I was curious about marijuana, and found it interesting to see them talk nonsense together with their blood-shot eyes. One night during finals week of my first semester, I went to Cooper’s dorm to hang out. When I got there he said he was supposed to meet some guys to get “baked,” but said I was welcome to hang out.
As I watched them take several hits, I sat back and complained about how hard my chemistry final was going to be. With a somewhat glazed look in his eye, Cooper said what I really needed to do was take a hit, that it would calm me down and help me study. I laughed and thanked him for the offer, but declined.
“Symmonds,” he said with a confident and slightly disappointed tone, “you are almost done with your first semester of college, in Oregon mind you, and you have yet to try weed.”
I was curious about the skunky smelling stuff and thought it would be quite an adventure to try it, but I had reservations. I looked down at my shoes and said, “I know. It’s just that I heard you can’t get high your first time and I’m focused on running and school and stuff.”
I wasn’t the most self-confident person at the time, but I knew how to say no to peer pressure. Cooper watched me and seemed to be listening, but the look on his face said he felt disappointment for me. He knew I was good at saying no to peer pressure, and my lame response conveyed that I was not trying very hard to pass up his offer.
“Well, I guess cross-country season is over,” I said. With that, Cooper’s face lit up.
The THC, the active chemical in marijuana, didn’t affect me right away, but when it did, it hit me like a train. I went from totally sober to higher than a kite in a matter of seconds. I don’t remember all of that evening, but what I do remember is that I fatigued my abdominals by laughing so hard, and was so sore that I couldn’t do a sit up for a week. I also remember eating an entire pizza, and once it was finished I ate vanilla ice cream out of a plastic gallon container by the handful. At some point I passed out.
The next day I woke up and felt like a dried out dog turd. I didn’t feel hung over, at least not the way I did after the few times I’d had too much. I looked down at my body and wondered how much harm had been done. Chemicals aside, how many calories had I consumed? I felt sick thinking about it and decided that what I needed was to burn the calories off and sweat out the toxins. I put my running shoes on and headed out the door.
The funny thing about THC is that it is stored in your fat cells. When I went for my run my body began to metabolize these fat cells, and in the process released the THC back into my bloodstream. I made it about four miles along the Willamette River when I suddenly realized I was high again. I looked around and admired the beautiful park, the green grass, the blue sky, and slowly walked back to campus.
My first experience with marijuana taught me that the drug wasn’t for me. I had experienced what weed did to me and what it had done to many people around me. It made me feel lazy and dirty, and I knew that feeling lazy and dirty would not allow me to accomplish the goals I had set for myself.
I was able to get through my finals and, while at home for Christmas break, received notification that I had earned straight A’s. Convinced that my first semester of college had been a success on all accounts, I returned to Willamette University determined to have an equally successful second semester.
4
My list of priorities at that time in my life was as follows: family, school, running, social life. I kept this list in my mind always, and made sure to allocate time and energy to the highest priorities first. I continued to do well in school so I set my sights on running at the NCAA Division III National Championships for Track and Field. This meet, which takes place at the end of the academic calendar, was the largest and most important competition that I would participate in my freshman year.
My build up for this meet had gone incredibly well and all that stood between racing for my first two national titles was finals week. As was par for the course, Cooper came to me and asked how things were going.
“Pretty well,” I replied. We were sitting in our philosophy classroom after class. As we packed our books into our backpacks he asked if I had hooked up with anyone recently. “No, just really focused on classes and nationals right now,” I replied.
“Ah, come on Symmonds, don’t give me that,” he said nudging me with his arm. “You’re almost done with your first year of college and you’re going back to Boise a virgin?”
I had heard this line of argument from Cooper before and he knew it was a successful way to manipulate me. Looking back, I knew I was being manipulated, but allowed it to happen ––and I appreciated it.
Cooper always pushed me out of my comfort zone at a time when I both wanted and needed to be pushed. Growing up without older friends or a big brother I was still very much behind my peers and was often awkward socially. Like many young men, I desperately wanted to lose my virginity, but didn’t know where to begin.
“You just gotta find a girl you are attracted to, then ask her out,” were Cooper’s words of wisdom. He made it all sound quite simple. “Who are you attracted to?” he asked.
There were several girls, I admitted, that I had admired from afar. As chance would have it, one of them happened to be exiting our philosophy class with us. I pointed at the petite brunette who hid her beautiful, brown, almond shaped eyes behind a pair of librarian style glasses.
“Kathy?” he laughed.
“Yeah, I think she’s really pretty,” I responded.
“Dude, she’s way cute. But she’s a senior.” He paused and then went on. “You’re the man, though. You should ask her out.”
We watched in unison as Kathy slung her backpack over her shoulder and walked out of the room. “Okay, I will,” I said, making no actual effort to do so.
“Now,” Cooper said, gently pushing me forward.
I didn’t want to disappointed Cooper, but I also didn’t want to talk to Kathy. Well, I did, but I didn’t want to feel that sudden, paralyzing nervousness that overcame me whenever I approached a girl. The feeling was similar to standing on the start line of a race, only once the gun went off at the race the feeling disappeared. In talking to a girl my nervous anxiety just got worse and worse as the conversation went on.
