There’s a stereotype that tall children are good at basketball. When I was 11, I was 5’6”. My mom signed me up for basketball. I could neither catch nor dribble a ball. And the only time I made a basket, I scored for the other team.
Single-handedly, I brutally murdered that stereotype.
After basketball, I tried soccer, lacrosse, softball, field hockey and tennis. And I was bad, awful, horrible, pitiful and had no potential in anything. It’s not that I was unathletic; my family fed the kids pre-workout instead of formula. I had no room to be a wimp. I was just extremely uncoordinated and oblivious to my surroundings. And I’m still extremely uncoordinated and oblivious to my surroundings. The only thing that I was kind of OK at was running in a straight line and only if I was bumping to my tunes. So that’s pretty much how I became a distance runner.
Running has always been two-fold for me. On top of being freakishly athletic, my family is also a bunch of basketball stars, which is so humiliating for me. Regardless, I had to prove that I was one of them, even if I couldn’t play their stupid sport. When my dad would go to the gym, I’d tag along and act like I knew what I was doing. After it was painstakingly obvious that I was stupid, I’d be banished to the treadmill, where I’d run and listen to “The Greatest Showman” soundtrack until it was time to go home. I matured when I got older, though. Now, I listen to “Hamilton.”
On top of being good exercise, running is also an opportunity to give my brain a much-needed break. Everything, nothing and something more all at once is constantly going on up there. I didn’t ask to be this way— my small public wannabe private high school turned me into this. My district got a lot of state funding from being really smart and the administration just kind of rolled with that. Once, I begged my guidance counselor to put me in Honors Psychology instead of AP Psychology and she told me that she “respected my decision.”
So, anyway, I was in AP Psychology. The teacher, Mr. Uli, was also the track, cross country and indoor track coach. Because every small public high school teacher has three jobs. And Mr. Uli asked me to sign up for the spring track season. He actually just put my name on the list, but I like to think I drove a hard bargain and made that choice on my own. Regardless, it was the best decision of my life.
I mourn high school spring track like it’s my dead wife. Every time I think about it, a montage of my favorite memories plays to “Silver Springs” in my noggin. I was not the best, but I wasn’t bad, either. I made it up to states on the 4×800 relay team. And our practices were a joke. We’d roll up to the track exhausted after school and Mr. Uli would say, “Go run five miles if you want and, um, strides and stretch too. Or do three miles. I don’t care.” That’s a legitimate quote. Then he’d get in his car and go home, cause he was also tired. One time, he made us do a sprinting workout and I told him I wasn’t in the “sprinting mood,” so he let me log times with him. Gave me his stopwatch and everything. Good guy.
Flat out, we only got away with this stuff because my team was naturally gifted. I don’t know what their parents fed them—mine fed me pre-workout—but we won every time. There was no stress to be the best, because we were the best. All we had to do was run fast, run long and run fun.
Running as a whole is such a personal mentality. You compete against no one but yourself, cause no one’s beating your own times but you. Obviously. Yet, despite having the party of my life in high school, I never joined track in college. Partly, I knew they wouldn’t appreciate my laid-back personality, but I can also chase that runner’s high on my own. Every Friday, my roommate picks me up from class so we can talk about drama on the Rail Trail for ten miles at a sub-9-minute pace. Even this past November, we ran the Philadelphia Marathon. And when people ask me how I got through those 26.2 miles, I tell them two things: “Hamilton” and “The Greatest Showman.”