The 400
I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with running as an exercise. I think most people do, with the majority trending toward the ‘hate’ side of the scale. It’s super hard to do. Most of the time running is simply a method of not getting killed or getting caught. Its a means of evasion and self-preservation. The mouse runs to not be caught and eaten by the hawk. For some creatures, running is their foremost mechanism of defense and I’ve always been one of those creatures. I’ve never been a hawk. I’m too friendly and far too skinny to be a bird of prey.
The concept of running as a sport has always been foreign to me because, in my opinion, a sport is supposed to be fun. And just in case you’re unaware, running is not fun. It hurts. Your brain yells at you the entire time. “Give up you Pussy!” repeating like a mantra in your mind. That’s not a sport. In sports, fans are the ones who hurl those kind of insults in your direction. Running, on the other hand, turns your mind into any sports arena in Phillidelphia on any given night of the week, hurling obscenities and extra large cups of half guzzled beer at your confidence while you breathe in rythm and try not to quit with every step.
Think about this; in most sports where running isn’t the only part of the sport, running is almost always used as a form of punishment. “Take a lap!” Remember when the coach would yell that? No? Well I do. And yet, some masachistic humans have taken this form of consequence for poor behavior or performance and have turned it into the entire sport. “Hey everyone, instead of splitting into teams and playing an exilerating game against one another, what if we just ran the whole time?”
Look, I’m half joking because like it or not, I was born to run. I have what’s called a “runner’s physique,” or what some might call a pencil thin body. Growing up, I was so skinny that I couldn’t wear spandex shorts, a popular fashion trend in the mid-eighties, without them hanging loosely around my meatless thighs, like cargo shorts on a middle-aged dad. As I’ve aged, my body has taken on weight in it’s own way, storing it primarily in my torso and inside of my veins, but as a child, I was built like a stick figure drawing of a human boy.
I was not a great runner before the age of 8. In fact, I was not an athlete when I was very young, primarily because my leg muscles waited a little while to develop. As I grew taller, my leg-meat stretched and got tighter, like the strings of a banjo. Because of this rare, redneck form of physical development, I was not a fast sprinter whatsoever. I remember feeling quite embarrased during P.E. class in first and second grade, when our teacher, Coach Bender would have us split up into groups of two and sprint against one another. I would always come in last place and because of this, I developed a loathing for running.
It wasn’t until I was in the 4th grade that I realised I might be born to run. It was during my school, Frances Willard Elementary’s annual track and field day when I was chosen by my teacher, Mrs. Love to represent our class in the one-mile race. I had never run a distance race competitively before and didn’t really think much of my chances to come anywhere near first place. But as the race began, I started to notice that the kids who took an early lead began to lose their steam somewhere around the halfway point. I, on the other hand, was just getting warmed up as I pulled away from the pack and finished my first mile race somewhere in the mid six-minute range.
For the first time in my scrawny little life, people took notice of me. Everyone was talking about how far ahead of the pack I was, like some Rock Island version of Forest Gump with a rat tail. Even one of the 6th-graders told me that I ran a good race. I couldn’t believe it. How had this happened? I didn’t prepare and had never run a complete mile before in my life, but somehow that day, something happened. Like a young King Arthur removing Excaliber from the stone in a miraculous public spectacle, I had accidentally done something great that I was unaware that I was capable of. Too bad it was running.
Up until this point, running was only something I participated in while playing hide and seek with my friends. Suddenly, running was emerging as a special skill I could develop throughout my life. Something that could possibly take me places. The tricky part about being accidentally good at something like running is, just because you can do it, doesn’t make you want to. I didn’t pursue running after that day and it wasn’t until my last year in high school that it would come back in to my life in ways that I could never have imagined.
I enlisted in the Marine Corps during my junior year of high school. I wasn’t interested in college, or the trades, or corporate work, or making money, so I enlisted in the military. This meant that my entire senior year of high school was backlit by the fact that I was leaving when it was over. Sometimes this reality steered me in sensible directions and sometimes I made decisions as though I didn’t have this looming obligation growing closer.
I didn’t know what Marine Corps Boot Camp was going to throw at me so I decided it would be wise to stay in good physical shape throughout the year. I played football in high school, so I was already in football shape but I definitely didn’t want to get lazy during the few months between football season and my departure. Some friends of mine were on the track team and they recommended I join. “It’s a blast!” my friend Jake said, really leaning into how much fun it was to be on a running team. I was dubious but I figured, ‘what the hell’ and signed up.