Kathy was three years older, graceful, and beautiful. I was a freshman, awkward, and poorly dressed. Despite this, I chased after her across the quad and caught her near the Mill Stream, the creek that runs through campus. “Kathy!” I called. She turned, and I was tempted to run in the other direction. Somehow, I stood my ground and introduced myself.
Runners eat a lot of carbohydrates before a race to maximize muscle energy, and I recall saying some stupid line about how I had a big race coming up and needed to carb load. Then I asked if she would possibly like to join me for a pasta dinner. Kathy said she was a runner herself, though she didn’t run competitively, and that yes, she would like to accompany me. She wrote her number on a sheet of paper in her binder, tore it off, and handed it to me. Then she smiled and walked off while I stood there holding the precious slip of paper, dumbfounded, as the rare Oregon sun shone down on me. It worked. It was an early lesson that with great risk comes the potential for great reward.
I remember being a very smooth gentleman on our first date, but Kathy would probably tell you I was a nervous disaster. When I asked her why she agreed to go out with me she said, “You seemed so nervous when you asked me, and also very sweet, so I didn’t have the heart to say no.” Whatever works, I thought as I stared across the table at her. Later, I drove Kathy back to her house and gave her an innocent hug on her doorstep. When I climbed back into my 4Runner I figured that would be the last I’d hear from her.
The big race I was carb loading for was to take place the next day at the University of Oregon, and I wanted to rest up for it. The race was the famous Bill McChesney Mile, named after one of the great University of Oregon distance runners who died from injuries sustained in a car accident in 1992. There was much pride and prestige as
sociated with this invitational event, and many great runners had been invited to race it. Somehow the WU coaching staff had talked the meet director into letting me in. My 1600 meter personal best of 4:20 from high school was not going to get me very far in the race. However, my training had been going really well and I knew I was due for a big improvement.
The race ended up being a cat and mouse game between a high school phenom named Michael McGrath, and me. He had a big lead going into the final lap, but ultimately I was able to hunt him down and win the race with a time of 4:03. I had shaved more than seventeen seconds off my best time! That kind of jump is almost unheard of in the sport of track and field, and I stared in disbelief at my time on the scoreboard. As I had done often in high school, I looked down at my legs and audibly thanked them for all that they had given me.
I returned to school that night ecstatic with what I had accomplished, but sad that I had not heard from Kathy. I had really enjoyed our first date and wanted to see her again. Saturday came and went, and still nothing from her. Finally, late Sunday night as I was studying in the library, my phone began to vibrate.
It was a text from Kathy! I HEARD YOU DID WELL IN YOUR RACE! CONGRATS! SEE YOU IN PHILOSOPHY ;)
I read the text several more times. I got a winky face! I wanted to yell this as loud as I could, but fortunately for the many other kids who were also studying, I refrained. My heart leapt and I smiled a sheepish grin. Not only was I now a 4:03 miler, but I was also conversing with a beautiful woman, three years my senior, who was sending me flirtatious texts.
The next day in philosophy class Kathy and I sat next to each other and made plans to hang out again that night. Kathy and I soon began meeting almost every day after school, and some nights I stayed at her place off campus. One night while we were watching TV I turned to her and said, “Kathy, I’m a virgin.” She smiled and said, “I figured.” I suppose the fact that we had been hanging out for a while and I had never made a move beyond kissing kind of gave it away. I told her I wanted her to be my first and she smiled, stood up from the couch, and grabbed my hand. Kathy then led me from the living room into her bedroom.
I had waited more than nineteen years for this to happen and at times had cursed my inexperience. However, after that night I was glad I had waited. Kathy was fun and patient and made it an incredible experience. I was, and am, also quite glad that I did not wait until marriage. I learned from that first relationship that sex is an extremely important part of a relationship. In my experiences since, I have also learned that not all people are sexually compatible. While I certainly respect those who choose to wait until marriage, I made the right choice for me.
When I was young my mom taught me about the birds and the bees. In her colorful speech she said, “When two people really love each other they can express their love with sex. Sex is one of life’s great joys, as long as both people involved feel good about it and are engaging in it safely.” I’m pretty sure I had no idea what she was talking about at the time, but it seemed important so I remembered it. To this day it is the best advice on the subject I have ever been given.
As for me, I thought sex was incredible and I wanted to make up for lost time! I actually thought more about sex now than when I had been a virgin. But, I did my best to remember my list of priorities. I still saw Kathy each night, but reminded myself regularly that training and running well at the NCAA’s was the higher priority.
A week later I flew to Canton, New York to compete at the NCAA Division III National Track and Field Championships. I went in ranked in the top ten for both the 800 and 1500 meter races. Though it had taken some work, I managed to convince Coach Sullivan and Coach McGuirk to let me run both. They were nervous that the series of rounds would be too much for me, and that I would risk my chance at winning one or the other. I assured them that I was used to running many events at the Idaho State meet, and that doing so had prepared me for the rounds I’d face at this championship event.
