in practice many times. Arms loose, jaw relaxed, lower lip bouncing. These are the thoughts that trigger my body to stay relaxed and I repeated them to myself.

  I began to wonder if I was too relaxed, however, as I watched my competitors quickly pull away from me in their lanes. American half-milers are notorious for taking races out fast, and many subscribe to the notion of stealing time. I looked to lane six to see where Khadevis was. As he was the favorite to win this race I knew I had to keep him in my sights at all times. By the time we had covered the turn, he had put close to 10 meters on me and was flying down the backstretch. The other six members of this race were doing everything they could to stick with him as we broke out of our lanes and headed to the rail.

  What is going on? We were moving faster than my legs had ever carried me through the first 200 meters of a race, and I started to panic. I picked up my pace just to maintain contact. I was running in my first Olympic Trials final and was in dead last doing everything I could just to stay with the pack. Is there something wrong with me, or are we really running as fast as I think we are? I tried to run as effortlessly as possible, but knew that if I hit the 200 meter mark and saw a split, a running time, of 26 seconds, I was in big trouble.

  At both the 200 and 400 meter marks on the track there was a clock positioned on the infield that gave the runners their splits. Though I don’t always check to see what the time is (it can be a distraction to focusing on staying relaxed), I knew that what I saw when I came through the 200 meter mark would effect how I ran the next three-quarters of the race.

  From the back of the pack I peered around to the front and saw Khadevis pass by the clock. It read 23.9. Is he serious? If Khadevis held onto that pace he would run a world record by over four seconds. In an event where it might take an entire year of training to shave off one-tenth of a second, Khadevis wasn’t just stealing time, he was trying to pull off the heist of the century.

  I kept my eye on the clock as I came through the 200 meter mark and saw it roll over to “25” as I flew by, still bringing up the rear of the pack. Directly in front of me were Andrew and Christian. Though I try not to key off too many people in a race, knowing that they too were struggling with the hot pace helped me relax as we came to the home-stretch of the first lap. Normally, the pace would slow down considerably here and I would start to move up closer to the front of the pack. Today, however, the pace didn’t slow much at all.

  To move up now, I would have had to slow down, move out to lane three, and reaccelerate. Suicide. I glued myself to the rail and thought: Patience. Shut your mind off for a while. I stared at the back of Christian’s singlet and allowed my mind to quiet down. Maintain contact. Maintain contact. This was all I allowed myself to think for a couple of hundred meters.

  Though it might seem silly that I would need to turn my mind off in a race that lasts a little over one hundred seconds, I do it to allow my body to simply run free. The constant panic that the mind creates for itself during an 800 leads to tiny shifts of body weight and acceleration that can sap energy. By sitting on the inside of lane one, putting things on cruise control, and allowing my competitors to break the air for me, I was not only running the shortest distance, but also expending less energy than the race leaders. The pace is hot and it will string out. I told myself this right before I shut my mind off.

  For me to move from eighth place to first over the second and ultimate lap of this race would take every bit of cunning and physical prowess I had in my body. I knew I would have only one shot at getting to the front of the pack, and that the decision to move would have to be made in a fraction of a second.

  I missed seeing the 400 meter split and could not hear the announcer call it out over the noise of the crowd. My body told me it must be around

  50.25 give or take a quarter second. After ten years of doing this I could usually hit a quarter-mile within a half-second, no mater what the pace was. Whether that is an impressive feat or a troubling sign that I had run way too many laps, I’m not sure.

  As I rounded the top bend my eyes were still transfixed on the back of Christian’s jersey. When we hit the backstretch for the second time I woke up and started to panic once again. We were only 300 meters from the finish line and I was still in last place.

  I tried to follow Christian along the inside rail, but ran out of room. Though I was now in sixth place, I had no way to get to the front. I looked through the pack and tried to find a gap. There is none. I glanced to my right and considered going around everyone in an outside lane. Impossible. For one, Wheating had moved up onto my outside shoulder and trying to move the six foot five giant would have taken a forklift. The runners ahead of me were bunched too tightly to move through them. What do I do? There is no good way to get through this pack! Why hasn’t it strung out yet? My patience has defeated me and now I will never be an Olympian.

  I remained in the back of the pack, certain that I had made the most costly tactical error of my life. I had no choice but to continue to be patient, and hope a gap would open up in the last 100 meters of the race. I knew I probably would not win this way, but thought perhaps I could at least sneak in for a top three finish and punch my ticket to Beijing.

