My Running Love

by Yuan Makoto

“My sport is your sport's punishment”. These few words jokingly mentioned by my coach is the perfect way to describe cross country. Now, for those of you who do not play a sport, let me enlighten you. In most sports (football, basketball, baseball, volleyball, tennis, etc.etc.) the generic punishment is running (I.E running a few laps). Other sports require players to run in order to have the endurance, and speed to do something. Players try and get better at running so that they can catch throws in time, be in position, or to just simply be able to keep playing in the second half of the game. In cross country, players run to become better at running to... be better at running. This is the key distinction between cross country and most other sports.

It is a simple, pure sport that is misunderstood by a lot of people. Most people can easily see the fun in a game of ultimate frisbee, basketball, or tennis. I often see kids playing soccer, or baseball for fun. However, I have never seen a bunch of kids deciding to go jogging on their Saturdays. When I was younger, I was a foreigner to sports. I spent most of my lazy Sundays playing video games. So how did I begin running cross country? Did I love running? Did I want a change in my weekly routine? No, it was simply a matter of lineage. My father ran cross country, my older brother ran cross country, and now I run cross country.

6th grade, I'm standing in the field adjacent to my school. A dirt filled baseball diamond and expansive grass field surrounded by an asphalt strip. The sun bore its weight upon my shoulders as I desperately looked around for the sanctuary given by the tall trees. Sweat dripped down off my forehead, and I let out a small breath of air. What the hell am I doing here instead of being in my air conditioned home? “Alright! Welcome to Cross Country!” A man with a British accent yells. I turned my gaze from the dark patch offered by the towering trees to this relatively short man, my P.E coach, who was now my cross country coach.”I ave been coaching cross country for quite some time now, I hope all of you have a good time, and that we have a strong team this year”. I looked around at the few other kids, who were probably also now regretting signing the paper on the clipboard labeled “Cross Country”. My school offered other sports, such as basketball, volleyball (although there was only a girl's team), touch football, and track and field later in the year. Now that I think about it, the sport's programs were a little sad. But, none-the-less out of all of the sports that I could've taken, I chose cross country. My coach rambled on and on about the sport, and gave us the generic speech. I never really liked running. It wasn't that I didn't like it because I was slow, in fact during P.E class, whenever we had to run I would usually finish at/near the lead. The problem was, it hurt like hell. My lungs hurt, and my legs hurt. I was too short for basketball, and didn't have the “I started playing when I was two” background needed for baseball or soccer. So I was stuck with the simple sport of putting one foot in front of the other. “Run a lap!” I snap back from my regretting trance, and I begin turning over my legs...

My feet slide as I finish my warm up on the track. I accidentally kicked up a small sandstorm when I stopped, and was not choking on the thick air. My first race... I would like to say that I had a stomach of iron, but this was not the case. In fact, it felt like my stomach was made out of jello rather than any sort of manly substance. I looked down at my jersey, I was an insecure child so I had a t-shirt underneath it. “I should be home right now”, “I don't want to do this!”, these thoughts kept racing through my mind as I waited to be called over. I wasn't afraid of doing poorly, frankly I didn't really care how I placed, as long as there was at least one person behind me. I was afraid of being uncomfortable. Not the kind of uncomfortable you get after sitting in a car for five hours, but the uncomfortable pain associated with running. “Sixth Grade BOYS!” Some old guy yelled. I looked up and realized that my race was about to start. Legs still shaking a little, I marched over to the line. The man explained the rules, and the course. “Runners ready!”

I looked up, taken by surprise. “Runners set” I put my foot on the line and got ready. “GO” My legs accelerated me forward, and I tried to get into position. Dust was kicked up everywhere, I sped up to get out of the cloud. The echoing yells from the parents and coaches faded behind me. “Here we go...” I said to myself, and kept running..

