Life Outside the Oval Office: The Track Less Traveled

by Nick Symmonds

  Though I’d had some previous experience with hospitals and operating rooms I did not have much experience with emergency rooms. I learned a valuable lesson that day: make sure you have health insurance. In a country where we have decided that it is every man or woman for his or herself, I feel bad for those who cannot afford the astronomical premiums charged by health insurance companies. I have sought out medical attention in many foreign countries that have universal health care and have seen first hand the way each citizen is treated with inexpensive and effective care. I am appalled at the way our health care system is run in the United States. There are very clearly two forms of health care in America: world-class health care for those who can afford it, and shitty-sit-ina-crowded-room-for-eight-hours-with-a-nail-sticking-out-of-your-head health care for those who cannot.

  Upon arriving back in Eugene I scheduled a visit with our team physician, Dr. Olson. I liked Doc Olson a lot. He had been a runner himself back in the seventies and eighties and he worked hard to keep me healthy and running well. Dr. Olson looked at my knee and prescribed both topical and oral antibiotics. “You’re not going to like this, but you need to take a week off of running,” he said.

  Tears welled in my eyes as I saw my Olympic dreams fade away. “With every bend of your knee you stretch this wound open, allowing bacteria to enter and increasing the likelihood that it will develop an infection. An infection at this point would put you out of commission for a month.”

  I looked at Gags and he explained that we could bounce back from a week off, but that with the trials only five weeks away, a month off would definitely end our season. I thanked Dr. Olson and decided to follow his advice.

  With my knee in stitches and my butt relegated to the couch I took the opportunity to continue work on my mental preparations. Though I had been through high-pressure situations like this before, never had I been to a competition where, if I made a mistake, I would have to wait four more years to have another try. To make matters worse, I knew there were potentially hundreds of thousands of dollars riding on whether or not I finished in the top three. As the day approached I felt less and less prepared mentally to deal with the pressure.

  Unsure of how to talk to Coach Gags about these feelings, I once again put a call into my longtime friend and trusted confidant, Coach Kelly Sullivan. Coach Sullivan had steered me right many times before and I knew he would have some words of wisdom for me now.

  “The pressure is killing me, Coach,” I said. “It’s all I can think about. It keeps me up at night and I’m worried that I’m wasting all my energy on worrying about the outcome.”

  In his calm, reassuring voice Coach Sullivan said, “Nick, this is normal. All your competitors are doing the exact same thing. What you need to remember is that in a championship race like this, the cream always rises to the top. Don’t ask me how, but the rounds and the pressure somehow always set the cream apart. And, you have proven time and time again that you most certainly are part of the cream.”

  His words helped calm me down and for the next few days whenever my heart started to race and I felt my nerves taking control again I said in my head, You are the cream. The cream always rises.

  A week later my stitches came out and I was allowed to start training again. Knowing that I had lost strength, I began to spend more time with my lifting coach, Jimmy Radcliffe. Coach Rad, as we called him, is the head strength and condition coach for the University of Oregon. He is also world famous for his ability to make strong people stronger and fast people faster. Though we had been working hard in the gym all year there were a few things we could improve on. We lightened the loads I had been lifting and focused on form. Everything I did became faster, more dynamic, more explosive.

  In our last few practices, just days before the event, I began to run strides as though they were the final 50 meters of the Olympic Trials Finals. Having been beaten by Khadevis in a lean across the finish line just a few months earlier, Coach Rad and I worked on an improved lean that could end up being the difference between my making the team or staying home.

  Given that KD had defeated me at the USATF Indoor Championships and again at the Prefontaine Classic just ten days before the Olympic Trials, he was, in most peoples’ eyes, the number one seed going in. He also had the fastest personal best and Olympic experience to his name.

  There were more than thirty other competitors in my event at these Olympic Trials, which were to be held in Eugene at Hayward Field. Just as in a USATF Outdoor Championship, these men would be narrowed down to sixteen semi-finalists in the first round, and those sixteen would then be narrowed down to eight finalists. These first two rounds are run back to back, and then the eight finalists are given a day off to rest up for the final.

  KD and I both advanced fairly easily through our first two rounds. Joining us in the final were some usual suspects, plus a few new characters. KD loved a fast pace and was sure to appreciate the other sprint-based 800 guy in the final, Jonathan Johnson. Johnson was the defending Olympic Trials champion, and the only other guy in the race with Olympic experience. I knew that these two would get out fast, and try to control the race from the front.

  One of the new faces in the final was a young, talented sophomore from the University of Oregon, Andrew Wheating. He had been coming off a phenomenal collegiate season where he had finished as runner up at the NCAA Championships. The six foot five white kid from Vermont was rounding into shape perfectly for the Olympic Trials, and had a kick that deserved serious respect.

  The other finalist I paid close attention to was my training partner, Christian Smith. I was not so concerned that he might beat me, but rather that he was the only athlete going into the finals without the Olympic A standard. Christian was one of the last athletes to be invited to the Olympic Trials and he’d had to run a season’s best just to make it there. Christian was still a very good friend and I badly wanted him to do well. The cruelest part of the selection process was that unless he ran the A standard in the finals it was extremely unlikely that he would be selected for the team.