The first thing I’ll say about running track is that you’ve got to be vulnerable to do it. Primarily because the silky tank top and booty shorts they make you wear while representing your school leave very little to the imagination. While I had grown and developed since those early stick figure days, my physique was still quite slim and no matter how I tried, I could not keep my tank top from sliding off of at least one of my shoulders when I would run. Picture Jack Skellington from Nightmare Before Christmas in the smallest two-piece, silk tank set you can imagine. Now picture him sprinting. If you’re not laughing, you’re not trying hard enough.
While I had no clear idea which event I would attempt to focus on during my senior year, Coach Lillis, our head track coach knew exactly what to do with me. He decided that, with my frame, I would be a natural at middle distance; in particular, the 400. The 400 is a quarter-mile race, once around the track and, in my opinion, might be the hardest race to run. Its a war of attrition, requiring each runner dig deep into their soul to find out just what they’re made of each time around the track. It’s one part sprinting, one part distance, and its a 100% gut-check to see who on the track has the most balls. It’s a ‘who wants it more’ grueling battle and Coach Lillis thought it was perfect for me.
I had no idea that this race was so greuling because I had never run it before, so during our first indoor meet of the season, I was cool as a cucumber. I was scheduled in a heat of runners featuring the past year’s district champion, a senior from a neighboring school by the name of Adrian Bandy. When Bandy came into the indoor arena, my friend Danny, who was in the same heat as us, pointed him out to me. “That’s Adrian right there.” He said, pointing as if Michael Jordan had entered the arena. I wasn’t fased though, because I had a secret weapon: sheer ignorance.
As we took to the starting line, I looked around at my fellow runners. Each of them were settling into their starting blocks while I stood upright, no starting blocks, like a wide receiver about to ‘go long.’ As I braced for the starting gun, my tank top slid off of my right shoulder. The gun sounded and we were off. I learned a lot about my running style in that first race but what I learned most was, when I run, I run as though I’m being chased. It’s my natural inclination. It’s what I know. When I ran as I was growing up, roughly 80% of the time, it was during times of being chased. My heart raced and I kicked as hard as I could and during my very first quarter mile race, I placed first, ahead of the previous year’s district champ with an indoor time of 51 seconds. This translates to roughly 49 seconds on an outdoor track, or at least that’s what Coach Lillis told me.
After that race, I was the guy. I ran the 400 for Rock Island High School during my entire senior year. During that season, I had the 3rd fastest time in the state of Illinois for a stretch of time, won the Frankie Atwater award (Frankie was a former Rock Island quarter-miler who had gone on to compete on the olympic level), appeared in the Rock Island Argus (that’s our local newspaper) as the athlete of the week and developed a fun, competitive friendship with Adrian Bandy. I also anchored our 4X400 meter relay team with some guys who I grew to love and respect. The downside was… I didn’t want any of this. I honestly just signed up to run track in order to stay in shape before leaving for the Marine Corps. All of the success, while surprising, was proving to be more pressure than I had bargained for.
I won the District championship that year for the quarter mile which was great, but more than anything, I wanted track season to be over with. I was tired of the 400 and didn’t want the pressure that winning had brought. On the other hand, my relay teammates, Danny, Tony, and Ryan were so hopeful and excited about the chances of our relay team making it to the State meet that year. I can remember the three of them engaged in jubilant conversation, discussing how, if we could trim one second here and one second there, we’d have a chance of going to Champaign, Illinois to compete. I remained quiet, not sharing my resignation with them. I didn’t want to spoil their hopes and dreams with the fact that I didn’t want to go to State, or that I didn’t care if we qualified. Track wasn’t for me and I was excited for this last meet, the State qualifier meet to come and go so I could hang up my silk booty shorts once and for all.
The day of the State qualifier race came, which was held at our field, Almquist Field. The entire town was there, which definitely heightened the pressure I was feeling to come in first. I was slated to run the individual 400 as well as anchor the 4x400 relay. So many of my friends were in the stands and they were all expecting me to win. “I know Doug’s gonna bring it home today.” I heard someone say as I made my way to the starting line for the individual 400.
I was in lane 4, standing in my wide receiver stance, as I always had, but something was different that day. My heart wasn’t in it. When I ran, I didn’t run like someone was chasing me. I just ran and kept the pace with everyone else. Because of this, I ran my slowest time of the year and did not qualify for the individual 400 at State for the 1997 season.
