As we approached the Olympic Stadium the majesty of the moment began to sink in. The beautiful stadium was lit up and we could hear the roar of the crowd from a mile away. After more than an hour of walking, we finally approached the entrance to the stadium. For many of us, this was our first time to enter the Olympic Stadium, and it did not disappoint.
As music blared, people cheered for the various countries entering alphabetically. The United States of America was, therefore, one of the last to enter and by the time we took our lap around the track, there were already thousands of athletes standing in the center dancing, and taking pictures.
As exciting as the Opening Ceremonies are, they drag on (and on) for the athletes. We had been on our feet for several hours and had a long while to go, now that we were on the infield. Near the end we were given the option to leave early, to beat the crowd. Matt and I took it appreciatively.
My legs ached, my back ached, and after the two Big Macs I greedily devoured in the cafeteria, my stomach ached. When I finally made it back to my room I collapsed and slept for twelve hours. I awoke the next morning feeling physically beat up and emotionally drained. This was definitely not how I wanted to feel going into the biggest race of my life. I knew I needed to get out of the village and back to my quiet apartment in Teddington so I could rest. I grabbed a small lunch and headed to the Underground to work my way back across the city.
Back in Teddington I was able to get in a short run before becoming too exhausted to go on. I returned to the apartment, ate dinner alone, and crawled into bed. That night I woke up several times shivering and sweating. With dawning horror, I realized the enormous stress of the opening ceremonies had weakened my immune system and I had caught a virus. Terrified that I had ruined my shot at an Olympic medal, I called Coach Rowland. I was beyond panicked. He told me not worry; we’d just push my workout back a day or two. The most important thing, he urged, was rest and hydration. That I could do. I spent the entire day in bed watching episodes of a hilarious British comedy, The Inbetweeners, and sipping coconut water.
I recovered quickly from my illness and spent the next week fine-tuning my speed on the track with Coach Rowland, and in the gym with Coach Radcliffe. Just days before my first round was set to go off I warmed up on the track, expecting a fairly easy session. When I got there Coach Rowland told me what he had in mind. Listening to the session he had planned, I wondered if what he was asking was too much this close to competition.
As I warmed up for this workout I was nervous and worried. Certainly this is too much work right before a championship race. I expressed my concern to Coach Rowland. He nodded and replied, “Fella, you can do what you want, but I know this set of intervals is what you need.” With that he walked toward the starting line.
I was nervous for two reasons. The first was that I might not be able to complete the workout and it would wreck my confidence. The second was that I would be able to complete it, but not recover in time for my races. I decided to once again put my trust in Coach Rowland and give his workout everything I had.
When I finished the last interval I collapsed to the track, all of my energy spent and unable to support my own weight. Coach Rowland walked over and looked down at the helpless, gasping mass he saw in front of him. “Not bad,” he said as he reached a hand down to help me up. With much effort I got to my feet and swayed back and forth as I tried not to vomit. All I could muster was a nod and then tried to walk towards my bag. I made it just a few steps before I needed to sit back down.
“I hope. You know. What you’re doing,” I said between gasps. Coach Rowland just smiled and said, “You’ll be much better for having done this one. I promise.”
He was generous with the recovery for the next few days, and allowed me to do some very easy running on the grass in nearby Bushy Park. When I returned to the athlete village I was not totally recovered, but was beginning to feel somewhat normal again.
As in Beijing, with each passing day, the quiet athlete village that I left was morphing into one big party. I did my best to stay off my feet, and spent the majority of my time in my apartment watching other Olympic events on television. In Beijing the anticipation for my event had almost been too much to handle, but I felt I had it under better control here in London.
Also helping me through the anticipation and pressure of the event was the fact that many friends and family members had traveled to London to support me. My parents rented a large house a few miles away from the Olympic park, and had invited many of our family friends to join them. That house was my refuge during the Games and I frequently left the village to enjoy a meal and catch up with the people I loved most.
When the morning of the heats in the men’s 800 meters finally came around I was ecstatic. I was not nervous, but rather, full of excitement to finally compete. In six years as a pro, I had never failed to make it out of the first round of a global championship, and usually advanced to the semi-final round with a win. London would prove to be no different, as I won my first race easily.
That night, as I sat in front of my computer waiting for the semi-final heats to be drawn, I had a bad feeling. I felt certain that the world record holder, David Rudisha, was going to be placed into my semi-final. I pressed the refresh button on the Olympic web page for the hundredth time and, sure enough, there he was, listed right above my name. There was also one extra competitor that had been added to our heat for some reason. To make matters worse, my old friend Marcin Lewandowski had been placed in our heat as well. I immediately had flashbacks of the flailing Pole bumping me in the final stretches of the World Championship final in Daegu.
I stared at the screen, looking at the list of competitors in my heat. This isn’t fair! I shouted over and over in my head. I got up and began to pace back and forth in my room. I knew I was in trouble mentally, and shot a quick email to my sport psychologist, Jeff Troesh, back in America. I hoped he was free. Within minutes he responded that he was available to talk. I explained my frustration with the semi draw, how it was unfair that there was an extra guy in our race, how unlucky it was that Rudisha was in my heat, how nervous I was that Marcin would bump me again.
