A Tradition Unlike Any Other: The 10th Annual Reposting of “The Legend of 5-Peat”, Part II
(*Author’s note: Yes, it’s that time of year again. The flowers are beginning to bloom, the stoners are loading up a bowl in honor of the one holiday that they actually remember to celebrate, and down in the quintessential Midwestern college town of Lawrence, Kansas the 91st annual Kansas Relays are getting ready to begin.
While this is the 91st running of the KU Relays, there is also another — equally important, imo — anniversary that needs to be recognized. This will now be the 10th re-telling of this tremendously popular urban legend. 5-Peat may be long gone, his singlet long retired, but his legend will live on forever with those who saw him compete all those many years ago.
It has been lightly edited, but I have largely left it untouched even though some of it is painfully 2010’s version of Chris Hatch)
The next day dawned beautifully; the kind of spring day that causes track fans and athletes to close their eyes, lift their faces to the sun, and smile. I was, indeed, smiling to myself as I stepped into KU’s stadium that Friday.
Focused on the task at hand, 3-Peat had faded to the outskirts of my mind. As I entered the gate to the stadium my once proud, steely concentration promptly imploded like a decrepit building being demolished.
It was 3-Peat.
Right in front of me. His immediacy assailed my very consciousness.
And he was spitting some game. Or trying to, anyway.
First: the girls were no more than 13 years old. They appeared to have just gotten done shopping at Baby Gap for Bratz gear and had stopped in to watch a few races before an orthodontist appointment.
Second: 3-Peat’s attempts to win over the affection of these tweenagers was rapidly degenerating into something that even I was shocked by. Having had no luck wooing the ladies with his superior wit, he began suddenly trying to impress the girls by doing the “Lean Wit’ It, Rock Wit’ it” dance.
I stood there hypnotized by the idiocy of the moment.
3-Peat, his teeth jutting out like a male walrus flaunting the goods during mating season, was trying to impress a couple of girls who were likely there to watch their classmates run in the Middle School 4×100 Relay event.
By dancing.
Given the psuedo-celebrity status I had afforded 3-Peat in my mind at this point, it was akin to watching bigfoot C-walk around a still-living Elvis while an un-shot Tupac served as his hype man.
“Lean wit’ it!” He shouted, oblivious to his echoing cries bouncing off the walls of the stadium. He flailed around like a shark attack victim, “Rock wit it!”
The 13-year-olds were unimpressed.
I, on the other hand, counted myself truly fortunate to have run into the now-legendary competitor for what I assumed was the final time. In the meantime, I had a race to run.
And run we did.
We ended up winning the 4xMile relay in a complete and utter fluke. It was quite possibly the slowest winning time in Relays history. (*Author’s note: I haven’t fact checked this, but I feel certain it’s at least close to the truth.)
We headed home that night with a trophy, which our coach commandeered and we never saw again, some pleather-banded watches and what I already considered a pile of great stories. Not even the Hardee’s food or our assistant coach’s country music singing could dampen my mood.
The final day of the KU Relays is reserved for the best of the best.
The best college competitors, professionals and Olympians alike are let loose to chase after the glory and prestige of bringing home gold.
Garcia, a guy we called Tonto, and I decided that even though we weren’t competing on the final day, we would go back and watch. We arrived just in time to watch a hotly contested, blazingly fast 800 meter run and in between starts and finishes I was all too eager to tell the burgeoning legend of 3-Peat and all that we had seen in the last two days.
No sooner had I finished retelling my epic tale to members of the crowd around us, than the remaining 800 meter races began. These heats were reserved for the faster, more experienced collegiate competitors and promised to be far more competitive than the heats we’d run a few nights prior.
A few heats into the competition, my gaze wandering across the runners toeing the starting line, I stood up and removed my hat and sunglasses like Dr. Grant when he sees his first Jurassic Park dino.
“Oh. . .shit. . .” I nearly shouted the profanity, drawing more than a few looks from those around us.
