My first mile

I ran my very first mile in 1978. It was the fall of seventh grade, and my friend, Tracey Thomas (with her long, red pig tails, and generously freckled face), had cheerfully convinced me that we could run with the boys. Tracey believed that girls were as good as boys, she loved adventure, and always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. So I followed her trustingly, and agreed to show up for our first Junior High School Cross Country team practice at 8am during the last week of summer vacation.


On this late August morning we gathered—the neophyte seventh-grade runner-wannabes. 20 boys and 2 girls. We wore our cotton T-shirts, short shorts, and formless tube socks. Our feet sported a myriad of shoes, basketball shoes, tennis shoes and even one pair of brown oxfords with smooth leather soles. I clearly remember my navy blue keds—which created a certain pattern of blisters on my feet which I still recall. But I am getting ahead of myself.


Coach Vallecorsa was a thin man with a runner’s build, in the style of Bill Rogers. He stood at the front of the Junior High School gym, with his horn-rimmed glasses, polyester running pants, and quiet demeanor, facing 22 excited 12 and 13 year olds ready for their first cross country practice. Yes, sir, we were going to be runners, we were going to win races, run marathons, surge into the lead, and join the new 1970s fitness generation.


Once Coach V had explained the rules of the road, and the need for us to stay together, he led us outside. Tracey and I grinned at each other. This would be fun! Coach V led us through some calisthenics to warm up our unwieldy adolescent bodies, and then he started out slowly at a jog, allowing us to fall into some kind of natural order behind him.


The "Natural Order" of Junior High School is very clear. There are those creatures at the top of the food chain and those on the bottom. This order is well-known to and rarely challenged by middle school society.

In this case, the "Natural Order" fell out as follows. There were two hot-shot “jocks” in our group—both named Jim. They were fast-growing adolescent males—choc full of testosterone and leggy beyond belief. They had excelled at Little League. They won informal sprints across the recess yard. They chased girls and caught them. And, most importantly, they were popular. In short, they were viewed as the most likely to get through this practice first. So naturally, they fell in right behind Coach V. And the rest of us let them. Next came the wrestlers, strong and underweight. Fighters. Rough boys. Willing to sweat off excess pounds. Next in line were the hockey players, currently unblemished, but known to wield bruises during their ice season. We knew they were fast on skates, and carried big sticks.

Finally came the farm kids. The irony of their low placement on the Junior High Food Chain while living closely to the food the Junior High kids actually ate was lost on all of us. They smelled too much of what we didn't want to know our food smelled of. This natural order of the playground put everyone in their assigned places as we began this run. Tracey and I, the lone females, took the place in athletics always relegated to girls (after all, this was only a few years after Title IX)—in the back of the pack. Girls played with dolls. Boys ran fast. Incontrovertible rules of the universe.


We set out at a slow jog. Tracey and I joked with each other, and pumped our arms in rhythm with our stride. It was warm and humid as August in upstate New York often is. As the distance passed, our breathing became harder, and our conversation stilled. We watched the pack of boys in front of us, and made mental vows that despite pain and blisters, we would not stop. We might be the first 12 year olds to die of heart attacks, but we would wait till the mile was over before succumbing. We would die heroes. We would complete an entire mile before falling to the pavement in full cardiac arrest. We were determined not to fail. We were fierce feminists and we had to show them that girls could run too.


And that’s how the magic began.


About 1/4 mile into the run, the farm kids started slowing down, gasping, and soon began to walk. It turns out that running after cows requires short bursts of speed, and a lot of plodding. Not sustained running. Tracey and I looked at each other, and in a tacitly agreed upon move, we increased our pace and pulled ahead of them.


Oh! That surge of adrenaline as we realized we had met with success! We were FASTER THAN SOMEONE! We were goddesses of speed! We were hermes with wings on our shoes! It was a feeling we loved! And we wanted more!



The wrestlers were next. They thought they were tough. So they held on longer than they wanted to. We dogged them for another block, close on their heels. They would sprint for 10 yards, and then slow, in an inefficient fartlek fashion. Tracey, a great fan of Aesop’s fables, grinned when I said “we are the tortoise, they are the hare”. She and I both knew how this would turn out. Because, in the end, athletes willing to wrap themselves in saran wrap to lose water weight just are not made for a mile run.



We chose our moment, made our move and never looked back.


And this is when I learned the warped logic of the athlete's brain that has been a part of my competitive strategy for the past 30 plus years. Once you pass that first person, you start believing you can pass more people. That first experience of success leads the brain into a universe of delusional thinking. Tracey and I were fast falling down into that rabbit hole of world championship delusions. WE COULD BEAT EVERYONE!!! And we set off to try.



