Running for My Life: One Lost Boy's Journey From the Killing Fields of Sudan to the Olympic Games

by Lopez Lomong

  TWENTY-ONE

  Within Sight

  The first injury of my career came two weeks before the Olympic trials. At the end of my workout while running in stride down the backstretch of the Air Force Academy track, something popped in the back of my right leg. I pulled to a stop. When I tried to take another step, pain shot up the back of my leg. My leg would hardly move. I hopped around on my left leg while trying to get the right to work. Coach Hayes ran over to me. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I was working on pacing and my hamstring started acting up.” I could feel it pulling down the back of my leg, but at this point in the season I knew we could not afford an injury. I tried to play it down.

  He looked concerned and told me to take a few days easy and get it taken care of right away. He knew hamstring injuries were serious. As a coach, he’d seen many runners pull a hammy and the effects. Basically, you can’t run with a hamstring pull. The leg tightens up when you exert it, and you are done. Rest is the best treatment, about two months of rest. We had two weeks.

  Because of where I trained, I had lots of really good doctors and physical therapists nearby. The trainers and medical staff at the U.S. Olympic training center were amazing. They did an MRI to make sure it was only a hamstring. From there, I went to see a team of physical therapists who specialize in hamstrings. Over the next few days they used ultrasounds, ice baths, and pressure massages to try to get me back on the track. Coach Hayes insisted I consult the trainers at the Air Force Academy as well. They gave me a set of special exercises to do each day to release the tension in my hamstring and improve my mobility.

  The therapy regimen loosened up my leg enough that I could run hills. With the trials right around the corner, I had to run to stay in tip-top shape. Running uphill felt fine. Coming downhill was a different story. I could not put weight on my right leg. But I had to keep training. The trials were too close to take any time off. Since I could not run downhill, I ran as hard as I could up the hill, limped back down, then ran up as fast again until I’d run my quota of laps for the day. Afterward I soaked in an ice bath, then let trainers rub down my leg until it felt like they were about to rub my skin completely off. Coach Hayes was concerned about my injury. I tried to keep it to myself. We had worked too hard for this to get in the way now. I just smiled at him and said, “Don’t worry, Coach. This is working. I’ll be fine by the time the trials start.”

  “We leave for Eugene next week,” Coach Hayes replied. He was worried; I was not.

  “Not a problem,” I said with a smile. Honestly, I never for a moment thought I would not run in Eugene. God had brought me this far. I was confident He had something bigger in mind than letting an injury stop me just short of my goal. For me, making the Olympic team transcended sport. Running for the United States on sports’ biggest stage would give me a larger platform on which to raise awareness for Sudan and to make a difference for the people there. I also saw this as my chance to give something back to the country that took me in and made me a citizen when I had no home. I was too close to let a little thing like a pulled hamstring slow me down.

  I knew my hamstring would improve once we went to Eugene for the trials because a secret weapon waited for us there. Phil Wharton and his dad, Jim, are the best of the best when it comes to musculoskeletal therapy. They know how to fix athletes quickly. I called Phil right after my injury. “Let’s meet in Eugene,” he told me.

  When I arrived there, he’d rented a house where I went for daily therapy. Lots of athletes use the Whartons, not just me. Like I said, they are the best of the best.

  Coach Hayes went with me for my therapy session. The environment at Olympic Trials is exhilarating. It is also heavy with tension and expectation. Coach paced around the room, fidgeting, nervous. I stayed calm, and Phil Wharton was excited but focused. The three of us made quite a team. Every day Dr. Wharton worked over my hamstring with a combination of massage and ice. He also put me on a special diet. During the massage sessions he told me over and over, “Don’t worry about your leg. Focus on running. You already have an A-standard time, so you aren’t chasing anything you haven’t already reached. Just go out there and compete—and beat people!” Dr. Wharton was the perfect buffer between me and the nervous intensity of Trials. He took my mind off the fear of the name Olympic trials. “It’s just a race, Lopez,” he told me over and over. “It’s just another race.” After spending time with him, I was ready to go out and make the United States Olympic team.