  My legs felt good still, in fact, they felt amazing, but there was just nowhere to go. This is 800 meter racing. I shouldered my way along the rail almost certain I had screwed myself out of a spot on the US Olympic

  Team. However, with 150 meters to go a narrow gap opened up between Jonathan Johnson and Christian Smith. It was a narrow gap and I knew it would only last for a half second. Going through it could mean getting tangled up with someone and getting tripped. No victory, no more chances, no Olympics.

  Not going through it could mean being too
far back from the leaders when everyone started their kick. This would result in me being left behind simply because I was too scared to get out with the leaders. These thoughts all passed through my brain in less than a quarter of a second and I knew I had less than that before the gap would close. Take it!

  As I pushed my foot on the accelerator I knew this decision would be one of the greatest or worst of my life. I closed my eyes and visualized driving my knees forward, as Coach Radcliffe had taught me in the gym. I needed to have perfect form to make it through this tangle of legs; a long back kick and I would be sure to get clipped and go down. I leaned lightly into Jonathan and my bulk shifted him to the outside of lane two. My six-inch gap nearly doubled and I was free.

  I now had a clear view to the front and could see that Khadevis still led the pack. Though I was now running in lane two, there was nothing separating me from him. With each step I thought about squeezing the trigger of a rifle. I was trying to exert as much pressure on the trigger without actually pulling it, and releasing the firing pin. This thought helped me accelerate at a controlled rate. Suddenly, I was closing in on the leaders.

  As we left the last turn and hit the home stretch I had pulled up even with Khadevis. I looked up and could see the finish line in the distance. I took one final analysis of my legs and knew I had enough energy left to get me there. I went back to the rifle in my mind and allowed myself to finally pull the trigger. The firing pin in my soul ignited every bit of energy I had stored in my muscles and I exploded from the pack. As my legs clawed the rubber I pulled farther and farther away from my competitors. I was separating myself from the best half-milers in America and was less than 80 meters away from realizing a ten-year dream.

  The crowd had been steadily getting louder as I made my move through the pack, and now that I was home free, they were going wild. I tried to listen to my breathing or the sound of my spikes hitting the track, familiar sounds that often comfort me and take my mind off the pain that is gripping every fiber of my body, but I could not hear anything. The roar of the crowd was deafening. I was giving each step everything I had and could see the finish line only a few seconds away when I thought, this noise cannot be for me . . . it’s for Wheating!

  I had run at Hayward field many times, and even had the opportunity to hear a Hayward Field crowd cheer me down the homestretch against the defending Olympic champion to win a Prefontaine Classic, the greatest non-championship race held on US soil. The crowd had never sounded like this. For the final time in this race my body was sent into a panic and I was sure that the sophomore from the University of Oregon was just steps away from passing me. I dug deep one last time. This last bit of energy was the kind that can only be accessed in incredible situations. It is born from natural adrenaline that no drug could ever replicate.

  I hit the line and threw my right shoulder as far out in front of me as I could without falling to the track, as Coach Rad had taught me. I had no idea where my competitors were, but I knew I had done everything humanely possible to get to this finish line first. I glanced to my left and right and could not see any of my competitors. You have done it. You are an Olympian. Not only that, but you have won the Olympic Trials. How exactly does one celebrate something like this?

  The moment I realized I had won the race, made the team, and accomplished a goal that was ten years in the making, a wave of testosterone hit me. This is similar to the feeling of adrenaline, but a different high. This feeling was not associated with a sense of panic, but rather with absolute joy and relief. I felt like a prizefighter who had just knocked someone out in the twelfth round to win a world title.

  The only way I could demonstrate the euphoria I felt was to throw my arms up and flex my biceps. My momentum from the final meters of the race had not yet died and I was able to get a good couple of seconds out of this pose before my cement-filled legs brought me to a halt.

  This last demonstration of bravado was almost my undoing, as it drained the final ounce of energy left in my body. I could no longer hold myself upright and was fortunate to turn around and find Wheating right behind me with his arms in the air. He had kicked hard down the final stretch in lane three to finish second. We leaned into each other and embraced as much to congratulate the other as to keep from falling down. I stepped back and felt fatigue grip my body. I fought the urge to hunch over or collapse to the track. Enjoy this moment proudly, not hands on knees, begging for oxygen.

