Right on Track

by Sanya Richards-Ross

  I know I learned from my loss in Kingston. About ten years later, in Istanbul, I had two 400 meter races on the same day. I was faced with a situation similar to the one I faced in Jamaica. I could have powered through to win in the prelims, but I knew to do that was to risk a loss in the finals. Because I’d learned from that early loss, I chose to dial it back in the prelims and run conservatively. Then, in the finals, I had all I needed to win. That subsequent victory wouldn’t have been possible if I’d stubbornly continued to repeat my mistakes. But because I wanted to improve, I was able to learn from my loss, recalibrate my strategy, and continue on to success.

  In the weeks after my loss in Kingston, though, I was gripped with disappointment.

  Recovery

  A few weeks after I’d returned from Jamaica, still disappointed, my mom let me know that I’d been invited to a press event for a local newspaper. So I put on my favorite dress, a lime green sundress, and hopped into the car with her. For some reason the photo was scheduled to be taken at a local hotel.

  When we entered the hotel, I saw one of my uncles! Weird coincidence, right? It felt like a surprise party situation, but my birthday wasn’t for seven more months.

  After my mother led me down the hall, she threw open the doors to the ballroom and I saw a huge banner that read “Sanya Richards Day.”

  What?!

  A room full of people were beaming and applauding me. When the shock wore off, and I began to mingle with family and friends and coaches, I learned that the St. Thomas Athletics Director, George Smith, and my high school coach, John Guarino, had organized the surprise event to announce me as the 2002 Gatorade National High School Girls Athlete of the Year.

  So, technically, a photographer eventually did take my picture for the paper.

  In conjunction with the City of Fort Lauderdale and our congressman, July 25, 2002 was officially named Sanya Richards Day. I even received a congratulatory letter from Florida governor Jeb Bush.

  Other Floridians had been named athlete of the year, but I was the state’s first track and field student-athlete recipient. Looking back today, the timing of the honor felt fortuitous. It fueled my fire again and motivated me to live up to the expectations of those who recognized both my past accomplishments and my future potential. In the weeks to come, I’d picture that glorious ballroom during the most grueling parts of my workout!

  I’d still been feeling disappointed by what had happened in Jamaica that summer. But the Sanya Richards Day event that had been in the works before I ever set foot in Kingston’s National Stadium was a great reminder that I was not, and never would be, defined by my losses. No one’s life will ever be all gold medals. The most impressive champions—Usain Bolt, Simone Biles, Michael Phelps, Gabby Douglas—have all faced personal defeats. Even in the wake of defeat, though, you can carry yourself like a champion.

  That’s what I tried to do after losing in Kingston: I held my head high and continued to walk, and run, with dignity.

  RIGHT ON TRACK CHALLENGE

  Everyone faces losses. Your challenge is to learn from them.

  •What have been your biggest losses?

  •What happened to make you feel like a “loser”?

  •How did you respond?

  •What can you learn from your loss that will help you in the future?

  Not every endeavor yields a win. But you can transform losses by learning from them.

  CHAPTER 7

  RUN YOUR BEST RACE

  An athlete is considered “amateur” as long as she hasn’t received money for competing. So although I’d raced in the 2004 Olympics while I was enrolled as a student at University of Texas, I was still considered an amateur athlete. But I knew that the minute I received my first dollar for running, I’d be ineligible to race for the university.

  The decision to turn professional wasn’t one that my family and I took lightly. I’d attended college, as many students do, both to get a better idea of the job I’d enjoy and to prepare myself for the work I’d pursue. And, as it is with a few other careers—child actors, other young athletes, precocious entrepreneurs—I was in a position to begin the job I loved before I finished my education, rather than after.

  We all know the window during which a professional athlete can compete is typically short. Though the average retirement age in the United States is sixty-two, the overwhelming majority of hockey players who play in the NHL retire in their twenties. The average age of retirement for football players in the NFL is thirty. The average age of retirement for basketball players in the NBA is thirty-six.

  When I was in my early teens, I felt like I had my whole life to compete and to win. But my parents saw that window very differently. They realized we had to be smart about the decisions we were making about my career as a track athlete.

  Knowing when athletes retire begs the question of when we’re at our peak. A study from the Institute of Biomedical Research and Sports Epidemiology in France revealed that, although gender and athletic event do make a difference, the average age at which track and field athletes peak is twenty-six! Though I was still climbing toward my peak at nineteen, the statistics were sobering.

  So, guided by prayer and conversation with my family and coaches, I decided to forgo my college eligibility as an athlete in order to make room to do the thing I loved and had been born to do: train and compete on the international stage.

  In fact, I did continue attending school for an additional year, and my sponsor, Nike, picked up my tuition. It was a lot of work, and my races did require that I miss a number of classes, but I knew how to study and carved out time to do it on airplanes and in hotel rooms.

  In 2005, I began my first full year competing as a professional athlete.

  Though I’d attended the World Championships before, I was very excited to be attending them for the first time as a pro athlete. By turning pro, I finally had the opportunity to win a cash prize. In the fall of 2005, I was eager to run my best race for Team USA in Helsinki, Finland.