  The trials kicked off, but my event, the 1500 meters, was still a few days away. Running felt better every day. I decided I needed to test my leg prior to my first 1500 heat. I had entered both the 800 and the 1500 before the trials started. I planned to choose one or the other prior to the actual start of competition and focus solely on that race. I went to Coach Hayes and said, “I’m going to run the 800 just to test my leg speed.” Even though I had not run the 800 all season, I ran it throughout college. I liked the race a lot.

  He looked at me like I was crazy. “The 1500 is your best shot at making the Olympic team.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said.

  “Then why would you choose to do the 800 instead?”

  “I’m not. I think I should run the first round of the 800 just to give my leg a little workout before the 1500 starts in a few days.”

  Now Coach Hayes knew I’d lost my mind. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We need to take it easy the next couple of days, then push hard when your race actually starts.”

  “I won’t do anything crazy. I need to stretch out my leg and get ready for my real race. Come on, we’re just talking about one heat. No more.”

  “Okay, but just the one heat,” Coach Hayes said.

  “Yep, one 800. That’s all.”

  I meant what I said until I actually won my heat. “One more round,” I told Coach Hayes. He liked this even less than he liked the idea of me running the first heat. Finally, after much back and forth, he relented. “One more round and no more,” he insisted.

  “Sure. No problem,” I said. I then went out and won that race as well. Now I was in the finals. If I finished in the top three in finals, I would qualify for the Olympics in the 800. I never planned on running in this event. I only ran to get ready for my real race. But now, with the finals and a spot on the Olympic team right in front of me, I could not walk away. I had to go for it.

  Coach Hayes came to me. “Lopez, you look awesome out there. However, we cannot jeopardize your chances in the 1500 by letting you run the 800 final. You need to decide which event you really want to run. You’ve run a lot of good 800s, but the 1500 is your best chance to not only make the Olympic team, but to do something once you get to Beijing.”

  “I understand,” I said, “but I think I can still do both.”

  Coach Hayes closed his eyes and rubbed his head. “I was afraid you would say that. Look, I have never doubted your ability but I don’t want your choices to affect your chances of making the team. The fans love you and want to see you run the 800 final, but we have to think about you here. The best thing to do, the smart thing, is to stop now. Take the next couple of days to rest so you peak in the 1500.” The 1500 started the day after the 800 final. Coach was right. No runner in his right mind would do what I was doing.

  “I understand,” I said.

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “I have to run in the finals,” I said. I knew he was right, but I also knew I would always wonder if I had what it took to make the team in the 800, especially if I did not make it in the 1500.

  Coach shook his head but knew I had made up my mind. “This is crazy! To go all the way to the finals in the 1500 will mean running six races in seven days. I know you are one of the most talented athletes out there, but bad choices can compromise that. If that’s what you want to do, I know you are capable, but be smart.”

  “I have to try.” I walked away very unsure of myself. What would I do if Coach was right? Had I blown m
y best chance to make the team by running 800s? I went to see Dr. Wharton for our therapy session. He calmed me down. “Use your head,” he told me. “Listen to your body. Don’t go beyond what it tells you it can do.” I needed him to go talk to Coach Hayes. For a coach, the hardest thing is to watch their athletes go to the track and know they no longer have any control. All of the preparation in the world cannot alleviate the anxiety the coach feels. We faced other obstacles now, but we had planned long and hard for this race. The whole year of training climaxed at this point. I was ready.

  I felt great the morning of the 800 final. I did all my warm-ups. My hamstring felt great. As I jogged around the track, other coaches and runners looked at me like I was nuts. I figured this was just one more step toward getting ready for my real event the next day. If I qualified for the Olympics in the 800, great. If not, I would do it in the 1500.

  I lined up in lane seven for the start of the 800 meter final. The line has a staggered start, which means those in the outside lines appear to have a head start on the people in the inside. That head start disappears after the first turn. The farther outside you are, the farther you have to run. The stagger makes sure everyone runs the same distance. Lane seven put me in the next to the farthest outside lane.