I jog over to the chalk line, and looked to my right. Other teams of blue, green, and orange stood clustered next to me. To my left, and behind me stood familiar faces. I looked down at my red tank-top with “Cross country” spelled out in yellow, above a faded images of a winged shoe. Attached to my jersey was a slip of paper. “Makoto Yuan”, “10th”, “B” (for Berkeley), it read. The chilled air blew past, and took my breath away. Wearing short-shorts, and just a jersey was not the hottest outfit, in the literal sense at least. I had been running all season, but for some reason I still had butterflies at our final meet. “Alright we're about to get started!” The starter abruptly shouted. I took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. One, two, three... everything quieted, and a calm poured over me. “Runners at your ready!” My right leg instinctively jumped to the chalk line, my head jerked up, and my eyes opened. I looked down the path, and imagined the course. Across the field, down the hill, along side the shore, up the hill, through the forest, across the dusty path, and right into the finish. OK, I said to myself. BANG, the gun went off, and my legs started working. A shot of adrenaline shot down my veins, and my legs began turning over too quickly. By the time I realized, it was too late. I had burned one of my kicks. It is said that a runner can never win a race at the start, but he can always lose it. My lungs gasped for air as I slowed my pace. What my beginning kick had done was catapult me to near the front group. I mentally latched onto the person to my right, and matched their pace. I followed this green jersey down the hill, next to the shore, and then we came to the hill. I have always been good with hills. I can run up hills fairly quickly without getting very tired. My running tactics are brutal, I love crushing the moral of the other runners, so I burned another kick. I climbed the hill and passed the surprised green jersey. I could feel the anxiety in his chest. My legs began to burn, but my lungs were recovering. I reached the top of the hill and shifted my running stance, and kept going. The trees cast very dark shadows, the sun had begun to set. The smell of the forest greeted me as I saw another cluster of green jerseys. Holding on to whatever I had left, I managed to follow this pack through the forest, and down the dusty path. Then we hit the asphalt. I saw that they began to pick up their pace upon seeing the finish (It was still about 400m away). My body screamed for me to stop, but I increased my pace. 300m. They weren't slowing down, and neither was I. 200m. One had dropped back slightly, but there were still about 4 guys ahead of me. They spread out to avoid bumping into each other. 100m. This was it. My older brother was known for his final dash. Not because he was extremely fast, but because of his yell. He would let out a scream that served two purposes. It would give him a burst of adrenaline, allowing him to sprint faster, and it would surprise if not terrify/freakout those around him. My brother had graduated last year, and I carried on the tradition. I pulled in a deep breath, and unleashed my roar. One glanced over his shoulder with a face that said “What the fuck?”, and my legs went into overdrive. I stepped to the left of the first guy, and went past him. I weaved to the right of the next guy and kept going. Dashing between the two in the front, I sped past them and spotted the chalk line. The view around me blurred, and my legs and arms grew numb. I kept telling my legs to go faster, faster, and faster. There was no point in saving anything now. My legs pressed hard against the earth, my mind was consumed with one idea, one goal, speed...

My shoes burned to a halt as I grasped for the tiny button on my digital watch. I look down at the blinking 2:46 staring back at me. Coughing, I go over to the grass to spit out this weird taste in my mouth. I gaze up at the sky gasping for breath as I finished my 9th, or 10th 800m repeat. (I lost count somewhere in the middle). I glanced out across the field to where the rest of the team was stretching. “Hot-Damn” I developed a habit of saying this to express my frustration rather than “Shit”, “Fuck”, or any other curse word because swearing warranted the punishment of 10 pushups (Which can add up very very quickly). Time just kept slipping out of my grasp. I ended my first repeat at 2:34s, but I couldn't keep up the pace. I was preparing for the varsity time trial (or varsity cut), on the up-coming Saturday. Alone on the far side the field, I rested my hands on top of my head to open up my lungs. Even though the chill of the dusk air blew past, and despite only wearing shorts and a t-shirt, I don't feel the chill. Sweat dripped down my brow, and heat radiated from me. I felt the soreness of my calf, quads, and chest, but I gotta keep an eye on my watch... 00:30 seconds, it read. I glanced down at my shirt and notice a few tiny drops of blood. I wipe it away and look back at the watch, 00:26 seconds. I steadied my breathing, and got up to the line. My heart beat pounded in my head, and my eyes narrowed as I stared down the straight-away. 00:05, five seconds... I took one last deep breath, and as I exhaled, I became completely still. 00:00 seconds, I reached down and pressed the start button. Beep, my legs bolted off...

