Running the Mile

I hadn’t done it in years. But last week I ran it in 6:44.

At 27, there was no track meet, no gun at the start. My parents weren’t strategically positioned at different corners of the bleachers. I checked my own splits, though my running club has a coach for Wednesday nights at Kezar Stadium.

Running the mile has always been an emotional experience for me. Dramatic? Yeah, probably. But it’s the event that first drew me to running. It made me love the sport. It turned me into a runner.

In elementary school, I remember the excitement I’d feel in P.E. class when Ms. Heines announced, “Next week, we’re running the mile.” My classmates would let out huge groans. I can’t remember a single girl in my class smiling at the thought of running laps on the clock. I was the odd one. I had already mentally picked out the pair of knockoff Umbros I would wear. When I got back to class, I scribbled, “The Mile” in huge bubbly letters in my agenda. In fifth grade, we got to run on a new track at the nearby high school. I ran a 7:44, beating everyone but Doug Walter and Robby Hinners. I still remember the last lap.

In middle school, I joined the cross-country team and took it very seriously. My Dad made me training schedules. I’d run loops through my suburban neighborhood, always ending at the track near my house. I started a running log, where I’d jot each day’s workout and note my PRs on the back page. Time, race conditions, how I felt, my place. It became a sort of religion. In eighth grade, I ran a 5:48 when I won our regional cross-country race at Joe Creason Park. I still remember the excitement I felt in breaking six minutes.

When I joined the track team in high school, I was convinced the mile would be my event. At my regional track meet my freshman year, I came in fourth place in the 1600 meter run. I ran a 5:35. It wasn’t good enough to guarantee a spot at the State Meet. I was crushed. After a humbling freshman year, my coaches deemed me a “middle-distance runner” and I left the mile behind to compete in the 800 and the 400. They were OK. At an unhyped county track meet my sophomore year, I ran my fastest mile (ever) in 5:25. I remember being surprised, but not elated. Somehow I always felt I had more in me.

Since high school, I haven’t really raced the mile. That changed last week, when the Golden Gate Running Club decided to run it at our regular Wednesday track practice. I showed up. I was nervous, worried I’d be slow as hell. I felt anxious warming up, as if I had something riding on this run. I took off fast.

1:37 for the first 400? “A little eager there, sport.”

I kept pushing through the 800, unsure of my cardiac capacity. My legs started to burn in the final 400. Under the bright stadium lights, I heard a familiar voice, the voice that pushed me through all those mile runs, encouraging and yelling at me. The voice that has since carried me through countless 5Ks, 10Ks, half marathons and my first full marathon last fall.

“Go. Now.”

When I crossed in 6:44, I collapsed with a smile. Looking at my watch, I felt a familiar, exhilarating feeling. I knew I was capable of more. I remembered this had always been a race of possiblity. It had always been a race against me.