Pride Run

This year’s Pride Run ended with me having a comfortable margin at the end. Though this year’s race was not significant, it’s an annual reminder of the most significant moment of my athletic career.

Before you read this, I’d like you to imagine for a moment. Instead of waking this morning, getting up and beginning your day, imagine that you can barely move your legs. There’s a mix of pain and numbness and no matter how hard you try, there’s a disconnect between your brain and legs. They just don’t work. You see yourself as an athlete, but the doctors tell you that you’re going to be lucky to walk normally and to forget about ever doing anything beyond that.

On February 17th, 1997, that scenario was real for me. I had goals that seemed lost forever along with a major part of my identity. I despised myself for being so lazy. In my mind, I was a 49 second quarter miler and average triathlete, but in reality I was a guy who couldn’t walk. Oddly enough, as an athlete, this was probably the best thing to ever happen to me. I realized that dreams aren’t worth having if I wasn’t willing to chase them. At that time, more than ever, I realized how badly I wanted that chase. Refusing to accept my fate, I went to therapy three times a week for six weeks just to learn how to walk again.

Walking turned to jogging and eventually running. I began riding again too, which was tough, especially when aero. This eventually led me to the Softride to alleviate my pain. Every day was a battle that I won simply by refusing to surrender. About a year after I started running again, I signed up for the Pride Run at FAFB. It was a celebration of a solid year I could be proud of. It turned out to be the defining point in my life as an athlete.

I ran to an early lead until a much fitter, but slower starting runner began closing in on my lead. I wanted my celebration to end with a win, so I picked it up. He sped up and continued to close. I picked it up some more, but so did he. I ran every tangent and pushed the corners, but he continued to close. I put in a surge to make him surrender, but he was unwilling. I bluffed by running a pace faster than my legs could handle, but he continued to eat away at the lead. He was catching me faster than I was catching the finish line. Somehow, I was able to pick it up some more while darkness closed in and suffocated the life from my legs. This was coming down to timing and my mathematical brain calculated that there was too much road between me and the finish. This was unacceptable.

Thinking about February 17th gave me some strength to dig deeper than I thought was possible and held him off for another block. We had one more corner, so I ran just fast enough to make him run wide. The little extra he ran gave me a sliver of hope as we headed toward the finish chute. As a college sprinter, I’ve always had enough speed to out sprint everyone in a road race, but this was different. I had been running so hard for so long that my soul was about to evaporate! My fear was that I’d punch the accelerator and have nothing left or have my legs buckle and send me crashing to the ground. I drafted about one meter back and timed my attack for a full on burst of speed.

My brain was making calculations at a rate too fast to process, but like a drag racer I went when the numerical equivalent of a green light flashed. As a sprinter, my strength was in my top speed, so I hit the afterburners with an angry rage planning to turn this guy to ashes. At precisely the same time, this guy hit the nitro and the race was on! Oddly, the race seemed like it was in slow motion. My focus was on my speed vs. his vs. time to the line. Like me, this guy had never been out kicked in the final 50 meters. I was slowly closing the gap, but knew it wasn’t fast enough. I can still see and feel that beautifully awful moment as we approached the finish line. Although I knew it was over, I was going to see this one all the way through. We both knew he had me and so did everyone else.

Just short of the finish line, he let up slightly when raising his arms in victory. His slight deceleration was just enough to pull almost even. The sprinter in me leaned further than my body could handle, but it was enough to beat the guy by a couple inches! My legs were so fried that I was out of control like a runaway train; no steering and no breaks. The long finish chute tapered slightly inward. My hip began to brush against the flags as I was on a crash course with the metal standard. Volunteers did their best to catch me, but I ended up crashing and taking a couple of them down with me. I was not injured, but had pushed so hard that I literally thought I was going to die. Lying on my back, I struggled mightily, gasping for air as the sky spun so violently that I felt like I was on a carnival ride. The moment took its sweet time to pass. Few would see this as a way to celebrate, but for a guy who should feel lucky to walk, it felt like I just stormed the gates of Hell and retrieved my legs from the Devil. It’s not the most appropriate analogy for a Christian, but it certainly paints the picture. For me, it was my “one moment in time.”

Before February 17th, 1997, I wasn’t committed to my goals. During my struggles in 1997, I made a promise that if I were able to regain the use of my legs; I’d make sure I’d never have to live with that regret again. I still struggle with my back and legs, but manage to cope. Since that unfortunate day, I’ve run 20 marathons (winning six). I survived the ultimate bad day to complete an Ironman (with 9 minutes to spare). Three times I qualified (barely) for the Military Team USA and raced ITU against pro triathletes in militaries from around the world. I’ve accomplished my big dream of a USAT Sprint Nationals victory, as long as you throw in an asterisk. I beat the race leader to the line, but we had both been directed off course, allowing another guy to win. The following year, I was the top American, but 2nd overall again. My next two tries were top ten, so I’ll keep on trying to lose the asterisk. Ironically, none of this would have been likely if not for my troubles in 1997. My goal isn’t to boast, but rather to reflect on how a tragedy reshaped me. I’ll never be among the best in this sport, which is OK as long as I know I’ve done my best. We all have dreams, but it’s how we pursue them that matters. My hope is that others don’t need a February 17th to find their Pride Run.