  As I drew in each breath I realized there was one more person on this track that understood the way Wheating and I felt. The top three finishers make the Olympic team and I looked up at the video board to see who had finished third. There, right below Wheating’s name was CHRISTIAN SMITH. I could not believe what I had just read, and did a double take. Sure enough the board read:

  1 NICHOLAS SYMMONDS 1:44.10

  2 ANDREW WHEATING 1:45.03

  3 CHRISTIAN SMITH 1:45.47

  4 KHADEVIS ROBINSON 1:45.53

  5 LOPEZ LOMONG 1:45.58

  6 DUANE SOLOMON 1:45.78

  7 JEBREH HARRIS 1:46.21

  8 JONATHAN JOHNSON 1:48.11

  8:29.45 P.M. UNIVERSITY OF OREGON 1:44.10

  It was the Oregon sweep that I thought could never happen. I ran to Christian and helped him up off the track. He had dived for the finish line to out lean Khadevis for the final spot on the Olympic Team. He had beat Khadevis by five one hundredths of a second, about one inch. In doing so, he had run the A standard that he so badly needed. He was Beijing bound.

  The three of us were handed water and American flags and told to take a victory lap. As I turned to the crowd the first person I saw was Coach Sam, standing on the other side of the three-foot tall fence that ran around the perimeter of the track. As Coach Sam had perhaps played the largest roll in my making this team, it seemed very fitting that he would be the first person to congratulate me. I ran over to him and gave him a huge hug. “I love you, man!” he screamed into my ear.

  “I love you too, Coach!” I said back to him before continuing on my victory lap.

  A few meters down I saw Mom running down the stadium stairs. Tears were streaming down her face. I hopped the short fence that separated us and climbed up to hug her. “My boy, my boy!” she screamed as we embraced.

  The entire victory lap took close to half an hour as Christian, Wheating, and I stopped every few feet to hug a friend or sign an autograph. It seemed that everyone who had helped me along the way was here and I wanted to share this moment with each one.

  When we had completed this final lap we were taken to team processing and drug testing. This tedious but necessary process takes place at every US Championships. All I wanted to do was be with my friends and family, but instead I was forced to sit in a crowded room drinking water until I could pee.

  When we were finally released it was late, and most of the fans had left the stadium. I quickly found my family and coaches. We spent the next few hours taking pictures, catching up, and getting dinner at Track Town Pizza, a local pizza parlor that runners frequent after meets.

  After dinner we walked across the street to Villard Street Pub where track fans had been meeting each night for beers. My dad snuck in two bottles of champagne and some glasses for us to start the celebration off right. Surrounded by my family and best friends we popped the bottles and toasted to an amazing day.

  To my surprise, when I walked into the pub people began to cheer. As I worked my way to the bar they slapped me on the back and asked to take pictures with me. One guy I didn’t even know came up to me, shook my hand, and said, “Tonight, you don’t pay for a single drink. Anything you want is on me.”

  I accepted his gracious offer. Eventually, the party began to die down and my family decided to head back to their hotel. I hugged them goodbye and thanked them for everything. Those who still wanted to drink went back to my house where my roommates already had a pretty good house party going. We didn’t stop celebrating until sunrise.

  Later the next morning I woke
up exhausted and hung over. I was in desperate need of electrolytes, so I walked to the corner store. With my shades on to hide my bloodshot eyes I walked up to the store and saw the cover of that day’s paper on display in the dispenser. To my surprise, a picture of me crossing the finish line was front and center. The headline read: HALF-MILE HEROS. I chuckled, purchased a copy along with my sports drink, and sat down on the curb to read the article.

  Coach Gags had given me the next few days off, so I spent them sleeping and partying. Having been through two Olympic Trials now, I can say that the hardest toll they take on your body is not from the running, but from the incredible parties that occur each night. With hundreds of your closest friends all in town, and something to celebrate every night, it is hard to turn down the festivities.

  One day during the 2008 Olympic Trials, after I had made the team, I was issued my Olympic Team USA jacket. I threw the beautiful blue and white top on and admired the Olympic rings that were sewn into it. I was interested to see what kind of reaction this jacket would get from the public, so several of my teammates and I headed to Taylor’s Bar & Grille. This local “meat market” is where many college kids go when they are looking to make a new friend. As a rule I avoided the place, but tonight I had my new jacket on.

  Outside of Taylor’s there was a short line and we waited our turn to get in. The place looked crowded, which we decided made it worth waiting for. This particular evening I had Christian and the Jefferson twins with me. Inside, the place was packed. John Jefferson was competing in the 1500 in a couple days so he was not drinking, but couldn’t pass up the chance to celebrate with the rest of us. Sean was coming off an injury and would not be competing at these Olympic Trials.

  I had known these guys for almost two years and we had been through a lot. John was my roommate in Boston in 2007 when I had won my first USA indoor title. Sean once had my back in an argument that got out of control at a bar down the street called the Indigo District. That night at Indigo, an ex boyfriend was harassing the girlfriend of one of our teammates. When I saw him shove her I had to step in. I’m not one to provoke confrontation in a bar, but I became enraged when I saw him shove our friend’s girl.