dying a thousand slow deaths
As a young athlete I took part in many track & field meetings. Back then, I participated in three disciplines: sprint, long jump and a long distance run. Some meetings had throwing a ball on offer for boys and girls. I did not like any of those disciplines. For a sprint I always lacked the punch and the power required to propel me forwards. Long jump is a very technical discipline which I have never liked. Throwing was the easiest thing to do but others were a lot stronger. However, it was the last discipline that I have feared particularly: 1000m. It was the last event on the day and mostly it was already warm in early summer which made it even more unpleasant. Moreover though, it was the length. 1000m appeared long, very long. It took me 4 minutes and a bit more when I was 12 or 13. Spending 4 minutes on something that hard was difficult to process; spending 4 minutes reading or playing or doing something else far more enjoyable was naturally a lot easier to fathom than running 4 minutes and a bit around a track. It was suffering of the highest order. I was not alone and the other boys also feared the 1000m. Yet, during the run itself I felt very alone.
Before the start of the race a large group of boys gathered near the line and every one was anxious about what was to come. I felt a mixture of nervousness and anxiety and felt the others looked so much cooler than myself. They were probably simply better at disguising their feelings than I was. Even when I got older I was still the same: nervous, sweaty hands and not able to speak a clear sentence. Today, this has not changed.
Once the run got underway, there was almost always someone storming ahead with full speed, stunning the others and setting a high pace. No need to say that the pace was way too high and sooner or later the guy was caught by the group. Unless of course he was some sort of prodigy who started and finished the race at the front. Though these cases were rare, they nonetheless existed and everyone felt looking lame compared to the fast one. For the following races, this guy was feared and admired at the same time: admired and feared for his pace.
During the races I felt as though I was dying painfully and slowly; a thousand slow deaths. One for each meter of the race. The first 200m were hard as each and everyone jostled for a place in the field, then came a period of calm before the madness of the final spring would come. The finish line came as a relieve. The time was secondary.
Today more than 20 years later I remember those fears with a smile. I have become a member of the local athletics clubs and once or twice a week (time permitting) i find myself running around a track again in order to keep fit and fast. The latter doesn’t work that well, but at least some fitness is retained. I still like running and these sessions on the track can’t be long enough! Recently, there were a 5k, 3k and 1k to be run. It was during the 5000m that I could not help but think about those early days of my running career and i was smiling while running twelve and a half laps. Smiling that once running a longer distance gave me fears about nothing in particular, fears that was not able to describe except that they came from a disliking of running.
How the years have changed those opinions! Today I cherish long distance running and I am happy to go out regardless of the weather, into the park or onto the track and run.