  The gun sounded and I took off. We rounded the first turn and passed the line which tells the runners they can move out of their lanes and toward the inside lane of the track. I pushed hard out of that turn and dove toward the middle. However, other runners bunched up inside, so I stayed just off their outside shoulders in fourth position. I sprinted down the backstretch. Halfway down I pulled into third position. By the time we rounded the second curve and came up the home straightaway, I moved up from third and into second. I don’t always like to move up so fast, but I thought it the best strategy for the pace of this race.

  We headed into the first curve of the second and final lap. My leg felt strong. I can do this! I told myself. I stayed in second all the way through the curve and down most of the backstretch. By this point, I was not thinking about 1500 meters or anything else. I could see my Olympic dream right in front of me, and I wanted to grab it no matter what the cost.

  All of a sudden, a runner darted around me. By the time I realized what had happened, he had passed the leader into first place. Other runners started passing me as well until I found myself in fifth place. Not a problem, I told myself. I’d outkick them in the final one hundred meters. I dug deep and kicked it into another gear. My feet tore at the track. The first and second place runners were too far ahead to catch, but that did not matter. I just needed to finish in third place to punch my ticket to Beijing.

  Push! I screamed at myself. My feet were flying. I pulled into a tie with two other runners for third place The tape was just ahead. I started to lean in, but something held me back. Someone behind me had grabbed hold of my jersey. As I tried to pull free, the guy on the inside lane dove toward the finish line. He tumbled over the line just ahead of me. Officially I came in fifth, less than a tenth of a second out of third place. I came within a jersey tug of making the Olympic team.

  After the race, I stood shocked that my Olympic dream had been stolen by a pull of my jersey. I shook, trying to catch my breath and realizing that I had failed to make the Olympic Team. I had tasted it. That is the nature of Track and Field. Not everything goes according to plan.

  “No problem,” I said to myself. “These things happen.” I meant what I said. Once the race was over, my mind could focus on the bigger picture. I ran the 800 as a warm-up for the 1500 and I’d nearly made the Olympic team! My leg was strong. Warm-ups were over. I was ready to go out and give it my all in the 1500. If I ran my race the way I knew I could, I would be on my way to Beijing.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Thank You, America!”

  The second injury of my career came ten minutes before the biggest race of my life. I never saw it coming.

  Over the previous three days I sailed through the first two rounds of the 1,500 meter Olympic trials even after running three 800 meter races in the days leading up to the first round. My body felt strong. My pulled hamstring felt so good when I ran that I almost forgot I’d injured it. From time to time it would tighten up, but Dr. Wharton always made me good as new. Even Coach Hayes had calmed down a little after watching me run in the semifinal race. My performance finally convinced him that running the 800 meter final did not blow my chance to make the Olympic team in the 1500. We were one heat away. He actually appeared relaxed.

  The day of the finals, I was out in the infield grass stretching from side to side when the first call for the 1500 came. I made my way toward the reporting area by doing long strides to finish my stretching. If not for my leg injury, I might have sat down to stretch, but I didn’t want to take a chance on my hamstring tightening up. Once I finished my long strides, I planned to have Dr. Wharton do a quick rubdown right before the race to make sure the hamstring was good and loose. I went through the same routine before every race. Now that I was in the final, I saw no point in changing anything.

  I took my first couple of long strides. My legs felt great. Then I took my third. My right foot came down on what appeared to be a normal patch of grass. I never saw the small hole into which my foot dropped. I came down on it awkwardly, twisting my ankle on the same leg that had the bad hamstring. Pain shot up my leg. I tried to jog it out, but I couldn’t put any weight on my right foot.

  “Second call, 1500 meter men’s final,” the track announcer said. I saw Coach Hayes on the opposite side of the track, but I avoided him. If he saw me limping, he might shatter his cell phone on the ground.

  I headed straight to Dr. Wharton. “I have a problem.”

  “What happened? Is it your hamstring?” he asked.

