Knowing What it Takes

I was 14-years old and going into my freshman year of high school. My best mile time was 5 minutes and 10 seconds, and the farthest I’d ever run was 2-miles…and that was in a race. Yet, I was about to embark on a 5 mile run with an 18-year-old Senior who had averaged faster than my mile best for a 5k. And it was in Houston, Texas… in the summer, which meant god awful heat and humidity.

I was about to receive my introduction to high school cross-country. This wasn’t official practice, but instead a favor. The best runner on the team had taken me under his wing, inviting me to train with him during the summer to prepare for the upcoming season. I wasn’t sure what I’d gotten myself into. We were just going for a “distance run,” he told me over the phone. I’d never actually gone for just a “run” in my life before.

Up until that point, training meant either running a few fast intervals on the track or running very hard over anywhere from 800 meters to a mile. Coming out of junior high track, just “going for a run” was a foreign concept. As the run approached, I wondered how fast we would go, was it supposed to be all-out or would I jog along like the old-men I’d seen in the neighborhood? All I knew was that it was my first run with our senior cross-country captain, so I better not suck.

As we began trotting down the street, he explained the loop we’d take. Two and a half miles out, traversing the neighborhoods we both lived in, before turning around and making our way back. I didn’t dare ask about pace or the purpose, or any other of the dozen questions circling in my brain. I latched onto “2.5 miles out.” For the first mile, we exchanged small talk, until all I was able to muster up were small words. “Ya, okay, good,” became my method of communication as we passed the 2-mile distance and into what for me at the time was the unknown.

We were running 6-minute mile pace, something I’d previously only done during 2-mile cross-country races. He was completely comfortable. I, on the other hand, was entering what I affectionately call survival mode. We hadn’t even reached halfway and I was in over my head. “Just make it to the turnaround, just make it to the turnaround,” was the only thought, other than the ever increasing pain, that was in my head. It worked well enough until we made it to the turnaround. Now, I had two and a half miles staring me in the face, with no way to convince myself that I was going to make it home.

I fought on through 3 miles, pulling out all of the stops, shifting my mind into race mode, until my body and mind had enough. Somewhere around three and a half miles, as we made our way down the sidewalk, in front of middle-class houses, I stopped. My hands went to my knees, and throw-up came spewing from my mouth onto the manicured lawn of the middle-class suburban homes we had been running past.

He turned to me and offered a line of sincere encouragement: “You’re doing a good job. It’s your first run. It’ll come.”

My stomach emptied itself of contents and my breathing began to normalize. I looked up and saw Matt standing there, finger on his watch, waiting to start to back up. As he saw me looking up, perhaps in search of sympathy, he stated, “This is what it takes.”

That’s when it hit me. It didn’t matter that I had just puked my guts out. We had a run to do. We had to make it back to our homes. I’d signed up to explore how good I could be in this crazy endeavor called running. He was offering me a choice, either run or don’t, but if I did, training would be the norm.

The next mile and a half were slower, but I made it back home. And we’d repeat the same ritual, the next day, and the next, and the next. Only without the throw up. My journey in running had begun.

This was an adapted excerpt of Chapter 3 of Win the Inside Game. It’s currently on sale for 20% off. Check it out here!

-Steve Magness