I looked down at my legs and smiled. My legs felt incredible and I knew there was a great deal of speed stored up in them. I started to accelerate and called upon my signature kick. Let the show begin. I moved to the outside of lane three and surged as hard as I could. Soon, I began to inch ahead of the rest of the field. Very aware of what was happening, each of my competitors responded.
My kick, which was so efficient at pulling away from American half-milers, was well-matched by these more talented foreigners. I began to panic as they moved right with me down the backstretch, keeping me in lane three. As the turn approached I realized there was no way for me to get back to the rail. I was stuck there for the final 200 meters. By the time we exited the turn I was completely sapped of all energy and faded to fifth. I had failed to advance to the final.
I collapsed on the track, my Olympic dream crushed. I gasped for air, fighting back huge tears. When I felt that I could finally stand again, I got to my feet and stumbled off the track. I did my best to answer all of the questions that I was asked by the media, but I really just wanted to get out of there. Finally, I collected my gear and walked back to the warm up track.
Outside the fence I could see Coach Sam and Coach Gags standing where I had left them. They had watched the race from inside the stadium and rushed back to be there when I returned. I approached them with tears in my eyes.
“Tough one brother,” Sam said.
“I’ll say!” added Coach Gags. “I mean what the hell was that? Why were you ever in lane three? Where were your damn race tactics? That was a disgrace!”
I turned around and started my cool down before they could see me cry. Coach Gags was right; it was a disgrace. Tactically, I had run a very poor race. As I cooled down, though, I couldn’t help but feel as if I had made the right decisions, just in the wrong setting. I was twenty-four and this was only my second semi-final at an outdoor global championship. I made a promise to myself that I would learn from this mistake and be better for it.
After the cool down I talked to Coach Sam. He said that as soon as I walked off, Coach Gags had turned to him and said, “I was too hard on the kid. But he’s gotta learn a lesson!” Coach Gags was right, and learn my lesson I did. I was glad when he came up to me before I got on the bus and gave me a huge Gags’ bear hug.
“I love you like a son, young man,” he said.
“I love you too, Coach,” I replied.
I showered, changed, and then went to find my family. With my mom, dad, sister, and coaches around me I felt loved and supported, despite the cloud of depression settling into my mind. We found an incredible restaurant with outdoor seating and sat down to drink wine and share all of our stories from Beijing.
When the night finally wound down, Coach Sam, his son AJ, and I went in search of a party. I had been very stressed over the last few weeks and needed to blow off some steam. We hit up several sponsored parties and a few clubs before calling it a night. Then I stumbled back into the athlete village and collapsed in my bed, alone.
The next two nights were similar and I found myself boarding a plane on the final day of the 2008 Olympic Games, proud that I had stayed so focused on my running but disappointed that I had not enjoyed some of the extracurricular activities that the athlete village was infamous for. I decided that I would just have to train hard and make the London Olympic team in four years.
13
The rest of the summer of 2008 was a blast. Despite my massive disappointment in not making the finals in Beijing, I look back on that summer as one of the best of my life. When I finally returned to Eugene in September, I took a month off to let my body recover, and so I could catch as many fish as possible. One day I met up with Christian and Andrew, who had also just gotten back to town. Over the summer we had talked about getting the Olympic rings tattooed on our backs when we returned home. Now that we were all together we wanted to see who was really serious about it.
Before this I never had an urge to get anything tattooed on my body. But, I always said that if I ever did get any ink, it would have to really mean something to me. I knew that up to that point in my life, the accomplishment I was most proud of was making the 2008 Olympic Team. I had a feeling I would not regret this particular tattoo.
With that, I called a local tattoo parlor and made an appointment for the three of us to go get inked. I was nervous the entire time, both about the pain and the thought that what I was doing to my body was permanent. I had the tattoo artist draw up a sketch of how I wanted the rings to look. He transferred his drawing to stencil paper, placed the stencil on my back, and fired up his electric tattoo gun.
The buzz of the gun sent my heart racing, and I braced for the pain of the needle to enter the skin of my right shoulder blade. To my surprise, it did not hurt much. Certainly, it was less than the physical pain I had gone through to make the team, or the emotional pain I had gone through in Beijing. When the tattoo was finished I stood up and admired the artwork in the mirror.
The tattoo was beautiful and exactly what I had asked for, but when I looked at it I felt an overwhelming sense of regret. What did I just do? This was permanent. I had just marked up my skin, marring the body I had worked on hard in the gym––and on the track––for more than a decade. I began to panic and threw on my shirt, trying to put it out of my head. Then I watched in silence as Christian and Andrew got their tattoos. The knowledge that they were also permanently marking their skin, that we were sharing the experience, calmed me down.
When the tattoos were completed we posed for a picture together with our tattoo artist, then said good night to each other. When I woke up the next day I peeled off the plastic wrap that covered my tattoo. Then I looked at it in the mirror for a while.