  The night before the finals I studied the list of entries closely and imagined how the race would unfold. Given that Wheating and I were distance runners known for our kicks, there would be sprinters who would try to take it out fast and sap our strength. Khadevis and Johnson were both known for their front-running styles and I was sure that one of them would go to the front early. But exactly how fast would they take it out? Where would I find myself at 200 meters into the race, and how could I navigate traffic to get to the front? As the various permutations played out in my mind my adrenal glands pumped adrenaline into my system and sent my heart racing.

  As is common for me before most of my competitions, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling trying not to think about the race. Eventually, I was able to nod off and have the nightmare I have before all big races. In my dream I have slept through my alarm clock and missed the race. Of course, in the real world this is impossible, as most of my races take place in the evening and were I to fall asleep, a teammate or coach would surely come wake me up. But in the dream I am not woken until it is too late. When I am finally shaken awake in the dream, I simultaneously awake in real life, sitting straight up in bed with my heart pounding in my chest and sweat beading up on my forehead. After my breathing had returned to something close to a normal, I lay back and did my best to fall back asleep.

  When I awoke in the morning I felt somewhat rested, but almost sick to my stomach from nerves. So, I made a cup of coffee and went for a walk. Most athletes like to do a shake out run the morning before a race, but I often prefer a walk. A shake out run might only last ten minutes whereas a slow walk could last up to an hour. With the race set to take place in the evening I wanted to kill as much time as possible.

  With my coffee in hand I walked down to the Willamette River and sat on a bench and watched fisherman chase steelhead. Part of me wished that I were one of them, transfixed by the rushing, crystal clear water, without a care
in the world. Another part of me realized that today presented a life altering opportunity, one that I had trained ten years for.

  Back at my house, I did what I always do to kill time before a big race: watch crappy TV. I usually try to find the dumbest programming possible; something that is riveting yet mindless, to keep my attention away from the race. The hours leading up to a big competition are their own battle. Many athletes are defeated before the gun even goes off by wasting energy in these pre-race hours. I didn’t want that to be me.

  Fortunately, I had Coach Sam with me. When Coach Gags and I first started working together he asked what I needed to be successful. The first thing on my list was Coach Sam. As my best friend and mentor I felt infinitely more at ease when he was around. We had been through a lot in six years and now we were about to attempt to make our first Olympic team.

  Coach Sam and I sat on the couch together, flipping through the channels to find some trashy programming. I’m sure he was just as nervous as I was, but you wouldn’t know it looking at him. Lounging on the couch with a water in his hand, Coach Sam cracked jokes all afternoon to lighten the mood.

  Despite my best efforts, the afternoon dragged on. I’d look at my watch, note the time, and go back to sipping my watered down sports drink. I’ve never loved the sugary stuff, but watered down it is palatable and a good way to get electrolytes. Finally, the alarm on my watch went off signifying that it was time to get ready. As was my usual pre-race routine, I began with a hot shower to warm up my muscles. When I stepped out and toweled off, I then slipped into my skin tight, black half tights. I blasted gangster rap through my bedroom speakers while I packed my backpack. Oddly, something about heavy beats and angry lyrics has a calming effect on me before a race.

  I double-checked my backpack to make sure everything I needed was in it. Then, panicked that I had forgotten something, unloaded everything and repacked it. I’m not typically this neurotic, but before a big race my mind never feels as if it is working quite right. Finally, convinced that I had all that I would need, I stepped out of the house and joined Coach Sam, who was waiting in his truck.

  Sam and I had been through this process many times before and he already had the rap blaring at a deafening level. The three-mile drive from my home to Hayward Field crosses the Willamette River and again I found myself wishing I were in the river, fishing.

  As we approached the stadium I glimpsed the thousands of people who had paid to watch tonight’s event queuing up to enter historic Hayward Field. As I had never been to an Olympic Trials before, I wondered what it would be like for these people to watch someone race for a spot on the Olympic team. Did the fans know how important this race was? What it meant for an athlete’s career financially? Did they know that for some, this meet might be the very last of their career? Those thoughts hit me like a punch to the gut, and I tried to put them out of my head.

  Coach Sam pulled up next to the athletes’ entrance and dropped me off. He told me he would park the truck and find me shortly after. Once again, I felt so lucky to have Coach Sam on my side. As I approached my team, Coach Gags walked to meet me. He put his arm around me and asked how I was feeling. “Pretty good, nervous,” was all I could say.

  “Good,” he said. “Use the nerves. You are a champion, you hear me?”

  With that he let me walk to a spot where most of my teammates were lying on the ground with their headphones on and their feet up. I joined them in this most relaxing position, rested my head under my backpack, and watched as the other athletes warmed up. Lying on a plush bit of grass under a brilliant blue sky I was awed by the many amazing athletes who surrounded me. Truly the best that America had to offer were here. I smiled, finally acknowledging that I was one of them, though at times I still felt like a Division III kid who didn’t belong.

