Perfect on Paper

The ugly, moldy scent slaps me in the face as I say goodbye to the crisp air outside. It is immediately suffocating. Its crooked arms wrap around my neck. It breathes down my back, sending prickles down my spine. It wants me to know that I can’t leave. The scent has become a part of me; it is wrapped up in my identity. I am its host, and I must prove that I am a worthy one. 

Truthfully, it’s not much different than my life outside these cement walls. The phrase “prove yourself” has played on a continuous loop in my mind since I was seven years old. It has forced me to where I am today, in this makeshift prison. Proving myself. 

..............

I was six years old when I received my first pair of running shoes. A pair of Hokas, the outsoles of the shoes were blue, matching the laces. The rest of it was colored a combination of gray and black, making it an ideal running shoe for the muddy swamp I lived in. Tether, Washington never saw much sunshine. In fact, rain seemed to be Tether’s eternal companion. And while I was grateful for this during my summer training runs, I think it largely contributed to my battle with depression. 

I was fourteen years old when my parents began to grow concerned. I didn’t see my friends. I barely got out of bed. But the biggest warning sign I gave was my declaration that I wanted to quit running. I loved running (love?), so I can understand why my parents came to the conclusion that I needed a fresh start. Matt, they explained to me at the kitchen table, we think it might be time for a change.

A change that took place across the country. In Tampa, Florida. Where I was not, in fact, grateful for my summer training runs. Yet, the change of scenery helped immensely. The constant sunshine, nightlife, delicious restaurants, and my new friends were exactly what I needed. I came out on the other side. I joined the cross country and track team. And, most importantly, I began re-focusing on what I had trained for all those years in Tether. The Olympics. 

As I reflect on my youth, I realize that my blue-laced Hokas brought me much success in elementary school. It was with those shoes that I ran my first sub-5:30 mile as a third grader with no training. A “natural runner” my father said; a “prodigy” my mother called me. Eventually, I had to retire my first pair of Hokas for my second pair. This time, the outsoles were red (it matched the laces, of course). It was with these shoes that I ran my first sub-5 mile in seventh grade P.E, where the Tether High School track coach approached me about my future career on the track team. I was ecstatic.

Since my third grade sub-5:30 mile, I had run in some local races around Tether. I had even traveled to Olympia for a handful of youth meets. I always dreamed of competing in huge track & field competitions, the Olympics especially. How cool, I thought, would it be to be surrounded by the fastest people alive? 

The problem was, while it was evident I was growing increasingly faster, Tether’s Track & Field team was terrible. I was their shining star, so they put me in everything. The 800, the 1600 (which was the only event I cared about), the 400, 200, 4 by 4….the list goes on and on. I went on occasional runs with my dad, and he got me a running coach, but I knew if I wanted to compete at a meet like the Olympics, I couldn’t stay in Tether. I had proved myself to be the best, but the best in Tether wasn’t nearly good enough.

Now, as I dutifully mentioned above, I didn’t move from Tether to Tampa because I wanted to become the best teenage 1600 runner there was. Though I can’t help wondering if that was something my parents considered in evaluating the move. 

Clearance Water High was a completely different ball game. I was still the best on the team, but it gave me more opportunities to compete with high level competition. I only ran the 1600. I got my mile down to 4:15. I was the MVP at eight different state championship meets. I competed in national championships in Boston and California, placing first or second in the mile every time. I was named All American by the time I was 16 years old. Competing in the Olympics suddenly didn’t seem so impossible. I was proving myself to the nation. I could be the best. 

...........

After checking in, I begrudgingly step forward into the arena. Woah.. One would think that an arena full of 10,000+ people would only contribute to my growing anxiety. Yet, it soothes it. It’s exactly what I had pictured. People of all races and ethnicities crowd the maroon bleachers. An African American lady wears a bedazzled shirt with “Go Anna!” spelled out in purple sequins. What looks to be a 90 year old white man sits in his red, white, and blue wheelchair; a “Run fast Stephen!” is embroidered across his baseball cap. 

Yes, it’s true. I have grown to hate indoor tracks. Mostly because of its constricting odor, but also because running outside is simply more fun. I especially hate that this year’s Olympic Trials are being held indoors due to a predicted monstrous storm. Rather than competing at Hayward Field in Eugene, Oregon, I’m back in Washington. How thrilling. 

But the atmosphere of the arena amazes me. The fans are oozing with sheer excitement to cheer on their loved ones. The energized buzz is tangible. The athletes around me, in their Nike pro shorts and Alphafly spikes are on a noticeable adrenaline high. It gives me the strength I need to walk over to Jim.

I remind myself that this is the moment. The one I have trained so incredibly hard for. The one I have made countless sacrifices for. No matter how much I may want to quit, it’s my only chance. My only chance to achieve the dream I never thought possible.

I try not to let the thought terrify me. 

……..

After my freshman year in Tampa, (where I led the team to state championships in both Winter and Spring Track) I began working with my Clearance Water High coach one on one. Every Saturday, I met Coach Jim Marks for an extra track workout. I left each workout with sweat dripping from my brow, questioning if I was cut out for this. On Mondays, I ran 3 extra miles than the rest of my team. Around three times a month, I ran in ultra-competitive races across Florida and the South. 