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My sister stood at the finish line with a “Run Doug Run” sign she had made, offering comforting words as I came in 4th place in my heat. I turned to see Principal Anderson seated in the front row. “It’s ok, Doug.” He said calmly. I was disappointed. I didn’t like the way that this felt. Sure, I wanted track season to be over, but not like this. I didn’t want to just give up and with the relay looming, I wouldn’t just be giving up on myself, I’d be giving up on my teammates. I retreated to the locker room to take a long look in the mirror.
Nightime had fallen, and every race had been run except one: the 4x400 relay. By this time, Almquist Field was lit by the monstrous overhead lights, creating a Friday Night Lights vibe. The stadium was completely packed and the energy was electric as I took to the track for one last 400 with the relay team.
Danny was our lead-off leg and by the time he had finished his split and handed the baton to Tony, we were in 3rd place. In order to qualify for State, you had to finish in the top 2. When Tony handed his baton to Ryan, we were still in 3rd and the same was true when Ryan handed it to me. Third place. It would be up to me.
I kept up with the front two runners until the last 200, which is where I would typically make my kick. The moment I decided to turn on the jets, I was passed by none other than Adrian Bandy. Now, we’re in 4th place and I’ve got 150 meters to go if I’m going to win this thing. I’ve heard people talk about moments in their life when everything seems to go in slow motion. I only have one of those moments, and it’s this exact one. As I rounded the final 100, I saw Adrian in front of me and about 5 meters in front of him, it was a neck and neck race between two other schools. In that moment, I knew I had the kick that could win this race but did I want to go to State or would it be easier to just let my track season end right then and there?
To my right, in the first row of the stadium was my friend John Holland, in slow motion, on his feet, shouting “Run motherfucker!” So I did. I kicked, and I passed Adrian and the two other runners in just enough time to cross the finish line in first place. The stadium erupted and the bleachers cleared.
I was being surrounded as I attempted to catch my breath when out of nowhere, Coach Lillis tackled me in an exuberant act of glory. We had won our chance to compete at the State meet that year and while we got our asses kicked in Champaign, I was there with my friends. I did that for them. I didn’t want them to feel what I felt after tanking that first race. Not the loss. Losing is fine. But, the giving up. I didn’t want them to lose because I gave up.
Track season ended and my departure for the Marine Corps drew closer. We decided to have a ‘going away party’ at my cousin’s house in Rock Island. The party was a huge outdoor bonfire-style get-together and was an absolute blast until two guys started a fist fight with each other over a girl, or something cliche like that. I broke up the fight and should have just told them to end it there but I didn’t. I suggested that if they wanted to fight, they could walk down the street to the industrial parking lot and finish it there. Had I known what that decision would lead to, I wouldn’t have made such an idiotic choice but I was barely 18, a little drunk, and wanted to seem cool, so I suggested they continue their behavior elsewhere. And that’s what they did.
Almost everyone left the party to go witness the UFC-style main-event down the street. The only people still at the party were my family members and my closest friends. As people began to trickle back through the party on their way home, we started to gather intel on what had transpired on the loading dock that night. The two fellas originally involved in the fight once again engaged in mortal combat but, at some point, my friend Tyson jumped in to attempt to stop the fight. Some of the guys watching the scuffle mistook Tyson’s attempt to stop the fight as Tyson stepping in to team up on the ‘other guy.’ Tyson was jumped by a multitude of his own ‘friends’ that night and was badly injured. His jaw was so badly hurt that it needed to be wired shut but at this point in the evening, all we knew was that Tyson was hurt and the fight was over.
I stood in my cousin’s driveway making small talk with my cousins, my grandmother, my great aunt and a few friends when two large Monte Carlo-style cars came to a screeching halt about twenty feet from where we were standing. In an instant, the doors opened, and 7 to 8 very angry young men poured out of the cars over the sounds of blaring 90’s hip hop, and headed in our direction rather quickly. I knew what this was. These were Tyson’s people. He was brought home from some random party with a broken jaw and his boys wanted retribution.
I stepped forward, foolishly believing for a second that rational thinking would solve this issue. “Hey fellas. You’ve got the wrong…” Before I could finish my statement, I was hit hard across the face by an incredibly pissed off dude stampeeding toward me. I tried repeating myself, as if saying it again would change his perspective but as he hit me a second time and I saw my family scatter, I did what I was born to do.
This wasn’t a track meet. I wasn’t heavy with the weight of a crowd expecting me to win. This was real. I ran faster than I had ever run in my life in that moment. I hurdled the rear fence with perfect form and most-likely broke my personal best 400 time as I sprinted up 23rd Avenue in the middle of the night. As I hurdled the fence, I heard someone say “I’m fast! I’ll catch him!” But as I reached the end of the block and finally summoned the courage to turn around to see who was follwoing me and how close they were, I noticed that I was all alone. The nearest person was half a block away with his hands on his knees.
