14:49.31

 As I head to the track with my spike bag in hand, I notice the men of the first section of the five thousand meter run going about their routines of last minute strides, shaking off nervous twitches, and dynamically stretching their slow twitching muscles. I sit on the track and bring in the late night atmosphere of Jesse Owens stadium. I go about my own routines obsessive compulsively tying up my two-toned bright yellow and red Nike victory spikes. As it takes more time then I’d like to admit, I gradually stand up and great the loud crack of the starters pistol sending off two dozen of the fastest Midwest long distance runners on there chase.

 I very lightly jog down the backstretch to check myself in and receive three numbers. I am instructed to place one number on both hips, and one on my left chest. The number reads 21. It represents my place to which I have been seeded with the total number of people in the race. My predicted time, 15:00 ranks me twenty first out of 28 people.

As I jog around, nervously shaking out already loose legs, I take short glances at the men as the click of meters in tenths of a second. I pay attention to the race progress and figure out how many minutes I have before my own battle.

We are called to the start of the race, but quickly are drawn back to shake out our legs as the track official says we must wait for the baseball games’ firework smoke to ensure it doesn’t creep its way into the atmosphere of the track. Five minutes turns into ten, as the runners (including myself) are annoyed. Finally after some explosions in the sky the wind direction ensured us we would not be breathing in toxic fumes we are, again, called to the line. I sit on the second waterfall line in lane five, and given instructions to cut it around the first turn.

Crack! I’m out fast, comfortable, but aggressive, I quickly hug the fifth lane line, and watch as the small cones go by in a flash. I cut in and I’m greeted with open track in the night sky. “Fuck, what am I doing!?”… I find myself leading the first 800 meters, a fashion I typically don’t get into, but I settle myself down, and clip away 72’s like its my job.

A bit unsettled, I intentionally fall back on my heels a bit to let some Ohio State and unattached runners go by and take the rebating duties. As it gets string out for a second or two, I sit fourth in a very tight pack on the rail. Perfect, just settle in. As I am enjoying the view, I hear Eric’s voice amid the clapping of spikes, and not to shortly am joined by the man himself shoulder to shoulder with me as we go through the first mile in 4:45. The pace feels like child’s play, as I start to get nervous we might be slowing down. I try to calm my nerves, and bottle them up, as Chuck Wentz is quick to yell out 71 and 72’s around the 200 meter mark.

Eric takes the lead, as he might be feeling that same thing I am, and I’m content to sit in the packs’ back pocket and hang on. I am constantly reminded that there are anywhere from six to ten people chomping at my heels as I am getting clipped from behind more then I can count. The heel of my spikes continue to get hit, but I refuse to leave the rail. This does not help my anxiousness.

Finally, we are around the backstretch approaching the second mile mark, which is where Eric has planed on dropping off. As I quickly get out of the tight pack, make a surge and as I go by Eric his encouraging words propel me into gapping the field by thirty meters and quickly blaze through the 3200 mark in a perfectly planed out 9:28.

1800 meters left, and the past two miles felt like conversational pace. The announcer is quick to call out my move to the stands, as his words are fueling my rhythm. I remind myself to stay controlled but be confident. At times out in front it can be blurry and loud, or it can be complete stillness and quit. I guess I was experiencing both, as I start to get that tingling throughout my body, which I’ve come to realize many times before. Lactic Acid is weighing me down, as my glycogen levels are draining out. I am searching for any left of carbohydrates that I can quickly convert into ATP and continue this push.

Everything begins to become blurry as I try the last ditch effort to start breaking up the distance left from me and the line. When you’re in this state, simple math becomes a foreign language. The breaking up of meters, and time become an almost impossible task, but you cannot help yourself from continuingly making calculation after recalculation.

I find myself holding on for dear life, as I realize around 1100 meters that though the lap counter says 2 laps, I in fact have more then 800 meters. I quickly get swallowed up by a surging pack. I focus on their tiny neck hairs and nothing else. I try to stay in focus, but am fading quickly. 1000 meters becomes 800 meters, becomes 700 meters, as I am breaking up the distance in 100 meter marks. I had this feeling, a pity for myself, that I had to go or everything I just worked for was going to be for nothing.

I dug down and found something, and with 400 meters to go I opened up my tightly gripped palms, spread open my fingers, and gave the straight arm sprinters approach in a last ditch effort to cover ground as quickly as possible. I swallow up a fellow runner and burn down the homestretch as I try not to look at the clock, but more focus on that little white line. That mark means life again, and at this point I need to be free from the nightmare going on inside my body.

I cross the line in 14:49.31

At that moment my life changed.