It’s no surprise that by the time my senior year rolled around, I was burnt out. I couldn’t pinpoint the day when I began to dread running, partly because I think my resentment towards it built up over time. 

There were many instances in which I “accidentally” left my Hokas at home (these ones had yellow outsoles with yellow laces), as an excuse to miss track practice. I told disappointed and slightly frustrated Jim that I would run at home. I never did. 

I stopped working as hard in track practices. I wasn’t hitting my times at the Saturday workouts (which I had grown to despise). I opted out of competitions I would usually count down the days to. I still raced in major competitions and placed well, but I felt something new before every meet. Waves of anxiety, doubt, nausea, and dread washed over me, paralyzing me with fear. I managed to forget about it during the race, but the joy I once felt had been sucked out of me. Now, I was hollow. An empty shell…with Hokas.

My parents were worried I was experiencing a relapse of depression. Apparently, good ol’ Jim had called my parents, explaining his concern for my mental health. Though I am now extremely grateful for that single phone call, I was so angry at him. I was fine! I just hated running. 

Later that week, as I sat in my bed scrolling through Tiktok, my father came to me with a proposition. Matt, why don’t you take two weeks off of running? I knew this was a dangerous move, despite my hatred for running I was still planning to commit to Stanford College for it (I was hoping I would miraculously like it more by the time pre-season rolled around). If Stanford knew I was taking some time off, what would they say? 

I expressed my concerns to my father, whose reply I will never forget: Matt, athletes take time off all the time for physical injuries. You’re experiencing a “mental injury” of sorts. Both deserve the same treatment. Time off. You wouldn’t run with a sprained ankle, so why would you run with a sprained mind-set? 

By the time the two weeks were over, I, mercifully, craved to run again. I craved to slip on my yellow Hokas; to feel my feet soak into the familiar insoles. I craved to hear the sounds of my shoes hitting the scorching hot rubber track. I began to desire running in a way I hadn’t in a very long time. 

Yet, as I returned to maximum training and attended every meet I could get my hands on, the regrettable waves of anxiety and nausea rolled over me. Every time I entered into a track arena and smelled the pungent mold, I wanted to walk right out. 

But my mile time was growing increasingly faster. I had dropped my time to the low 4:00’s. I was this close to the Olympics. I wouldn’t let myself give up everything I had worked for, simply because I hated the feeling competition gave me.

…..

After my almost-second battle with depression, my parents got me a therapist. I was nervous at first, but her round face framed by strawberry blond hair and her kind smile soothed my nerves. She asked me to discern why I had recently felt so nervous before I raced. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that I had put myself under an overwhelming amount of pressure. Pressure to “prove myself.” To be the best. 

I wish I could say that I no longer feel the pressure to prove myself. Unfortunately, I don’t believe any amount of therapy will untangle the webs I spun for myself. The webs that tell me I have to be the best. Because if I’m not, then everything I’ve worked for means nothing. 

……

One hour later, my yellow laces are tied in a quadruple knot. I hate having to retie my shoes on runs, especially my warm up runs, where I attempt to “get in the zone.” 

Before I start off, I take one last look at the arena. The stands are jam packed, barely giving people room to breathe. Music blares from the overhead speakers, and the fluorescent lights flicker shadows across the sports announcer's face. 

The Olympic Trials is watched on national television, I remind myself. You cannot look like you do not want to be here. How could the nation support a potential Team U.S.A member who doesn’t look grateful for this incredible opportunity? 

I jog towards the arena doors, weaving through crowds of sweaty fans, and am immediately hit with a breath of fresh air. It’s heavenly. I snake my way around the corner of the building. I watch as a light mist descends upon the green grass from the gray sky above. I am grateful for the rain. It is refreshing. 

As I begin my two mile warm up, I contemplate the decisions and sacrifices I made that lead me here. Was it all worth it? I decided that the answer is yes, it was. I do enjoy running. I enjoy the way my legs feel as they leap across large stretches of pavement. I enjoy the way I feel after I crush a particularly difficult workout. 

In a way, everything has come full circle. I am back in Washington, where it all began. Maybe it’s a sign that I am destined to be here. To break long ago records and claim the title “champion”.  

I have trained my whole life for this moment. To prove to myself, once and for all, that I am the best. Yet, I’m also proving to myself that I can run through a sprained mindset. I can face setbacks and recover from them. I deserve to be here. I have worked so incredibly hard for this moment - and not just physically. 

I return to the cream colored building two miles later; my hair is soaked from the rain, my sweatshirt clings to my jersey. I hesitate before I reach the door handle. This is it, I think. There’s no going back. Almost instantaneously, a beam of sunshine makes its way through the thick-skinned clouds.

It warms my body, filling me with a glimmer of hope. On paper, my achievements are astonishing, perfect even. But my journey has been far from it. I am still fighting the desperate desire I have to run away. 

I take the rare beam of sunshine as a sign to re-enter through the doors that contain my future. I move my hand towards the silver handle, and I pull. I inhale the moldy scent. It still slaps me in the face.

Though this time, it doesn’t strangle me. I don’t let it. Instead, I will it to push me forward. To give me the strength I need. 

Thirty minutes later, the gun goes off. And I run.