Though my new tat was red and puffy, I thought it looked pretty damn cool. My fears finally subsided. One day this chapter of my life would come to an end and I would be a much older, slower, hobby runner. I imagined that people would get a kick out of seeing an old guy in a race singlet hobbling down the street with the Olympic rings tattooed on his back.
Now, whenever I catch a glance of the ink on my back, I look at it with pride. It reminds me of the hours spent with Coach Gags and my teammates. It reminds me of the selfless love that my family and Coach Sam showed me. And, it reminds me of a special night with Christian and Andrew, of when we walked into a tattoo parlor. It also reminds me that I should probably never get tattooed again.
When my legs were well rested I began training for another season. My contract with Nike was up at the end of the year, but Chris thought that with my successes in 2008 I should have no problem getting another contract.
Chris was right, because not long after, the offer came through. It was much less than what we had expected, and we were again pigeonholed into taking it if I wanted to stay a part of OTC. I signed the contract, but made a note to never have such little negotiating power again.
To that end I began to work hard at something Coach Sam had suggested I do from the very start: build my own brand. First, I incorporated my running business, registering Nick Symmonds, LLC with the state of Oregon. Then I set about building my own website, nicksymmonds.com, and I worked hard to build up my friends and followers on social media.
I have always been a private person, but I had realized that the people who got paid the most in this sport were the ones who were willing to put themselves out there publicly. I also began to tweet more frequently.
Before Twitter came along I resented doing interviews. Why would I help you create content for free? That was the thought I always had when I was asked to do one. However, once Twitter went live, things changed for me. Now there was a very real way to measure public exposure. There was a way to keep score. With each interview I did, I visualized it being published and my Twitter followers increasing, thus making me more attractive to potential sponsors.
Companies pay close attention to social media and whenever I contacted a potential new sponsor, one of their first questions
was, “How many Twitter followers do you have?” Twitter was obviously going to be a big part of building my brand.
As I trained hard and traveled around the world I also worked hard to create a public image. This image was one of a well-educated young man from Boise, Idaho who loved to train hard, loved the outdoors, and loved to travel. Another part of this was that I was single, and I played up this angle in the media. It was not a hard angle to play up, as the majority of time I was, in fact, single. That’s not to say I was without female companionship. There is actually, a lot of sex that takes place on the circuit.
I imagine sex plays a large role in any group, but it does especially among high-strung, stressed out athletes who are among the fittest people on planet Earth. We are often on the road for months at a time, in some of the most beautiful cites in the world, and stay in magnificent hotels at no cost to us.
Often the athletes hook up with each other. I have experienced my share of this, but I always felt uneasy about doing so. I do not like to mix business and pleasure and prefer to find companionship away from the track. Some of my more adventurous colleagues feel the same way. Others prefer to keep things strictly professional and hire companionship.
The amount of prostitution available on the circuit might surprise you. From Amsterdam, where one can visit the government regulated brothels of the Red Light District, to Monaco, where high-end prostitutes will happily spend a night with you in exchange for approximately one thousand dollars (US), there is always action if you are willing to pay.
Perhaps the least well known “paid for” attention can be found at the Shanghai Diamond League meeting. I had heard rumors about this over post-race beers many times. In 2009 I ended up being invited to the meeting and flew from Europe to Shanghai to investigate for myself.
The meet hotel was a beautiful building in the heart of Shanghai, and was constructed around the track where the event was held. Most of the rooms looked down onto the lush, green soccer field and the eight-lane track that is protected by the hotel.
Rumor had it that there was a spa next to the lobby where you could get a fantastic massage for about forty US dollars. The beautiful young masseuses working at this establishment were all young Chinese women. Apparently they would take great care of you in whatever way you fancied, as long as you were willing to pay. I had no idea what all that meant and my curiosity got the better of me.
As I dragged my bags into the hotel after a twelve-hour flight, I thought that a relaxing massage would be wonderful for my sore muscles. I put my bags in my room and walked down to the spa. When I walked in a lovely, small Chinese woman greeted me. In broken English she asked where I was from and what I was looking for. “Just a massage,” I replied, looking at the menu that was displayed next to the register.
I chose a hot oil massage and paid up front. Then I was led to a private room complete with shower, hot tub, and massage table. The lady who greeted me told me to make myself at home, and that the masseuse would be in shortly. I stripped down and got in the shower to wash off the travel. Once I was clean, I wrapped myself in a towel and lay down on the massage table.
As soon as I was prone I could feel the jet lag wash over me. Just before I nodded off to sleep there came a knock on the door. Another pretty woman walked through the door and greeted me. In broken English she asked where I had flown in from, then she told me to lie face down, and that she would make me feel much better.
She was right. When she was done, I had never felt so relaxed. Her hands had done a very thorough job of working out all the stress and tension in every part of my body. All I could do was return to my room, crawl into bed, and have one long, peaceful sleep.
