Track – My “Not So Much” Sport

If you’re looking at that faded picture from April 1981 of the two rain-soaked runners, I’m the one in those godawful striped shorts. Although I did finally beat the guy in front of me, it was during a steady, cold rain. Ironically enough, it was also the highlight of my two years of Track at Umpqua Community College. It serves as a reminder of why I really, really did not like Track. Not at all. This blog serves as a humorous reminder of my seven humbling years of running around an oval. It’s okay to laugh. I did at the time and certainly do now.

Don’t get me wrong. I was very fortunate. I ran Track for three years in Sutherlin High School ("Go Bulldogs!"), two years at UCC ("Go Timbermen!" - now "Go Riverhawks!") and two more at Western Oregon State College ("Go Wolves!" - the mascot remained the same. It's just the college that's changed it's name to Western Oregon University). Those seven years provided a multitude of memorable events shared with teammates – many of whom became very good friends and remain so. And I’m grateful that distance running allowed me to participate in two sports throughout college. But while I enjoyed Cross-Country and contributed as scoring team member, Track clearly fell into the category of “Not So Much.”

There are two main reasons for that. One, simply put, I have no speed. I’m not slow. But when it comes to being able to really kick it up on a track and blaze past other people, that wasn’t me. If my body were an engine, they would say it lacked “overdrive.” Several excellent coaches put forth vaunted efforts to unleash what simply wasn’t there, finally opting to have me start my sprint at about 200 meters before crossing their fingers.

My other notable shortcoming was that I was lousy at doing more than one race. Whenever I had to double, my first race was typically decent and my next one would have coaches saying that “at least we got a couple points out of it.” In high school, doubling meant the 1500 and 3000. At UCC, it was the twisted humiliation of the 10K and 5K. Western Oregon took a kinder and gentler approach, assigning me the 1500 and 5K. (For whatever reason, 10K’s and Steeplechases were never scheduled in that conference.) But the 1500 would leave me winded enough that I would still struggle a couple hours later with the 5K. As you’re probably thinking, why didn’t I just ease up on the fast event and save my best for long race which better utilizes my skills? Well, when you put that way, you’re right. That’s exactly what I should have done. But when I was in my early twenties, the only time I used strategy was timing when I’d leave class so that I could meet either my buddies or some cute girl.

At this point, I suspect you probably think I’m exaggerating. How bad could it have been? Let’s step into the “Way Back” machine for a look at my more humbling experiences with accursed 400-meter oval.

Let's journey back to the spring of 1980 and my first track season for Umpqua Community College where both disco and my reputation as a good distance runner were dying a slow death. Having had an impressive Cross-Country season, my coach thought I’d fill the Nikes of some previous talents by running both the 10K and 5k. Problem was that my talent wasn’t quite on the same level as my predecessors combined with the 10K typically only having two or three other runners. That introduced me to humbling experience of finishing in last place. Nor did the fun stop there. Trying to salvage some degree of pride, I would put push myself hard to beat at least one person during those 26 laps. That left my personal fuel gauge rather depleted when it came time for the faster 5K later in the track meet. That meant another last place finish and even getting lapped. As if to further display my ineptitude to those scant crowds, our uniforms were a bright green that stood out like a neon sign amid the shades of red, white and blue worn by every other team. About halfway through the season when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I had some pretty girl I was trying to date tell me that she heard I was the first one to come in last.

A tough season, but the seeds were sown the previous year when disco was indeed king and I was in the midst of a slump with my times being slower than my junior year of high school. But, as I deluded myself, I was a senior with only a couple meets left to endure. I was also still our top 3K runner and decent at the 1500. That had to count for something. Then, just before District, a sophomore with a hideous stride and ginormous Coke bottle glasses discovered his inner “Steve Prefontaine” as he and another competitor I’d always beat blazed past me. Most humiliating part is that that this kid actually called out as he approached, telling me to pick it up or they would pass me. (Full disclosure, both he and other runner become very close friends over the years, and we still rib that guy about giving me that warning ahead of time.)

Even good experiences were tainted because they occurred on a track. One of my finest races ever took place on a hot day in 1982 at Southern Oregon State College in Ashland (Home of Shakespearean Festival!) during the Conference meet. Thanks to some quality coaching at WOSC, I’d chopped enough time off my 5K to participate in this event. Best of all, I was not doubling. It was only the 5k, baby! It was a rather crowded field with temps in the mid-80’s. I quickly found myself locked into a duel with a very good runner who’d never had any problem beating me when we’d faced each other before. And Ashland was his hometown. We went at each other for the entire distance with a good crowd cheering him on. For some reason, I would not back down and beat him on the final lap. Easily one of my proudest moments and justification for the coach bringing me to the Conference meet. But Track being Track, that’s not how it worked out. I came in seventh, just missing out on sixth place. But because of the heat, so many runners dropped out that this guy and I ended up dueling it out … for last place. (As a pointless side note, on that same team with me was Dave Johnson, who went on to fame as a decathlete in the Olympics some years later. I didn’t know him and he moved on after that season.)

I could go on, sharing my only experience with the Portland Indoor Track Meet in January 1981 where I not only lost track of laps on the 5K, but also wandered by accident into the locker room of the Winter Hawks, Portland’s hockey team. Using speed that forever eluded me before and after, I fled from that room before they would mistake me for an hors d'oeuvre.

With that, how could I not envy those sprinters who gobbled up all the points, running 100 meters here, 200 meters there and another 100 for a relay. That’s less time than it takes me to warm up. Or the throwers. Hurl a discuss, hammer or shot put and call it a day. Eat up the food in the back of the van while I’m still slogging through that 5K. Just let me have a seat where I can catch up on my homework on the way home and I’ll leave everyone alone. That and just wait until the next Cross-Country season.