  Several of the 800 meter women walked by and I felt testosterone mix with the adrenaline already in my system. I had been celibate for the month leading up to this event. Not so much out of choice, but due to how focused I had been. Seeing these phenomenally fit, beautiful women walk by in nothing but Spandex was equal parts exhilarating and tormenting. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on why I was here.

  With just over an hour before race time, Coach Sam asked if I was ready to warm-up. I stripped off a couple items of clothing and headed out to Pioneer Cemetery, an old cemetery adjacent to Hayward Field where I usually warmed up before practices. I remember feeling so grateful that these Olympic Trials were in my backyard and I took a lot of comfort in going through the exact routine I had gone through for every practice during the two years leading up to this event.

  I jogged at a very easy pace for just over two miles. As I ran along a gravel path under magnificent ponderosa pines I was a surprised at how good my legs felt. Given that I had already raced twice in the previous three days I expected to feel tired and heavy. Instead, I felt fresh and bouncy! I allowed myself to pick up the pace a little, but tried to keep it under control. Save it for the race.

  Back at the warm up area, Coach Jimmy took me through a series of stretches and drills that were designed to make my muscles and ligaments feel even better and work more efficiently. I switched to a lightweight pair of shoes and ran a few fast strides. At the accelerated pace my legs felt even better. The warm up process left me feeling unbelievably smooth and I smiled, realizing that most of the pre-race nerves I had felt were now gone. I ran up to Coach Gags and gave him a big hug.

  “I am totally ready for this, Coach,” I said, meaning every word of it.

  “Damn right you are,” he replied. “Make sure you are up front with 100 meters to go!” he shouted as he slapped me on the back. I nodded and jogged off.

  As had been my pre-race ritual for years, the last person I saw before heading into the call room was Coach Sam. He, too, gave me a big bear hug, then said, “I love you. Now go and get this. You’ve earned it.”

  “Love you too, Coach,” I replied. And with that I walked into the call room.

  The call room is a weird place. Typically, it has a dozen or so folding chairs set up in a small tent. The competitors are asked to come in and sit down, then they must allow a stranger to rummage through their backpacks. Everything about this is uncomfortable for me before a race. I don’t want to be around my competition, I really don’t feel like sitting down, and seriously, stay the hell out of my backpack.

  Apparently, meet officials are instructed to go through our stuff to make sure we don’t have any logos that might not fit into their rigid set of rules and guidelines on where and how logos can be displayed during competition. They also typically confiscate all electronics for some reason.

  Fortunately, at Hayward Field there is a 50 meter section of track that an athlete can use to continue his or her warm-up whilst their rights are being violated. Wanting to keep my legs warm and feeling good, I did some drills along this stretch of rubber, then was given two #1 stickers, my “hip numbers,” and told to put one on each leg. The hip numbers tell the athlete what lane they will be starting in and are not necessarily based on ranking. The call room official finally announced that we had five minutes until we headed out to the track. My heart jumped. I sat down to calm my pulse and breathing down, and to change into my spikes.

  I could feel the nervous, jittery energy from my competitors, and tried to ignore them. I could also hear the crowd cheering wildly for the women’s 800 meter race, which was being run while we waited. The knowledgeable Hayward Field crowd was going nuts and, as always, their cheers sent a fresh wave of adrenaline through my veins. At the conclusion of the women’s race we lined up and walked out onto the track.

  The crowd, though fresh off of cheering loudly for the previous race, erupted once again when we took our lanes. This race had been hyped up quite a bit, given the fact that there were three Eugene-based men in the race. Some had talked about the potential of a Eugene medal sweep, but I knew the odds of that happening were very slim. Each of us ran a few strides in front of the 23,000
person crowd, stripped off our sweats, and took our places a few feet back from the starting lines of our respective lanes.

  The voice of the announcer boomed over the loud speakers as he presented us to the crowd, one by one. I was in lane one and the first to be introduced. “In lane one, four time NCAA Division III champion at this distance while at Willamette, now representing the Oregon Track Club and Nike, Nick Symmonds!” The crowd gave me a loud and heartfelt welcome, and I appreciated every decibel.

  My training partner, Christian Smith, was to my right and was the second to be introduced. As the names of my competitors and their accomplishments were announced I jumped up and down and stretched, trying to keep my muscles warm and limber. I listened as the announcer read out each name, not to hear each runner’s accolades, but to hear how the crowd responded to each. I was not surprised to hear the largest applause come for Andrew Wheating, the local college kid, and for Khadevis Robinson, the defending US champion.

  I heard the announcer give the stats for Jonathan Johnson, the defending Olympic Trials champion. He was in lane eight and I took a deep breath knowing that the gun would be fired in seconds. “On your marks!” the starter shouted from his stand on the infield.

  I took several choppy steps to the start line and placed my right toe as close to the white line as possible without touching it. I lowered my body into an athletic crouch and expected my entire body to collapse under the weight of the pressure that I had placed on this race.