Going into the first of the three rounds I had trouble controlling my nerves. I hadn’t slept well the night before and felt flat in round one. I failed to earn one of the automatic advancing spots that were given to the top finishers in each heat, but managed to run fast enough to advance to round two on time. As I cooled down after that first race I worried that I had peaked several weeks before and would be left in the dust in round two.
However, I came back the next day feeling much better. Going through the motions in the first round had primed my legs and adrenal system, and I felt much more comfortable as I warmed up for my semi-final race. When the gun went off I went to the back of the pack, content to go for a ride for 700 meters. When I reached the homestretch I gave everything I had and, to my amazement, found myself hitting the finish line in first place. I had won my semi-final race and was, therefore, guaranteed a spot in the final. The other semi-final winner was the defending national champion, and number one ranked, Khadevis Robinson.
Khadevis or KD, as he was affectionately known around the track, had been our nation’s best half-miler for several years. He had won this event several times and was built like the quintessential middle distance runner. Tall, long, and lean, he had an impressive stride and relatively high arm carry. I had looked up to him for many years. KD’s personal best at 800 meters was close to four seconds faster than mine, an eternity in our event. I knew it would be almost impossible for me to beat him. However, I thought that if I ran a smart race, I could perhaps out kick one or two of the other finalists in our race.
I had become known for my kick in college. The “kick” is an athlete’s ability to push through the pain and lactic acid in the final stretches of a race, and is one of the most important parts of a runner’s arsenal of weapons. In a good “kick,” a runner should lift and drive his or her knees to keep the impulsion going.
Now, I toed the start line wearing my old BK singlet, looking very out of place, like a high school kid stumbling around the court at an NBA game. The race began and I went straight to the back of the eight-man pack. The pace felt faster than anything I had ever known, but I hung on for dear life. I knew if I could maintain contact with the pack, that they would tow me to a fast time, just as had been the case in Tennessee. I hoped that even if I finished dead last I would run a fast enough time to impress a sponsor or two.
Coming off the last bend I moved to the outside of lane two in order to have a straight shot at the finish line. As I swung wide, I dug deep to find my trademark kick. Despite the fast pace of the race, I found that I had much left in my legs. I began to quickly move up alongside the pack of runners. With each couple of steps I was able to pick off one of my competitors. I went from last place to seventh, to sixth, to fifth.
The lactic acid began gripping my legs and I closed my eyes and dug as deep as I could. I could hear and feel the other runners laboring around me. I opened my eyes just before the finish line and lunged for it. I had finished in a dense mass of runners and wasn’t completely sure where I had placed. I stood, hands on knees, gasping for air while I looked up at the video board to see the results. The board read: 2nd SYMMONDS 1:45.83.
I shook my head in disbelief.
I had not lost an 800 meter final in more than seven years, but if the streak had to go down, I am very glad it went down like this. Though I had lost, I had just become the second best 800 meter runner in the entire country, and had shaved another one and a half seconds off my personal best.
In the media zone I was bombarded with questions: “Who are you?” “Where are you from?” “Did you know you could run 1:45?” “What are your plans for the summer?” “Who are you going to sign with?” “What is BK?” I did my best to answer all of the questions while at the same time taking business cards from men in suits who called themselves “agents.” I knew I would now be able to get a sponsor, but apparently I needed one of these people to help me do so.
Overwhelmed, I threw the cards in my backpack and looked for the national champ. Sitting across from me in the tent was my long time role model, Khadevis Robinson. “Excuse me KD,” I said. “Could I trouble you for a photo?”
“Yeah sure, kid,” he said. “But just this once, cause you’re getting too fast.” Then he gave me a big grin before stepping next to me to pose for a picture.
I spent the rest of the day hanging out with my dad and my uncle. I also talked with Coach Sam who had watched the race with Coach Gags. Sam told me that right after the race Gags was clapping and shouting, “We gotta get the kid to Eugene!”
In the interviews I did that weekend with the media I mentioned two things: one, that it had been a very long season and I would be taking a break from racing for the rest of the summer, and two, I very much wanted to run for Coach Gags in the fall. Unbeknownst to me, saying these things hurt my leverage with the shoe companies. In speaking with the agents afterward, they told me that by not running a full summer season I was not giving any potential sponsor exposure through racing, and that by committing to Coach Gags, I was locking myself into a Nike contract. As the coach of the new Nike funded, Eugene based team, Gags was employed by Nike and unable to coach anyone who had a deal with any different shoe company.
The agents went on to tell me more. Despite the negotiating leverage I had lost with my comments to the press, the agents shouted out big figures. They also tossed around names of well-known athletes they worked with. Impressive as it was, it all sounded like a lot of bullshit to me. Not sure who to believe, I turned to a guy I knew had my best interest at heart, and who had been involved at all levels of the sport, the new Oregon State University women’s track coach, Kelly Sullivan. On the phone with him shortly after the meet I explained that I had been contacted by several agents and had no idea who to sign with. Glancing through the business cards I had been handed, I listed off the names as he listened.