Bam, THUD. I hit the ground, and my head pulled forward reflexively. I had learned how to take a fall from judo. I had collided with someone. On Fridays, the cross country team sometimes takes the time to play some ultimate frisbee. We were playing with two frisbees today, which was a bad mistake. I saw a glimmer of white, locked on, and rushed forward trying to make it in time to block the pass. I then noticed an incoming blur. For some reason, my mind had told my legs to jump, and I did. I was now flying through the air, unable to move out of the way. The impact was hard, I saw the ground coming up straight at my face, I turned in mid-air, to land on my back. The landing was softened by the grass, but my breath was still stolen from me. I gazed up at the blue sky, and clasped my chest,. About a half second later the blood drained from my face as I remembered that a collision between people requires more than one person. I jumped up from the ground and felt a twitch of pain in my hip. I pulled in a ragged breath, and saw my friend laying on the ground holding his head. I bolted over to his side to help him up. Asking “Hey, are you alright???”, I helped him walk back towards our backpacks to get water. Suddenly my right leg gave out under me, and at the same time I felt my lunch fighting to come out. I manage to suppress the urge. I shot straight back up to help my friend. “Carter are you ok?” I asked again. By this time our coach had made it from across the field. I couldn't make out his words because my head was a little hazy. We took another few steps when my right leg gave way again. I stood back up and dashed for my water bottle. I handed it to my friend and asked him again “Hey, are you alright?”. “Ya, I think I hit my head”, he responded. Oh man... I saw the swelling above his left eye, it swelled up a ridiculous amount. I began to panic, but he didn't seem to be dying. I stood suppressing the pain in my leg, the nausea, the pulse in my head, and a throbbing in my ankle, my friend didn't need to worry about my injuries on top of his head injury. “Carter, Mako are you alright?” my coach repeated... something really doesn't want me to run... In the last two years, my running career had been riddled with injuries. Beginning my Junior year, foot injury, half way through the season, just when my foot injury was recovering. I pulled something in my back and hip. At the beginning of my Senior year, minor foot injuries, calf injury, shin splints, after recovering from these, sprained ankle. My ankle was still a little swollen but mainly recovered when this happened. We have our varsity time trial the next day. It would determine who was on the final varsity team. I signed, and tried to jog off the pain. Something really doesn't want me to run...