Our next victims came in the form of the hockey players. They were already panting by the 1/2 mile mark, and we could hear them talking about taking a short walk break. They were already losing. That defeatist mentality was all we needed to hear. It was only a matter of time! When they complained about their blistered feet and searing lungs, Tracey and I each took the outside and pushed right past them. Victory number three in less than a mile!


There we were, Tracey and I, ¾ of a mile into this run, ahead of everyone but the fast Jims and Coach V. I was a winner. I felt great!

And I had my first moment of doubt. I allowed my brain to veer off course and noticed a searing pain on my right heel. And another alongside my left toe. My calves felt like knives were cutting up and down the muscle, and my quads had a flaming burn I had never before experienced. A sharp pain sliced through my right side, and my shoulders ached from all the arm pumping. I glanced at Tracey’s flushed face, and heard her raspy breathing, and: I doubted. Her face squinched up in pain every time she put her left foot down. She glanced back over at me—I hated to think what pathetic image I provided—but she looked away quickly and started to slow down. I was ready to stop. I no longer needed that adrenaline. I just needed to lie down on the ground to die.

This is the mindset of a loser. A slippery slope. A quick one-way trip to the back of the pack. I was not going to make it.

But, in each of us, there is a secret source of resurgent power. For me, one of my worst faults became a source of strength. I am stubborn and proud. I wanted to stop, but only if Tracey stopped first. I would not be the one to give up first. I would not be the weak link. I just hoped she would be, so I could blame her for our joint failure. And here is Tracey's secret: she is stubborn and proud too. So, rather than back down, Tracey stared ahead, refocused and driven. Neither of us would be the first to give up. Neither would allow the other to finish the run alone. So I repressed my own feelings of defeat, and pushed on, pretty pissed off at her for not stopping when we had the chance, but stuck with the knowledge that my only face-saving option was to pick up the pace and run by Tracey's side until this miserable run was over.


Three blocks from the end, the Jims started to walk. They pushed to that pain and just gave up and hung their heads as we passed them by. I thought briefly about those three long remaining blocks, and imagined walking alongside the cute Jims to the end. It would be my only chance to be that close to the popular boys. But one look at Tracey, who was focused on the back of Coach V’s head in front of me, and I knew that my destiny lay not with the popular boys, but with Tracey and the victory of finishing first. I surged ahead.



Tracey glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, and the slightest of grins found her lips. We were going to do this mile and we were going to live to talk about it! We would NOT end up in the ICU. We would NOT succomb to heat stroke. We would finish first! We would be champions! We would own the title of the “Fastest Junior High School Runners” in our school--male or female. We were taking girl power into the next generation!


Those last three blocks were the longest I have ever run. In 32 years of running, nothing—not even the last 200 meters of a marathon—has ever been as long as those final blocks. My aching shoulders kept moving in time to my arms, that dagger like pain in my side threatened to slice me open, my feet burned with fire at every step. There remained not one molecule of oxygen to fuel my muscles—my lungs were filled with toxic sludge anyway—it was like breathing through peanut butter. My vision blurred. I pressed forward. We stayed with Coach V. Was he speeding up? Why was this so hard? When would it end?


And finally, we crossed the street to the school yard and picked up the pace.



Coach V had a grin on his face and said “great run, girls! Let’s take it in!” and he took off.



Tracey and I, not knowing what else to do, stayed with him. Pushing the pace to a moderate sprint, we forged ahead. Past the school's entry gate, through the field, across the parking lot, and finally! To the back door of the school!


And there we stopped. The first to finish. Survivors. I fell onto the pavement, heaving and shaking. Tracey leaned against me, sobbing silently. The layers of pain began to sort themselves out. Arms, lungs, quads, calves, feet. All excruciating, and all slightly different types of pain. My brain told me I should feel awful. My body sent angry accusing impulses to my head--"what have you forced us to do!?!?!" I deserved to feel nothing but misery.

Instead, I felt absolutely wonderful. I was elated. My brain sent reassuring waves of happiness to my body. I couldn't stop smiling! I was a world champion. I was an athelete. I was a winner! Yes sir, this was a sport for me!


Tracey looked equally as happy, and Coach V said “you girls ran well! Good job. I think we have the makings of an excellent girls’ team.”


Slowly, the other boys trickled in, looking defeated, not making eye contact. Coach V congratulated them as well, and promised we would build up to this long distance over the course of the fall. He made us all feel good about our accomplishments, and invited us all back tomorrow. I looked around our group and saw most faces crumpled in defeat, pain, and surrender. There were also about 8 radiant smiles, mirroring my own. (Those 8, plus Tracey and me, became the core of our Junior High School Cross Country team. Two years later, we won our league championship.)


After we recovered and stretched, Coach V said “see you tomorrow!”, and we staggered off in the evening light to our homes. I wasn’t sure how many would return, but I knew that I was hooked. I was a cross-country runner ready for torture, willing to suffer pain, wanting that endorphin high. I knew I would come back for more tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.