After several minutes of rattling off all that worried me, I finally paused to listen to Jeff ’s input.
“I actually like your semi-final. Having Rudisha in the race will make it more honest, and that is good for you as one of the faster guys. Also, isn’t it just as likely, maybe more so, that Marcin will get in the way of one of your competitors, and not you, thereby helping you advance?”
His logic was sound. “Yeah, I suppose so,” I said, still uncertain.
“And, aren’t you more likely to ruin your chances of making the final by wasting energy worrying about things you can’t control?” Jeff knew that this course of reason always calmed me down.
“Yes, of course.” Control the things you can control, I thought.
We continued to chat about ways I could best channel my nervous energy. Then Jeff wished me luck and I promised to call him before the final. I lay back in my bed and tried to think about anything other than the race. Each time my mind drifted back I saw Rudisha running away from me, my heart would race, and I’d be further from sleep. Eventually, I managed to nod off.
17
In the morning I felt reenergized. Per my usual race day routine I had a light breakfast, went for a walk, took a shower, ate a large lunch, and passed the afternoon hours reading and napping. When the time came to head to the Olympic Stadium I was as ready as I would ever be. I put my headphones on, turned up the rap music, and boarded one of the shuttle buses.
The ride to the stadium took only ten minutes and I spent that time visualizing how the race would unfold. I knew Rudisha would want to lead the entire thing. If I could somehow find an easy way to get up next to him, that would be ideal. There would be a lot of people trying to do the same thing, however, so I would have to navigate traffic wisely.
Rudisha was the clear favorite in our semifina
l. After him there were three or four of us who had a very serious chance of taking the second automatic qualifying spot. Though this made for a cut-throat semifinal, having Rudisha in our race meant it would probably go very fast and open up the potential for the two fastest men without an automatic qualifying spot to come from our heat.
I warmed up around the practice track playing out in my mind all the ways the race could unfold. When it was time to walk to the stadium I knew I was ready for anything that came my way. I gave a hug to Coach Rowland and to Coach Sam, and they wished me luck.
When the gun went off, the race began exactly as I had expected. Rudisha was on my right and went flying away from me. As we ran down the backstretch he put almost 10 meters on me and was easily in control of the lead. I remained second from the back trying to conserve energy.
When we came into the home stretch I felt Rudisha ease off the pace a little. I moved to the outside of lane two so I could maintain my momentum and, in doing so moved into second place. Yuriy Borzakovskiy, the Russian Olympic gold medalist I had learned so much of my race strategy from, had the same idea and we jostled for position at the bell. He won and found himself in the enviable spot right behind Rudisha. I had to settle into third, just steps behind him as we entered into our second and final lap.
I felt good moving down the backstretch, but I also felt several competitors breathing down my neck. Rudisha was beginning to pull away from the field and I knew we would all be kicking for the second automatic qualifying spot. As we rounded the final turn I felt Borzakovskiy tiring, and moved to his outside shoulder. I began to kick with everything I had and for a brief moment found myself in second place. I had the position and the momentum to hold onto my spot, but knew there were two men on my shoulders trying to get by.
I gritted my teeth, took one last look at the finish line and closed my eyes. The crowd began to get louder, and louder. I had a terrible feeling that the roar was not for Rudisha, who was gliding along easily, just steps away from the finish line. This was the loudest I had heard the crowd and I knew they must be cheering for their British national champion, Andrew Osagie.
I heard him before I saw him, but steps before the finish line Osagie managed to gain a half stride on me. With only seconds left in the race I knew he would take the second automatic qualifying spot and there was nothing I could do. I dug down to make one last push for the finish, dipped my shoulder as I hit the line, and hoped it was enough to snag a time qualifier.
I crossed the line in third and hunched over, hands on my knees, shaking my head. I had run a tactically solid race and kicked well, but it wasn’t enough. I looked at the video board and saw my time: 1:44.87. The time was faster than the third place finisher of the first semifinal race, and was typically fast enough to advance to the finals. I walked off the track and sat down on the stairs that led out of the stadium. There was one more semi-final to be run, and unless four people ran faster than my 1:44.87, I would be going to my first Olympic final.
My compatriot, Duane Solomon, was in this heat and I watched him warm up as I stripped off my spikes. A female meet official walked up to me and told me I needed to head to the mix zone.
“I’m not interested in talking to the media until I know if I am in the finals or not,” I said. She shrugged her shoulders and walked off. I looked at the sky and prayed for bad weather; wind, rain, anything that might slow the runners down. As if Mother Nature herself were in the stadium, the drizzle that had been coming down all day picked up, along with a slight breeze. I felt better, but would have preferred hail and gale force winds.
The race began and the last eight semi-finalists took off in their lanes. Duane shot to the front as expected. No Duane, slow down! I screamed over and over in my head. I ground my teeth and nervously played with the spikes in my hands as I watched for the 400 meter split. The final lap bell began to ring as the runners approached the end of the homestretch. Duane passed through the line first, and his split came up on the video board: 51.18.