  “No. My hammy feels great, but I twisted my ankle in a hole while doing strides.” I spoke very softly so no one else could hear. The race was about to start, and I could hardly walk. I didn’t want anyone else to know.

  “Oh no. Are you serious? Here, lay down. Let me see what I can do.” He grabbed my foot and made a couple of adjustments.

  “Third call, 1500 meter men’s final.”

  Coach Hayes walked over to me. He had a puzzled look on his face. “What are you doing, Lopez? Time to report for the race. Why are you laying down now?”

  “He twisted his ankle,” Dr. Wharton said.

  Coach Hayes hid the anxiety. He could not let the injury get to my head. We both knew Dr. Phil was the best at what he did. “Keep focused on the race plan, Lopez. Remember all of the different plans we discussed. You know when to make your move.” It was almost that point where he turned me loose. He looked concerned about my ankle but kept me focused on the race plan.

  “I’m fine now, Coach,” I said. I stood up. The ankle still did not feel right, but I had to go report for the race. They weren’t going to delay the finals until my ankle healed.

  I grabbed my backpack and my uniform and started over toward the track. As I walked I prayed, God, I know You gave me this dream for something bigger than myself. You’ve done too many impossible things in my life so far for me to believe that You want my dream to end like this.

  I took another step. The pain in my ankle disappeared. I took another couple of steps. My ankle felt like I’d never run a race in my life, much less five in the past six days. I ran a couple of strides.

  Coach Hayes looked calmly at me. “Go run the race we planned” he said.

  “Yep. See you at the finish line.”

  I handed Coach Hayes my backpack and went over to the reporting station. As I walked up, I heard a couple of coaches talking. “Yeah, Lopez is injured,” one said.

  “What the heck was he thinking running all those races? He blew his chances,” said another.

  “Excuse me,” I said as I squeezed past them to the reporting desk. They looked at me like they’d seen a ghost. Their shock quickly turned to relief. With me hurt, their guys had an easier path to Beijing. I gave them
a slight smile. I knew something they didn’t know.

  After reporting, I took my place on the start line. Pure joy washed over me. This is the moment I’ve been dreaming about for eight years. Kakuma to Tully to Norfolk, Flagstaff to Colorado Springs, and now here, Eugene, Oregon. This is the place. My dream is about to come true!

  “Go, Lopez!” someone yelled from the crowd. I smiled and looked up in the stands. There was Melissa, my friend who brought me photographs of my mother. She wore a red shirt that said, “Run fast, Lopepe,” in Swahili. Brittany sat near her. I thought about all the laps the two of us had run together in Colorado Springs getting ready for today. She smiled a huge smile at me. Oh what a wonderful moment this was. I was not running from bullets or away from hunger. No, this was the ultimate moment of running for pure joy.

  “Runners, to your marks … Get set …” The gun sounded. I took off. This was the moment about which I’d dreamed for so long. I planned to enjoy it.

  The first two laps went according to my game plan. Stay alert on the first lap, close to the front, eyes all around for anyone who trips, conserve energy for the end. Get in position on lap two. I ran my race. Toward the end of the second lap, I moved to within striking distance of the leaders, while remaining just far enough outside to keep from getting boxed in. The pace picked up on the third lap. I moved closer to the front, ready to strike. The hamstring felt great, no pain in my ankle. God performed a miracle on my leg; there is no other explanation.

  We rounded the turn and headed up the straightaway for the bell lap, the final four hundred meters that stood between twelve runners and the United States Olympic Team. Up ahead I saw my cheering section in the stands. All of them stood, screaming my name. I moved up to third position, right where I needed to be.

  All of a sudden, I felt a push on my back. I looked to my side. Someone had pushed the guy running next to me, and he fell into me. Everyone in the front pack stumbled and looked ready to fall. My feet flew awkwardly. I struggled to keep my balance while trying to avoid the runners stumbling around me. All of us were on the verge of hitting the ground. Lopez, it’s good. Just run, I heard God say to me. My feet came back under me. No one fell. The bell sounded. Time to grab the dream.