I have never trusted myself much around temptation. In many ways, I am a person of great mental and emotional strength, but in other ways I am quite weak. I recognize this part of my character, and it is one of the reasons I have remained single for the majority of my athletic career.
Early on I could see that on the circuit there were three ways to survive a lifestyle that kept you on the road for over half the year: you could bring your partner with you (an expensive option that few had the means for), you could cheat on your partner (an option I saw many choose, but one I did not feel comfortable with), or you could remain single.
When I saw a teammate or competitor cheat on a spouse while on the circuit I struggled to understand how they could do such a dishonest thing. I see how the temptation and frustration could be overwhelming, but I wondered why they got married so early. Granted, we are all human and we make mistakes, but cheating on a spouse is a mistake I feel should never be made, and it is one I never want to make.
Though I have spent many lonely nights on the circuit, I have had my share of amazing moments as well. The women I have met taught me much about life and love. And, following the advice my mother gave me when I was young, I always did my best to be upfront and honest with my intentions, and to practice safe sex.
Through most of my twenties I knew I was not ready to commit to someone for the rest of my life, and now, as I enter my thirties, I am just beginning to appreciate all the amazing things monogamy has to offer. I am glad that I listened to my inner voice when I was young, and did not give into societal pressures to settle down before I was ready. I believe too often we are pressured into choosing the person next to us to be our life partner due to pressure we receive from others, even if the person is not right for us, or we are not ready to make such a serious commitment.
As each year passes and I leave my youth behind, the pressure to find a mate and settle down becomes much greater. As I have done so many times before, I ignore those who would have me leave the path my instincts tell me to take. For now, I know my primary focus must still be running as fast as I can. That said, I look forward to the day when my primary focus will involve being a great husband and father.
There is another aspect of the circuit lifestyle that is also omnipresent: drug testing. As much as the media portrays our sport as one of cheaters, of athletes who hide in corners to inject themselves full of performance enhancing drugs, I believe that professional track and field is actually very clean. Sure, we have our share of doping violations, but what sport doesn’t? In reality, professional track and field is many times cleaner than other professional sports, such as the NFL. The punishment for a first time doping violation in track is usually two years. In the NFL it is four weeks. Add to that the fact that the NFL doesn’t even test for one of the most common performance enhancing drugs, human growth hormone.
Whenever someone in track and field cheats, and subsequently tests positive, the sport of professional track and field dies a little bit. The entertainment value of our sport comes from watching people test the boundaries of their own human limits. This entertainment value goes to zero if competitors test the boundaries of drug amplified superhuman limits.
However, in eight years as a professional runner, I can honestly say that I have never personally witnessed anyone using a banned performance-enhancing drug, nor have I ever used such a drug myself. Many of these drugs destroy your internal organs and shave decades off your life. I have always felt that temporary glory and success are not worth the subsequent long-term health effects. Furthermore, what sense of personal achievement can a person get when he or she knows they only won with the help of pharmaceuticals?
Perhaps I should take a minute to clarify something. Cocaine is not typically thought of as a performance-enhancing drug, but it can give an athlete a sudden burst of energy, a surge of confidence, and a loss of inhibition. For those reasons, the World Anti-Doping Administration (WADA) and the United States Anti-Doping Administration (USADA) lists it as a banned substance in competition. I would be lying if I said I had never personally witnessed people using this particular drug.
Perhaps the most memorable instance of this was in the spring of 2007. That year I had just won my first US national title indoors, and my star in the world of track and field was rising quickly. After
my win, I was asked to go to Los Angeles for a few days to shoot some photos for an advertisement. The company that had asked me to come even put me up in an expensive Hollywood hotel. I was excited to explore the city and to see a few college buddies who had recently moved to the area. One of those friends was my usual partner in crime, Cooper.
The shoot went well, and after, Cooper and I decided to celebrate. One of our good friends had just moved into a beautiful apartment building in Marina Del Rey, a few blocks from the beach. That night he was having a barbeque, followed by a little get together with some European girls he had met in his building.
Cooper and I showed up at the apartment with beers, rib-eye steaks, and an eight-ball of cocaine. I have never purchased drugs and had not bought them now. Cooper, on the other hand, had developed a taste for the bitter white powder on the Costa Rican trip we had taken together during college, and he occasionally still made the financial transaction to acquire the illegal substance.
Once at the party, we popped open the beer and shared college stories. Our host then began to tell us about the women we would hang out with later that evening. They lived a few floors up and attended a local college. As dinner wound down, Cooper pulled out the small plastic bag of white powder. The powder was dumped out on the polished coffee table in the middle of the living room. Some people then proceeded to take turns passing around a rolled dollar bill, snorting the powder up into their nasal passages. I watched as the small white lines were greedily inhaled, one by one. The curious part of me wanted to join in the fun, but the responsible side of me said no.
Life Outside the Oval Office: The Track Less Traveled Page 14