After the ignominy of my last race, I decided it was time to give up any aspirations of mediocrity. It was time to accept and deal with the fact that, while I was an entertaining and engaging teammate, I was not going to be the scoring backbone of the team. While I was improving my times, the improvements were incremental, not exponential. And it seemed as though everyone else was improving their times rather more rapidly than myself. I was not going to letter in cross-country. I was not going to have a top-10 finish. I was, however, going to exploit the fact that I was shorter, stronger, well...squatter than the typical runner.
We had a couple more meets, including one at our home course, considered to be one of the toughest in the state. At that meet, I set a new PR, breaking 20 minutes for the first time, by quite a lot. I did not let this go to my head, however. I was firmly entrenched as the guy everyone wanted along when we walked the course, due to my unique ability to mock members of the other teams and their obvious physical flaws, but maybe not the one you wanted on the course when the meet was on the line. I was okay with this. Acceptance often leads to enhanced clarity, and my role was crystal clear. I was a cross-country screw-up. And I was having the most fun I'd ever had in a team sport.
One of our final meets of the year was at Cedar Falls. We took the bus up there, which took about an hour. Plenty of time for Carbo Coolers and jocularity. We arrived, disembarked from the bus, and went to walk the course. From what I can recall, it was a fairly wide-open course. There were many other teams there; Estherville was not one of them, unfortunately. (Their nickname was the Midgets, and any time we were at a meet with them, when our race was over we would go out onto the course, take off our shoes, kneel on them, and cheer wildly for any Estherville runner going by. We actually elicited a "Fuck off!" from one of them once.).
With the course walk complete, it was time to meander back to the starting line and prepare for the race. By 'prepare', I mean tell jokes, make fun of each other, and stretch out in a very desultory fashion. Soon, it came time to approach the starting line. The starter's pistol sounded and we were off.
I settled into the slow-yet-not-at-all-taxing pace which was the centerpiece of my race strategy, such as it was. I chugged stolidly along for the next three miles, enjoying the view and the cheers of the spectators. Ever since I had accepted that I was in no way, shape, or form competitive as a runner, I allowed myself to relax and enjoy the meets much more.
In a nonce, the finish chute hove into view. The chute, for those of you unfamiliar, is a space about five feet wide, delineated by ropes festooned with festive, multi-colored flags. It exists to maintain the finishing order of the runners so our information can be collected in an efficient manner. If we were cattle, it would be the pathway to our abbatoir. As was my wont, the sight of the finish line instilled in me additional vigor and speed. To this day, I remain convinced that, had there but been a way to keep the finish line some 15 or so meters ahead of me throughout the whole course, I could have been a world-class XC runner. Alas...
Thus rejuvenated, I commenced my mad dash for the chute. Another competitor seemed to have had the same idea, and we were approaching the finish line (which was, inexplicably, on the side of a hill) on a collision course. I continued barreling on, head down, the picture of athletic prowess. We were approaching the line from slightly different directions; our paths were slowly but inexorably converging. About 10 meters from the line, the kid seemed to come to the realization that I was in finishing mode and not to be denied. He reached back for one final burst of speed and sought to overtake me. He came abreast of me about two meters from the line. I looked up at him, realizing this situation could have only one possible outcome. His eyes widened as he apprehended what I intended to do. Which I promptly did; extending my right forearm, I sent him sprawling down the hill. I have no idea how many places I cost him, but I do know one thing.
I won.
I attended Homecoming a few weeks later with a group of cross-country runners. After the dance, we retired to someone's house to watch videos. Someone broke out the video of the Cedar Falls meet. Whoever recorded it was standing just off to the side of the finish line and had a stellar view of the incident. The kid went flying by, arms flailing. All the way off camera. Apparently, what I lacked in speed, stamina, and pace I more than made up for in forearm shivers. If they ever combine roller derby and cross-country running, I will have found my niche.
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