Leading The Race From Last…

I had only been to Charleston, Illinois one other time in my life.  Eastern Illinois University hosted the Conference Indoor Track Championships when I was a freshman at UNI – memories of that meet are minimal. 

I do remember being slightly overwhelmed competing at the college level but proud to be doing so.  I also remember running the third leg of our 4×800 relay and being afraid of letting the team down.  It was the first time that season where Coach Bucknam said to me, “Good job, Wolfer!”

Returning twenty-four years later, absolutely nothing in the town and on campus triggered memories.  Charleston seemed a lot smaller than I expected and the campus looked very…well…generic.  With the exception of a big castle-like structure that immediately draws your attention.  I would certainly check it out but not until after what I came here to do.  I needed to get a qualifying 800 time in for Drake.

The stadium and track were easy to find and as I pulled into the parking lot, nerves started to creep in.  I knew that I wasn't in near the kind of shape that I wanted to be in…that I SHOULD have been in.

I had told myself to just race and whatever time I got, accept it and move forward.  But who was I kidding; I was afraid of completely making a fool of myself.

I had three hours before race time so decided to just hang out and soak in the atmosphere.  It was sunny and 65 with heavy gusts of wind.

The artificial football field that the blue track surrounded was busy with athletes warming-up and doing drills. 

Lantz Arena was in the background and displayed painted images of Tony Romo and Sean Payton jerseys – apparently in retirement. 

AC/DC's “Back In Black” echoed out of the stadium speakers.

I never could sit still when I was competing and this day was no different.  I headed down to the track in search of heat sheets, and I found them taped to the side of a storage shed.  I found the 800 meter sheet and my name…and then took a deep breath and sighed.

Hanging out in the southwest corner of the track, I started to get pumped up.  Fear of how my metatarsalgia would affect my racing was put on hold – adrenaline can work wonders, sometimes.

The meet schedule got quickly behind.  Gauging when to start warming up for track can be a challenge, at times, and I wanted to get it right.

When my warm-up started, the meet was fifteen minutes behind.  At the point when I thought that I had thirty more minutes, an announcement was made that they were ten minutes ahead and will stay ahead.  My first thought was, “What!?”  My second thought was, “Oh crap!  Where are my spikes?”  And then, “I gotta poop…”  I went into scramble mode.

Getting into my spikes was going to be a questionable moment.  The first few strides were cautious.  The next few were faster but still a little cautious.  For some reason, I kept telling myself not to push it too hard.  I was letting the possibility of extreme pain dictate my warm-up.

My heat was up next…

I stripped out of my black Hind pants and walked up to the start line.  Even though I was starting with another runner in my lane, I felt alone and strangely out of place.  Trying to cut a little tension, I wished my lane mate luck but was ignored.  I felt even more alone.

The gun fired and I got out…slowly.  That fear of straining my mets was deep in the back of my mind and resulted in a “gradual” start, which is not fantastic for an 800.  I figure that I lost at least two seconds within the first fifty meters.  And then I hit the big headwind on the backstretch.

At 200 meters, a voice came over the stadium speakers saying, “This is Chris Wolfe running unattached, in the lead.”  I was nearly in last…

At 300 meters, according to the man calling the race, I was still in the lead…

Coming into this race, I thought that I would be able to finish close to a 2:10 and be pleased.  I went through the 400 meter mark in 1:04 and felt decent – not great but decent.  And I was still leading…

When I hit the backstretch again, I tried to slip into another gear but it was NOT there.  Runners were pulling away from and passing me…yet, I was still in the lead.

With 150 meters left, I just told myself to finish strong.  I finished…

Coming in last was not expected but was accepted.  I walked off the track and as I stood over my pile of warm-ups and sipping my cup of water, they started displaying the race results – Chris Wolfe 2:18.  My head and heart dropped.  I gathered my cloths, tossed away my cup-o-water and found a place on the field that was far, far away from everyone. 

“A 2:18?” was repeated over and over in my head, and each time put me closer to quitting.

As I walked through campus post-race, quitting was a definite possibility.  I truly questioned what I was doing and why.  And it's at a time like that when one tends to receive a message – mine came as I passed the big castle-like structure that I had seen earlier.

As I walked around to the front of the building, I caught a glance at a man who was heading towards me. 

He was wearing a Boston Red Sox hat and the biggest smile that I had ever seen.  With an accent he said, “Hello!  Will you please take my picture?  This is such an interesting building!”  I was happy to, of course, and as we walked he told me that he was visiting from Kenya and is sending photos back to his family from everywhere he has been.

He asked if I lived in Charleston and I explained what I was there for.  He listened with genuine interest and never lost his smile.  I let him know of my race disappointment and he brought it all into perspective.  “At least you ran,” he said.  “Not many can say that.  Not many would do that.”  That made me think.

He thanked me for the pictures, told me great job in my race and after parting, disappeared around the corner. 

I never got his name.  A few profound minutes spent with an individual whom I will never see again, ever.

I left town with a Drake qualifying time of 2:18.  It was accepted and thoughts of quitting were gone.