“That’s him! Down there. The guy I was telling you all about. It’s…3-Peat.” I croaked out his name, throat tightening with apprehension at what we were about to see.
“My God,” I whispered. “I think he’s going for a 4-Peat.”
“How did he even get into this race?” Tonto said, voicing what was one of the biggest mysteries behind 3-Peat’s KU Relays mystique. With a high quality meet like the KU relays there are certain qualifying times that one is required to hit in order to compete. To get into some of the tougher heats the times may even be checked by relay officials to make sure that they’re legitimate.
We watched with a mixture of horror and awe as 3-Peat began the 800, starting off with his patented terrified flinch, and was immediately left flat-footed at the start as the other runners surged directly past him.
I still don’t know how he weaseled his way into such a tough field of competitors but Ray Charles could’ve seen that he didn’t belong in that heat.
And he’s blind.
And dead.
3-Peat staggered across the line with his fourth straight DFL (*Author’s note: Dead F-ing Last), instantly metamorphosing into something entirely different: 4-Peat.
Slumping into the infield, he dropped as though hit by some unseen sniper and threw his arms into the air in a sign of utter defeat and exhaustion. His fourth race of the Kansas Relays, and his fourth disastrous race completed, the man we were now triumphantly calling “4-Peat” appeared content to die right there on the infield.
But after a few moments, like the killer in a slasher film, he stirred.
Once again realizing that we weren’t cheering on another human’s untimely death, we let out a collective sigh of relief and began laughing until our lungs burned. Garcia was mumbling incoherent sentences and I couldn’t stop laughing except to hack like a pack-an-hour smoker. I tried to ease myself down from the immense endorphin-high, but I felt like Tony Montana after he nose-dived into the pile of cocaine on his desk in “Scarface.”
Gradually my heart rate came down from 398 beats-per-minute and I relaxed.
My favorite event was coming up in a mere 20 minutes.
The Elite Men’s Mile race is one of the premiere events of the KU Relays. Attracting some of the most talented runners from the midwest, and indeed all over the country.
This particular year it sported such talents as NCAA Champion and 2008 Olympian Christian Smith, KU Relays legend Charlie Gruber, and a grouping of other amazing runners well capable of electrifying the stadium.
Even with such an exciting event soon up on the track, we were still inexplicably abuzz with talk of 4-Peat. I remember feeling like no event was safe from a 4-peat appearnce; wondering if we’d look down and see that he’d conned his way into the women’s high jump, or was somehow sprinting down the runway to attempt a triple jump against professional athletes.
The Stadium was one big game of “Where’s Waldo.” Except that Waldo wasn’t wearing his patented white and red sweater, he was sporting neon orange arm bands. And was an idiot.
As my eyes scanned the crowd and the stadium for signs of this elusive beast, there was really only one place I didn’t think he’d be.
“Now on the track,” the voice boomed over the PA system. “The Elite Men’s mile.”
Toeing the starting line below us were 12 complete badasses. 12 men who could cover a mile in the time it takes me to microwave up a frozen dinner and could cover 5,280 feet at breathtaking, reckless speeds.
But, on this day, there was a 13th man in the field.
Call if fate, call it dumb luck, call it whatever the hell you want.
Pick a cliché.
But the 13th competitor on this day was a wily veteran of the Kansas Relays. He was attempting something that most athletes only dream of. The 13th competitor was going for a 5-Peat.
“Gaaaccckkguhghh.” I could do no more than scream like some wildly incoherent Justin Bieber groupie coming face to face with her dreams.
“Unnghhgh.” My mouth couldn’t form more than ape-like, Tarzan-styled gargling.
All eyes in the section planted on me and I could do no more than merely point accusingly down at the line, lifting a suddenly-heavy arm and extending my hand like a reluctant witness, fingering a mob boss for the prosecution.