My legs slowed to a halt after finishing the last build up. I glanced to my right and saw my 6 other teammates. Eugenio, Richard, Michelangelo, Aiden, Nico, Jonathan. Me and six other guys from the 12 who were on the “High Mileage Task Force/Alpha Team” (The joke names my coach called us) were selected to run the varsity race. The final league meet... “Varsity Boys!”, a call rang out in the damp air. We arrived at 12:00 PM Saturday, and our race was at 4:00 PM. We waited for four hours, surviving through the rain, and cold. My legs were shaking, not for fear or anxiety, but from excitement. I was no longer nervous, no longer worried about being tired, or uncomfortable. I was ready. We jogged over to the start, and prepared. We had learned the course about an hour before, but didn't know every aspect of it. Our coaches had designed the course previously, and it was reasonable, but Alameda were in charge of this race, and they decided to change it. I took in a deep breath, closed my eyes. Down the path, on the “roller coaster”, up the small hill, double back over the roller coaster, up the giant hill, and back down the giant hill. “Alright, clear out for these last varsity girls finishing” “Big Al” said. (Big Al is the starter from Alameda) We moved out of the way, and they passed by. We got back on the line, and remembered what the JV runners had told me. I turned to my team mates and said “Get ready, he's gunna start hella quick”, they nodded, and got into position. Just as we got in place we heard “READYSETGO!” BANG. “basterd...” I thought to myself. None-the-less we started. Normally they're supposed to say “Runners ready!”, then a second later “Runners set”, and then “GO!”. According to “Big Al”, “redysetgo” was a new single word. Racing down the path, our coach told us to get into position early on. I decided to try to catch people on the coaster. I got into position, but it cost me... a lot. I'm good with hills, I have a technique that I've developed over the years that has saved me more than once. All of my running tactics are designed for the sole purpose of demoralizing my enemy runners. I climbed the hill pretty easily, and came back to the roller coaster. We came back to the split off point between the roller coaster and the giant hill. I felt fairly confident about the hill... but then I, started climbing it. My techniques were shattered in the first five seconds. I took three steps, and moved up one. That day, it had rained. The hill was at least a 30 degree incline, and it was covered in slick mud. I placed my right foot down, crouched over, and pushed. (My hill running style). I was looking up at the time and was surprised to see that the world had moved forward, not backwards. I looked down and saw that my foot, now covered in damp pale mud, had slid, I put down my left foot, crouched low, and pushed. I slid once again. I placed down my right foot, and this time, I moved forward. A sense of triumph waved over me, but quickly drained when I realized that I had an entire mile up hill to go. Climbing this hill was not running, it was murder. The path was surrounded by a thick maze of twigs. The ground shimmered as if it was a river. I lost track of time, all that was left was this single thought “Forward”. Keep moving forward. My legs felt as if they had caught fire, my lungs dry from the heavy flow of air, and the rest of my body ached. Further up the hill, I had no idea where it would end. Another 100 meters? 400 meters? 1000 meters? Finally, I reached the summit, what greeted me was the most beautiful dark sunset. A deep shade of blue penetrated by a crimson red. However, what didn't greet me, was the turn-around cone. Confused, I continued to follow the road, and came to a steep downhill. I spent some energy to speed down the hill, but half way through a chilling thought entered my mind. “If I'm going this far down... I'm going to have to climb up.” and I was right. At the bottom of the hill was a short bend, and then... another hill. This time, this hill was even steeper. Starting at the bottom, I was already exhausted. Something kept telling me to “stop” or telling me that “walking would be faster”. I ignored these, and kept going... “I love running”, my coach told me to tell this to myself as I climbed the hill. “I love running” I echoed in my head. “I love running” The hill kept going. “I love running” There was no end. “I love running”, I feel like death. “I love running”... Then I spotted it, the end of the hill. A burst of energy flowed and I eagerly sped up to reach the top. It was all down hill from here, and that, was a good thing. I opened up my stride and let gravity help me down. The mud was pure evil, I almost fell over at least a hundred times. I rolled my previously sprained ankle eight times, and almost fell off a cliff twice. Chunks of mud flew up from under my feet, almost hitting me in the head a few times. I felt the cold mud coat the back of my legs, arms, and back. I reached the bottom where people stood cheering. There was only 300 meters left. I rounded the bend and followed the path next to the tall eucalyptus trees. I was about to collapse, my legs barely held under me, my head spinned, and my lungs heaved. As I reached the first tree I heard “COME ON MAKO, YOU'RE ALMOST THERE!”, Four familiar figures stood yelling at me. Strangely rather than falling down, my legs began to speed up. I followed the tree line, and then heard “MAKO IT'S TIME TO SPEND!” Another familiar voice, this was it. I checked my fuel reserves and noticed that I was completely out. So I took in one deep breath... and let out a roar. My seven years of running all compressed into this final dash. 200 meters to go. I picked up speed, pumping my already numb arms. The world turned into a single blur as I tore up the dirt road. 100 meters to go. I felt, nothing, I kept a constant speed, getting closer and closer to the finish. I saw a cluster of my team mates, or more like a cluster of red. I made out “GO MAKO!”. That was all I needed, my legs went into overdrive. I reached the sharp turn, 10 meters to the finish. I knew my body was way past its limits, but I charged on ahead. I pressed hard against the asphalt, I felt heat of friction on my shoe. Two posts marked the finish. A large clock rested atop the left one. 5 meters to go. The flipping numbers of the clock seemed to slow as I raced towards it. 3 meters... 2 meters... 1 meter... this was the last meter I would run in the league finals. I had uneasily joined the Berkeley Cross Country team as a Freshmen, and now I stood a meter away from the finish, as a varsity co-captain of the team. The only senior on the final varsity squad. “I love running”