That weekend I faced very tough competition in each event. In the 800 I was attempting to dethrone two-time defending national champion Matt Groose of Wisconsin-Oshkosh. In the 1500 I hoped to upset one of the best distance runners to ever come from a Division III school, Ryan Bak of Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut.
The day of the finals was cold and rainy, despite it taking place in June. Although I was seriously outmatched on paper, I looked at the downpour as a gift that would help me overcome the odds. My edge was that I had spent most of the spring training in exactly these conditions in Oregon. With rain flying off our spikes as we fought for the titles, both men gave me a great race. But, I was beyond thrilled to leave Canton that weekend as a two-time NCAA Division III national champion.
As I headed to the airport, I remembered how nervous I had been one short year ago about choosing Willamette University. Having now upset two of the most decorated athletes to come through Division III, I felt an enormous sense of pride, both in the hard work I had put in, and also in sticking with my gut and choosing the program that was completely right for me.
I flew back to Oregon with my two first place trophies tucked into my backpack, and as soon as we landed I went to see Kathy. We celebrated by taking a trip to Lincoln City, a beautiful little town on the Oregon Coast just an hour west of Salem. I remember working on a six pack of cheap lager as we walked along the beach, and being unbelievably happy. Unfortunately, that weekend was the last that I would spend with Kathy. The next week she graduated from Willamette University and shortly after that she moved back to the Bay Area, where she had grown up.
I returned to Boise to begin a summer job around our farm, and though we talked on the phone occasionally, Kathy and I grew apart. Every once in a while, after a big race, Kathy still sends me a congratulatory message. My heart still races a bit when I read them.
That summer, back home in Boise, I wondered what my sophomore year would be like. I felt that my freshman year had been amazingly successful. I had earned good grades, lost my virginity, and won two national titles.
I did receive some news that summer that worried me, though. Coach Kelly Sullivan had been offered the head women’s coaching job at Oregon State University––and was going to accept. Coach Sullivan was the one I always went to for advice. With Coach leaving and another coach taking control of the program, the perfect balance that had existed would be gone. I was nervous to see how the team would now be run.
On a call with Coach Sullivan he told me that he felt very comfortable leaving the program in new hands. He told me that I could call him at his OSU office or on his cell anytime, day or night. Coach then went on to say how much potential he saw in me and that if I trained hard, the sky was the limit for my running career. I trusted him and, listening to his advice, trained as hard as I ever had that summer with the goal of being the number one man on the cross-country team in the fall. I returned to Salem in fantastic shape and felt extremely motivated. But, just days before the first meet was set to take place, something terrible happened.
5
On a relatively easy run, I took a step off a curb and felt something pinch in my knee. I had felt this happen before, but this instance was especially painful. I tried to run back to school, but could feel my knee swelling with each step. I slowed to a walk and limped back to campus with tears in my eyes.
My first reaction to an injury is to panic, and this time was no different. I had been relatively healthy during most of my running career, but had suffered a stress fracture and Achilles tendinitis in high school. Those injuries had tested me both mentally and emotionally, and had threatened to end my running career before it got started. Now, as I hobbled back to campus, I began to fear the worst. How long will it take for the swelling to go down? What exactly is wrong with my knee? Will I ever run again?
I went to Coach McGuirk’s office and told him what had happened. He nodded and told me to take a few days off. I took three days of rest with no improvement. I then took a week off, and then a month.
As the injury lingered, I began to accept that I was not going to be able to compete that cross-country season. Even more troubling, I began to realize that almost all of my friends were runners. It pained me to be around them as they talked about the workout they had just completed, or their upcoming races. I began to spend more time with Cooper and less time with the team. I also began spending more time with a couple of guys I knew at one of the campus fraternities, Sigma Chi. This boisterous, glorified dorm building was always full of cold beer and cute girls, and no one there ever talked about running.
I saw a few doctors, but they thought I was suffering from tendinitis and suggested I take more time off. To keep myself from going totally insane, I worked out with the guys from the fraternity most afternoons. Their idea of a workout was quite different from what I had been doing on the cross-country team, and mostly consisted of zero cardio and a whole lot of bench press. After our workouts we would re-hydrate back at the frat house with unhealthy amounts of cheap beer. My weight shot up from a lean 150 pounds, to a muscular, slightly soft 180. As we sat around the house playing drinking games, the guys suggested that I join the fraternity. I gave their offer some serious thought.
Eventually I returned to my dorm room and lay in bed wondering if my running career was over. How did it come to this? Just a few months before I had been a two time national champion, preparing to take on the best in the nation at a distance of 800 meters. Now, here I was, an overweight, out of shape, meathead. I stared at the ceiling as tears streamed down my face. Finally, at the suggestion of Coach McGuirk, I agreed to see one last doctor.
I drove the sixty miles of I-5 that links Salem to Eugene to meet with legendary orthopedic surgeon, Stan James. Dr. James had practiced medicine in the Emerald Valley for decades, and had treated many famous runners. Two minutes into my visit he knew exactly what my injury was. “You have some of the most pronounced plica I have ever felt,” he said, working his fingers around my kneecap. “You’ll need to have it removed arthroscopically.” I had no idea what he was talking about, and said so.
Life Outside the Oval Office: The Track Less Traveled Page 4