I raced to the next block and found myself hiding behind a car across the street from Tyson’s house. That wasn’t going to work, so I ran up the block until I found a group of people hanging in their yard, enjoying some beers. I approached them frantically, nearly in tears. “Please help me! You have to call the police! My family is being jumped!” While they were stunned by what I was saying, they called the police and attempted to comfort me until the cops arrived.
A squad car picked me up and drove me back to my cousin’s house where an ambulance was lighting a chaotic scene. I exited the sqad car to find my cousin Jerry lying on a stretcher, his face swollen and mangled, with his mother on her knees next to him, weeping. His father, my uncle Wood, was furious, and was standing in the middle of the street, at midnight, lit by the flashing ambulance lights, calling out anyone who was ‘man enough to face him’ in the streets that night. What a disaster. My eyes blurred with tears as Jerry continued to repeat, “It’s ok Doug.”
Jerry was taken to the hospital that night along with Tyson. While Jerry’s physical injuries were mostly surface and would heal in a couple of months, Tyson’s broken jaw would cause him to miss his senior year of football. I grew up with Tyson. His house was directly behind my grandmas house. We had gone to school together since elementary and now he was so hurt that he had to miss his entire senior year of football. What a terrible outcome to what was supposed to be my ‘going away party.’
I didn’t get to see Tyson or Jerry before I left for the Marines. I shipped out two days after the party. It was clear that I had a lot to learn in regards to leadership. I should’ve ended that fight right there in my cousin’s backyard but instead, I allowed a tragedy to happen. Sometimes I wonder, what would’ve happened if those guys had caught me that night? Would I have been able to leave for the Marine Corps or would they have killed me. I guess I have running to thank for not knowing the answer to that question. Who knows, had I not decided to run track my senior year, maybe I wouldn’t be the one telling this story.
I thought about the two of them during the three months I was in Boot Camp and, at one point, received a letter from Jerry. Inside of it was a family portrait featuring him, his wife and their young children. His eyes were still swollen and blue. I wrote to Jerry, once again apologizing for the catastrophe I had caused and wondered if Tyson understood that I didn’t mean for any of that to happen. Some nights, I would lie awake on my top bunk, watching the fire works at Sea World in the distance, somewhere out past MCRD San Diego and hope that Tyson was ok.
I arrived home to Rock Island following Boot Camp in October 1997 and one of the first things I did was attend a football game at my alma mater. This was the same stadium where we had won the 4x400 relay at the State qualifying meet the previous year. As the game played on, I caught up with old friends and revelled in the feeling of being back home. While it was wonderful to reconnect with everyone, I was really there for one reason. I could see Tyson standing on the sidelines, in his jersey but no shoulder pads or helmet. We made eye contact near the game’s end and smiled at each other.
As the game concluded and the students rushed the field to celebrate another Rocky victory, I made my way through the crowd only to find Tyson doing the same. We found one another in a sea of red and gold and both grabbed one another by the arms. Without hesitation, at the exact same time, we both said what we had been hoping to say to one another for 3 months. “I am so sorry!” We both blurted out. Tyson’s spoke through his teeth as his jaw was still wired shut three months after that awful night. We gave one another a huge hug and continued catching up. Neither of us wanted things to go the way they did that night and I took full responsibility for my foolish decision to allow the fight to continue.
I guess there some things you just can’t out run. Sometimes we make decisions that wind up hurting people we care about, and while a quick pair of legs might save your ass in the moment, you can’t hide behind cars forever. Sometimes, we give up on ourselves only to realize that the feeling that comes from such an act is not only beneath us, but nowhere near suitable for those we love. The truth is, we’ve all been given gifts of one sort or another and its up to us to understand and embrace them in order to help those around us. The growth that comes through this process is what life is all about.
I’m glad my 400 days are over, but I’m also glad that I ran the 400. That race taught me what I was capable of and what I could do when I was willing to try. I remember hating the way I felt just before each race, standing in the ‘fast lane’ while all of my competitors, who were all more muscular and athletic-looking than me, were warming up. I would always think, “There’s no way I’m going to win this race,” and then I usually would. The 400 taught me to believe in myself and not just what I saw in front of me. It taught me that talent comes in many shapes and sizes. But most importanly, I’m pretty sure the 400 saved my life.