Seeing my ashen face and outstretched hand, like a beach full of tourists hearing the panicked cry of “Shark!” everyone whipped their heads in the same direction. Down below us, shoulder to shoulder with NCAA Champions, Nike-sponsored Professionals, and future Olympians was none other than 4-Peat.
It had been a mere twenty minutes since had finished last in his previous race, but here he stood, brushing hip numbers with greatness.
A hush fell over our section as the runners were called to their marks.
The anticipation was palpable.
Crack*
The gun went off.
4-Peat, having learned nothing from his previous four races, flinched backwards like a man receiving a guilty verdict in a capital murder case. The rest of the field flew past, immediately gapping him by 50 meters. Had it been any other competitor, in any other race, the beatdown was swift that I might have been concerned someone was injured.
Short of teleportation, I’m not sure how anyone could move backwards so fast.
The cameraman simply couldn’t pan out far enough to keep 4-Peat in the shot on the stadiums big screen. By the end of the first lap, he was nearly 175 Meters back.
Bedlam reigned in our section.
I had nearly become comatose. Garcia’s mouth was agape, unhinged like a snake downing its too-large prey, and he was sucking in great gasps of air.
I was enthralled. Had someone offered me 1 million dollars to look away, at that moment, I couldn’t have even understood what they were asking, nor would I have accepted. 4-Peat was moving in fits and jerks like a car running out of gas.
800 Meters into the race, he started looking over his shoulder.
What he saw would’ve scared a lesser man, or anyone with an IQ above freezing. It was a pack of the finest milers in the country bearing down on him, approximately 250 meters away from lapping him. IN THE FIRST TWO LAPS.
In all my years as a spectator of JV track and field and fun-running competition, I had never seen anyone in danger of getting lapped so quickly. A roar was steadily building in my mind. We were about to see a new kind of KU Relays record. One of futility and ineptitude. We were about to witness the worst beatdown in the mile race. Ever.
As the elite runners bore down on 4-Peat, I got that sense that he would hold the inside lane until trampled.
It was like seeing a car stall out on the train tracks with a Union Pacific behemoth coming at full blast. Not even Chris Pine and Denzel Washington could stop this freight train.
Moments from doom, 4-Peat suddenly pulled the ejector seat on his crazy ride to glory. Seeing that he was about to get destroyed for the 5th time in 5 races, the man we had begun referring to midrace as “5-Peat” did something entirely unexpected, and a little disappointing..
He played it smart.
(*Author’s note: Before you think that this story has some kind of happy ending, you should still keep in mind who’s narrating and who the story is being written about.)
Instead of bowing out of the race with his infinitesimally tiny amount of dignity still intact, 5-Peat faked like he blew out a hamstring.
He leapt into the air like a triple jumper in mid-ACL tear, head whiplashing backwards with a startlingly intense g-force, and fell in a sweaty heap of Adidas, squarely in the middle of lane one. 5-Peat lay strewn, face down, on the track and appeared to have no intention of getting his broke-ass out of the way.
He lay there, a cadaver, until the race officials sprinted over, unceremoniously drug him off the track and dumped him onto the infield.
The officials deposited the scrawny carcass near the 50-yard-line and ran back over to watch the exciting conclusion of the race. 5-Peat lolled about on the infield like a whale run aground or a first-time drinker who just went 12 rounds with a bottle of Jack Daniels.
We were all elated.
I repeatedly made a fool of myself by high-fiving anyone around me and jubilantly shouting, “He did it! He did it. It’s a 5-Peat!”
We left the stadium that day in a daze.
We weren’t sure what we’d seen. Was this some kind of inane, practical joke pulled by a KU Relays official? Performance art by an sociology-major hipster?
How did 5-Peat get into some of the most competitive fields? Was the government involved in some kind of conspiracy? We may never know.
I’m still not sure who won the Collegiate 800, the 5k Fun Run, the College Mile, the Open 800, or even the Elite Men’s mile.
What I will always remember, however, is that I witnessed a 5-Peat.