Coach Sullivan paused, cleared his throat, then said, “Sign with Chris Layne. He’s a good guy and is in this sport for all the right reasons.”
Most athletes spend weeks or even months meeting with agents, choosing one the way they would a college, but that didn’t appeal to me. Coach Sullivan’s word was gold in my book, so I called Chris Layne. He answered on the second ring. “I’d like to sign with you and your company, Total Sports Management,” I began in all ignorance. “But I don’t want you to take 15 percent of my base. Another agent is offering to take only five, and I think I like that better.”
Chris laughed and asked who the other agent was. He then said he would only be interested in working with me if he got 15 percent of the contracts he negotiated for me. He explained that was standard among all reputable agents in track and field, and promised that with him, I would get what I paid for.
I thought this over for a few moments, then told him that I respected his honesty and that I would like to sign with him. Chris was perhaps a bit surprised at how easily this deal was taking place. Nonetheless, he said he would send over some paperwork and start negotiating my shoe contract.
“What do you think we can get?” I asked, cautiously optimistic.
“After what you accomplished at the USATF Championships, I’m thinking something around seventy thousand a year,” was his response.
With my hand shaking, I thanked him and hung up the phone. Seventy grand a year? At the time my net worth was roughly a thousand dollars. I felt like I had just won the lottery.
8
I had worked hard to make my pro career happen and now that it had, I wanted to reward myself with a vacation before everything kicked into gear. So, I headed to Spokane, Washington. Cooper had just moved back to his home there. It was the Fourth of July weekend, and he and I spent the entire time drinking beer, wakeboarding on Liberty Lake, and flirting with girls.
After that I drove to Boise to visit my parents. We own a cabin eight hours from Boise, near Big Sky, Montana. It’s a tradition on my dad’s side of the family for everyone to meet there in August, and some of my fondest m
emories are from weeks spent at that cabin, which is just a few hundred yards away from the Gallatin River. After all the hard work I had put in at college it was therapeutic for me to relax with my family, fish, hike, fish, swim, fish, play board games . . . and fish.
I actually love everything about fishing. I tie my own flies and will fish for anything that swims, particularly trout, salmon, and steelhead. I was wading along the river trying to fool some rainbow trout when I got a call from Chris, my new agent.
“I know you have shut it down for the summer,” he began, “but there are a couple of exhibition meetings taking place at the end of August and early September.” Overseas, track meets are called meetings.
Curious, but eager to get back to the fishing I replied, “Thanks Chris, but I haven’t run in almost a month and really want to focus on slowly getting back into shape for next season.”
I was about to hang up when he said, “These are races where you will represent Team USA. You will receive two giant boxes of official Team USA gear if you agree to race.”
Almost before he could finish his sentence I said, “I’m in!”
Though I was out of shape, I wanted that Team USA gear very badly. To sweeten the deal, the races were in Birmingham, England, and Moscow, Russia––and all of my travel expenses would be paid.
In shape for almost nothing except drinking beer and fly-fishing, I began putting in a few miles every day. I knew I was going to be far from race ready for these meetings, but I didn’t want to totally embarrass myself. By the time we returned to Boise, I had two weeks of training under my belt, which included several intense interval sessions on the track.
As promised, waiting for me on our front doorstep were two large cardboard boxes. I dragged them into my room and opened them like a kid on Christmas morning. There were dozens of items all individually wrapped in plastic. Shirts, shorts, tights, backpacks, all colored red, white, and blue, emblazoned with “USA” across them. I opened up every item and tried them on. With my new crisp white USA singlet on I ran to the backyard to show my parents. They applauded, and dad even grabbed his camera for an impromptu photo shoot.
The next day I passed through security at the Boise airport with a ticket to London. Although I had traveled internationally a few times on vacation with my family, I had never done so for work. I had always dreamed of having a career that took me around the world and here I was, just a few months out of college, headed for Europe on official business.
I connected in Denver, then spent ten hours crammed into a tiny seat at the back of the plane. My all expense paid business trip did not include a business class ticket. I wasn’t upset, however, as my excitement overwhelmed any sense of disappointment. I did my best to drink a lot of water and get up to stretch my legs as often as possible, but still felt tired and beat up when we touched down at Heathrow International Airport in London.
It was late in the afternoon, and after dealing with the notoriously strict Heathrow customs officers for twenty minutes I was waved through to baggage claim. I exited into the main terminal expecting to find someone waving an American flag with a sign that read SYMMONDS. However,
I found no such person.
I nervously walked up and down the terminal for thirty minutes trying to find anyone associated with Team USA or the meeting. I had no international cell phone and no way of contacting my agent, so I put on one of my Team USA jackets, sat down on my luggage in the middle of the terminal, and proceeded to read one of the books I had brought with me, Sophie’s Choice. Now that I was no longer obligated to read biochemistry text books I was pouring through all the literature that I had been wanting to read for years.
As I opened up my book and pulled out the boarding pass I had been using as a bookmark I shook my head and laughed. Well, this is an amateur set up, I thought. As it turned out, this was the first of a thousand times during my career when I would say this exact phrase with regard to our governing body, USA Track and Field.