  My fiercest competitor was Tonique Williams from the Bahamas. She was already an Olympic champion, having won gold in the 400 in Athens in 2004. Heading into Helsinki, she and I had both been named among the favorites. And during the other meets in 2004, Tonique had only been beat by one person.

  Me.

  I’d overtaken her in the 400 at Lausanne, and I’d eked past her at Sheffield as well. But the reality was that I was still only nineteen years old in my first year as a professional athlete. Although my times were competitive with Tonique’s, it would still be a long shot to beat her on the world stage.

  Helsinki

  Because Olympic fans watching televised coverage of the most prestigious games see Team USA marching together in our red, white, and blue in the opening ceremonies, or cheering on teammates who’ve made it to the podium, many assume that we all spend time training together and developing bonds throughout the year. And although we do have the opportunity to forge friendships at competitions, many of us are meeting each other for the first time in those games—even members of relay teams who need to work together seamlessly.

  Over one hundred athletes on Team USA had flown out of New York’s LaGuardia Airport on a chartered plane to Finland. We were a sight to behold as we poured out of the plane onto a Helsinki runway in our red-and-navy warm-up suits.

  But traveling with the U.S. team meant that I wasn’t traveling with those closest to me. I didn’t sit next to Shari on the plane. I didn’t fly with my parents. And even Coach Hart didn’t travel beside me. Instead, my family and coach traveled separately while I flew with national team members, which included athletes, managers, and coaches for Team USA. It was a fun experience, but I missed my personal coach and family.

  We landed in Europe a day before my first prelim. I ran well in the early rounds of the 400, and I knew I’d still have something left to give in the finals.

  After coming in first in my semifinal round, I returned to the warm-up track that’s
situated beside the competition track. I was doing my cooldown routine, along with other teammates, under the watchful eye of my personal coach. As I was jogging around the familiar oval, I was visualizing the race I’d run the next day.

  Though every race is unique, I knew exactly whose body would be closest to mine the following day.

  Tonique’s.

  Having competed against her many times, including several that year, I could imagine how she’d run her race. I knew her posture, I understood her pacing, and I could even anticipate when she’d turn on her power. While it helped to know how she might race, my most important job was to implement the strategy Coach Hart and I had designed.

  I could see our plan in my mind. I’d burst off the blocks and hit my four Ps—push, pace, position, and poise.

  Crouched over the track, feet staggered, I’d explode off the blocks in an effort to reach maximum speed in just several steps. Pushing forward, I’d be launched into my next steps by the track itself.

  After that first one hundred-yard push, I’d throttle back to take in the oxygen my body needs and stretch into the best tempo for my stride. I’d find the rhythm that is uniquely mine.

  By the time I rounded the final turn, I would be thinking about the position I wanted to be in for the final one hundred meters of the race. This third phase of positioning was the first time I even needed to consider where my competitors were situated. I would become aware of everything going on around me.

  The final hundred meters require poise. My muscles had been trained to do their job, and that last stretch required as much from my head as it did from my legs. It’s that point at which runners’ bodies are most likely to lose their form and begin to flail. In the final one-hundred, my mind’s job was to remind my body to do what it had been trained to do. That poise requires concentration. And for me, prayer.

  Coach Hart and I had agreed that I wouldn’t hit full throttle until the last 110 meters of the race. That was the pattern that had been effective in Lausanne and Sheffield, both times that I’d beaten Tonique that year.

  A Fresh Strategy

  As my cooldown jog slowed to a walk, an athlete I considered a legend in our sport began walking beside me. I’ll call him James. James was a decorated athlete, more than a decade my senior, and I really admired all that he’d accomplished. Yeah, maybe I was even a little starstruck. I was honored that he was taking the time to help me consider the race I’d run the next day.

  “If you want to win,” he said, “you’ve got to come off the final turn first, and then just hold it.”

  As he was speaking, I was picturing some of his victories I’d seen in person and on television. I knew exactly the kind of lengthy final push he was describing. I’d seen him run that race successfully many times.

  Coach Hart was just fifty meters away, probably pleased to see that I was being shepherded by the best of the best. But I also knew that this older runner, who had much more experience than me, wasn’t describing the race Coach Hart and I had agreed I’d run.

  But I was young, I was relatively inexperienced, and I was hungry for this win.

  And I knew, from all my other races against Tonique in 2005, that this race could go either way. I was desperate to show the world that I was the best. That desperation meant I wasn’t willing to trust that the race Coach and I had planned out was the best race for me.

  What I wanted was magic. I wanted to believe that there was something outside of me, something greater, something bigger, that would be the key to a win. I now know that impulse—to find a magic bullet outside of ourselves—is what causes people to make poor choices. They stop believing that hard work and smart strategy is enough. They succumb to the temptation to believe that something outside of themselves will be the ticket to the win they’ve been training for.

  Looking for the Win

  I know I’m not alone.