I jumped to my feet. That was not a terribly fast first lap split. My chances were looking better! Duane continued to lead for the next 300 meters, but there were several athletes right on his heels that looked like they were ready to pass him. They waited behind him patiently until the final straight. Coming off the final curve, two young African runners moved ahead of Duane and sprinted to the finish line to secure their automatic berths to the finals. Duane hung on for third, and he and I were left staring up at the video board to see if either or both of us would advance on time.
Seconds passed by like hours. I could see several television cameras out of the corner of my eye pointed at me, awaiting my expression when I found out whether or not I would advance to the finals. The times began to come in and next to Duane’s name was his time of 1:44.93. He had run exactly six one-hundredths of a second slower than I had. This guaranteed that he and I would be the two semi-finalists to qualify for the finals on time. For the first time in twenty years there would be two Americans in the Olympic final of the men’s 800 meters.
A huge smile spread across my face and I ran up to congratulate Duane. I was then strongly urged, again, by a race official to exit the stadium. Now that I knew there was more work to be done, I happily obliged. In the mix zone I laughed with the reporters and told them how excited I was to be on my way to my first Olympic final. I talked about my chances of winning a medal, and if I thought Rudisha could be beat. I was also asked if I thought he could run a world record in the final.
“Absolutely not.” I responded, and went on to say that I had been in the race in which he had set the world record previously; that the conditions that day had been perfect and that it was almost impossible for him to run faster than that without a rabbit.
Still smiling I went to the dressing room to collect my gear. When I walked outside to the warm up track, a smiling Coach Rowland greeted me. He shook my hand, then brought me in for a hug. “Bloody brilliant,” was all he said before allowing me to start on my cool down.
I had roughly forty-eight hours to recover before the biggest race of my life. Back at the athlete’s village I did my best to get in a good meal and some rest. The next day I jogged a little in the morning to flush out my legs, and then worked my way over to the rental house to spend some quality time with my family.
The day of my 2012 Olympic final race passed by just like any other race day. I kept to my pre-race routine and did my best to pass the hours without thinking about the competition ahead. The hardest part was not thinking about the fact that if I failed to medal that night, I would have to wait four more years for another chance.
On the bus to the track I saw many of the men I would race in a few short hours. I knew most of them well, and smiled at them as I walked past to find an open seat. How strange for us to all sit here smiling at each other when, in just a few short hours, we will compete against each other for something we have devoted the last four years of our lives to.
At the warm-up track, I found Coach Sam and Coach Rowland waiting for me, and they led me back to one of the USA medical tents where I could lie down. As had become the norm, my legs had felt better and better through the rounds, and despite having to go all out in the semi-finals, I felt incredible that evening. I glided through my warm-up, confident and eager to race for an Olympic gold medal. As I ran around the practice facility I played in my mind how the race would unfold––over and over again.
Some races are unpredictable and I have to imagine five or ten different scenarios, but this race was going to be one of the most predictable I had ever run. Rudisha was going to try to lead wire to wire, just as he has always done. He would take the race out in 23 seconds for the first 200 meters, and in 48 seconds for the first 400. There would be several people crazy enough to try to go with him, but they would ultimately pay the price and fade terribly down the homestretch. I would remain in the back until 6- or 700 meters, then pick off all the stragglers. Images of Dave Wottle played through my head. Wo
ttle had won the Olympic gold medal in the men’s 800 in 1972 with a thrilling come from behind victory, a feat no American had been able to match since.
As had been the case through most of our time together, Coach Rowland and I were on the exact same page when it came to our race strategy. As I stretched, he told me how he expected the race would unfold. He said exactly what I had been thinking, and then told me how he thought I should run it. “Fella, you’re not going to beat Rudisha tonight, and that’s okay,” he said honestly and bluntly. “Let everyone else try to go with him. You are going to be 24 seconds at the 200 mark, 50 flat at the bell, and 1:16 at 600 meters. If you do that, you will run 1:43 flat tonight and be the Olympic silver medalist.”
As he said that, goose bumps spread over my body and a fresh wave of adrenaline hit my system. I believed him. Coach Rowland had seen enough and been at enough races in his life to know what he was talking about. I hugged him and thanked him several times for all he had done to prepare me for this evening. Then I found Coach Sam and did the same. Finally, I headed into the call room.
We eight finalists sat in the tiny room and listened to the roar of the crowd above our heads. Then we changed into spikes and did our best to stay warm and loose in the tiny space. When it was our time to be walked out into the Olympic Stadium we all breathed a sigh of relief. As we paraded out single file, I looked up into the stands and saw eighty thousand people looking back at me.
I closed my eyes and did my best to savor this moment, despite the incredible nervousness I was feeling. Once I had set my backpack down and stripped off my warm-ups I felt better. I was free to run a few quick strides and that movement brought me back to the moment. You are just running two laps. You have done this thousands of times before.
This race was going to be more of a time-trial than a tactical affair, and that meant I would be pushing my body as hard as I could from the very start. It was going to hurt very, very badly, but I knew that the pain of the race, the pain and sacrifice of all the years of training would be worth it when I stood on the podium and watched the American flag being raised.
Life Outside the Oval Office: The Track Less Traveled Page 19