I sat reading my book, occasionally glancing up to look for someone from USATF. An hour later I finally saw a few other people come through customs wearing Team USA gear. They looked like athletes, so I ran up to introduce myself. These veterans told me it was not uncommon to show up to a destination and wait hours for someone to arrive to transport them to the meet hotel. They suggested we find a restaurant and get something to eat until someone showed up.
Eventually, someone with the meeting found us, and led us to a bus that took us on the two-hour ride to Birmingham. Overcome by jet lag I sat by myself and allowed myself to sleep. Before nodding off I looked around at my new teammates. Surrounded by many of the world’s best athletes I felt I was exactly where I had worked so hard to be. However, in the back of my mind I wondered if my teammates looked at me as something of an imposter. I imagined them asking each other, “Why is this D3 kid here? He doesn’t look like a runner, does he?” Whether they thought these things or not, everyone was friendly and did a good job of making me feel welcome.
The event was a quad meet comprised of teams from Great Britain, China, Russia, and the USA. Each country had two representatives per event. The other male American half-miler here was Khadevis. I felt a huge sense of pride knowing that I represented America alongside him.
While this was the first time I had competed on Team USA, the actual race does not stand out vividly in my mind. What I do remember with stunning clarity, however, is how great I felt being around my teammates, and how awesome I felt putting on the USA singlet to compete for the first time. I remember that Khadevis won the race and that I was fifth, with the relatively slow time of 1:48. I was disappointed, but cooling down with KD afterwards, he told me that I was the future of 800 meter running in America. That made me feel a lot better.
That night we all proceeded to get fairly drunk. I stumbled around the streets of Birmingham with a friend who was a fellow athlete, and we shared our views about which girl on Team USA was the prettiest. My friend and I asked if I was headed home and I told him I had another race in Moscow in two weeks. He wished me good luck and we drank some more.
In the morning, still slightly inebriated, I grabbed my bags and jumped on a bus bound for Heathrow. Earlier in the week Chris asked where I wanted to stay during the two weeks between races. He suggested I stay in Great Britain, given that there would be very little language barrier. I had toured Great Britain with my family when I was younger and felt like seeing someplace new. “I speak a little Spanish and have always wanted to see Madrid,” I said. Chris said okay and booked me a ticket to Spain’s capital city.
Flying over Spain, I was amazed at how dry it was. Madrid is the highest capital in Europe and is surrounded by desert. The climate reminded me very much of southern Idaho. When I exited through security, this time I was thankful to be greeted by a man with a SYMMONDS sign in his hands. Chris mentioned that he had a contact in Madrid who would transport me to a hotel where he had reserved a room for me. I practiced my Spanish with my driver as we navigated the narrow highways and streets of Madrid. When we arrived at our destination I stepped out onto a crowded sidewalk on a busy street. There were tables and chairs set up outside various restaurants, and despite the fact that it was almost ten o’-clock at night, the city was very much alive.
A tall gentleman in a hotel uniform helped me with my bags and led me into a beautiful lobby. I rolled my Team USA suitcase across the well-polished marble floor toward the reception desk. As I stepped up to check in, dollar signs were beginning to flash in my mind. I was told that the rooms were 100 euro a night and that I would have to put a credit card down. My heart jumped when I heard the room cost more than a hundred dollars a night. As I had zero credit at the time, much less a credit card, I instead put down my debit card. This debit card was linked to my life savings, an account that totaled approximately three hundred dollars.
Exhausted, and still hung over, I knew I needed to get a good night’s rest. I could figure things out in the morning. I lugged my bags
to the elevator, dropped them on the floor of my room, and passed out on top of the bed, still in my clothes.
I woke up the next day at sunrise and walked to one of the local restaurants. Once I was settled with a strong café con leche, I pulled out a map of Madrid to familiarize myself with where I was. My bearings intact, I found an Internet café where I sent an email to Chris explaining that I could not afford the hotel, and that I would look for alternate accommodations. He replied that I could do what I liked, and that the negotiations with Nike were going well. He was confident a deal would be reached soon.
Though I believed Chris, I wasn’t interested in a one thousand dollar hotel bill being deducted from my first paycheck. Not only that, I was lonely staying in that hotel room all by myself. What kind of European adventure is this? I Googled “youth hostel,” and found one that was highly recommended just a few blocks away. The cost per night: five euros.
Back at my hotel, I rolled my bags back up to reception. I thanked the lady working the desk, then wheeled my Team USA bag down a cobblestone path and up a giant hill. When I arrived at the hostel, there were all kinds of people my age sitting around, drinking coffee and eating stale loaves of bread. I could hear many different languages being spoken all at once. This is much better.
When I handed over my passport and twenty euros to the young lady at the front desk, she handed me back a fresh bed sheet, a towel, and a key to a locker. I was then led down a hall to a room that had three bunk beds. This hostel had several rooms, six beds to a room, with a living room and kitchen up front. Coffee and bread were provided free of charge.
Life Outside the Oval Office: The Track Less Traveled Page 8