  The student who slips a cheat sheet up his sleeve during a French quiz has bought into the lie that he can’t, or won’t, succeed without extra help.

  The candidate who stuffs the ballot box to ensure a victory—for homecoming queen, or club president, or team captain—has swallowed the lie that “the win” is worth sacrificing her integrity.

  The young person who’s caught stealing cash from a teacher’s desk has somehow convinced himself that whatever he gains is justified.

  And though I wasn’t breaking any rules by changing up my race strategy, I’d agreed to the lie that the win could only be secured by a trick or spell or potion or magic outside of myself.

  That’s what we do sometimes, right? We complicate things by trying to find something outside of ourselves to be our comfort, our hope, our victory, our salvation. If that temptation sounds familiar, it’s because it’s what we do when we fail to completely trust God with our lives. But when we ultimately decide to turn our lives over to God, and not just attempt to manipulate him into getting what we want, we’ll finally experience the peace that comes from trusting him.

  I was still considering the strategy James had suggested as I walked off the track that day.

  As I headed toward the locker room, Coach asked, “You guys have a good chat?”

  “Yes,” was all I said.

  That night as I lay awake in bed visualizing my race for the next day, I was picturing my body running the race that had been so successful for my teammate.

  Race Day

  Dark clouds hung in the sky the next morning. Though it was only drizzling when I woke up, a torrential downpour began as I reached the track. Wind whipped sheets of rain against all the runners as we stretched and ran our warm-up laps. As long as there was no lightning, we knew the race was on. My coach, who had been active in the sport for over fifty years, had never seen anything like it. I was already mentally reviewing my strategy, and the distraction of the weather wasn’t helping at all.

  I was assigned to lane 3, and Tonique was in lane 6. That meant that there were two lanes to my left on the inside of the track, two runners between myself and Tonique, and two lanes to Tonique’s right on the outside of the track. Because the start locations are staggered to account for the rounded lanes, the runner in lane 1 is positioned the farthest back and is able to keep all of the other runners in view until she passes them. The runner in the farthest lane, lane 8, is “running blind” until she is passed by runners on the inside lanes. My spot in lane 3 meant that for the first several hundred meters, I would have a sense of where Tonique was.

  After we were all announced, we crouched down to position ourselves for the start of the race. The downpour had eased up, but rain was still falling on the track.

  Bang!

  With the familiar gunshot, we were off and running!

  For the first two hundred meters, I was comfortable with Tonique being “ahead” of me in lane 6. I knew that when the lanes evened out for the last one hundred meters, we’d most likely be neck and neck. Any “lead” she had until then wasn’t meaningful.

  But as I went into the final turn, James’s words rang in my ears: “You’ve got to come off the final turn first, and then just hold it.”

  His words sounded so simple.

  Eager to implement them, I turned up the juice and passed Tonique halfway through the turn, with just over one hundred meters to go.

  “You’ve got to come off the final turn first . . .”

  I’d done it. I’d come off the turn first!

  His words continued to echo: “. . . and then just hold it.” That was more difficult.

  As my spikes dug into the wet track, I felt myself pushing, pushing, pushing.

  As I entered the home stretch, a lot of people in the stands thought I was going to beat Tonique. But with each step, I realized I hadn’t executed my race.

  I willed my body to move faster, but I could feel my legs giving way beneath me. My body had stopped responding to my heart and mind. With sixty meters left, I knew that I’d burned up the energy I needed to sustain the pace needed for victory.
Though all the runners were still behind me, I caught a glimpse of Tonique passing me on the outside with just forty meters left in the race. I had nothing left, and followed her to the finish line.

  Tonique, who’d felt the pressure of the race as deeply as I had, fell to her knees at the finish line.

  I realized the moment I crossed the finish line in Tonique’s shadow that I’d not run my race. I felt like I’d betrayed my coach. I’d run someone else’s race, and had failed.

  I was crushed. After congratulating Tonique, I left the track as quickly as I could. As I tried to escape, the first person I saw was Coach Hart. I collapsed into his arms and bawled.

  “What are you crying for?” he asked me, incredulously. “You’re a world silver medalist!”

  Perhaps if I’d done all that I was supposed to do, if I’d run my race, those words would have soothed me.

  “Put your chin up,” he instructed me. “You have no reason to be crying.”

  A light rain now sprinkling the track, I limped along with his arm around me, taking deep breaths to stop my sobbing.

  I knew that I’d messed up.

  Lesson Learned

  When I executed my own race, I was golden. I’d been able to beat Tonique twice because I’d implemented the strategy Coach and I had agreed on.

  But when I tried to execute someone else’s race, I fell short.

  Since I learned that hard lesson, I’ve noticed the same phenomenon again and again at the track. I’ve seen runners give too much too early, and not have enough left at the end of the race. Or I’ve seen them save up so much energy and lose so much ground that there’s no way to catch the leader when they finally do turn up the heat at the end. And because I know what it is to be running with someone else’s voice in my head—even the voice of an older champion athlete!—I understand the temptation to try something different in hopes it will make a difference.