I was light and free in every race. No one expected anything of me yet. I was running these fast times, and people kept watching, disbelieving that I would be able to follow up one emphatic victory with another. But I did.
Schedules at international meets were always different. Sometimes women’s events were run first, and other times the men would lead off. Jeremy Wariner, who Coach Hart also mentored in the 400, was a frequent travel and racing companion. Jeremy and I discussed our race strategy and made friendly bets about who would have the better performance. Coach Hart measured our workouts and competitions five seconds apart. If Jeremy ran 44.3 to win his race, I need to run 49.2 or better to win our bet. I always preferred to run second, so I’d know exactly what time to beat. We were both tearing it up, and many times I’d be in a race and be more concerned about beating his times than about beating my competition. It made it fun and took a lot of pressure off racing. We were both on an undefeated streak and didn’t even notice it.
My fastest races felt like my easiest races. I would be able to go out hard, maintain my momentum, and distribute my speed evenly around the track. During these races, the 400 felt like a pure sprint. Minimal deceleration and the sensation that I was running my fastest at the end.
As I got closer to dropping below 49 seconds and breaking the record, I’d always look at the clock during the last few meters. I’d call Dad after each race, and he’d say, “Sanya, if you don’t look at the clock, you’ll run the time. The clock is slowing you down.”
Dad watched my races on fuzzy, live Internet feeds on his computer, but he was able to track my eyes and see how they moved away from the finish line and to the clock in the last few meters.
What happened when I looked at the clock? My muscles tightened, tensed up, and slowed down. The body goes where the eyes go, right? So, as opposed to everything going forward, I would be shifted slightly off course because my eyes moved from the finish line, and then everything else goes a little bit slower. And because runners anticipate the line early, probably happy that the race is almost over, sometimes I’d dip my shoulder and lean before the line. But without full extension, you also lose momentum. Those subtle movements may not be easily discernible. But add them up, and it’s half a second—and that’s what was between me and the record.
By now, I was understanding the groove of overseas competition. My life basically consisted of racing and recovering. Every action was intended to point me to the start line in peak performance shape. Through repetition and practice, I was learning the routine and buildup that moved my mind into race mode. I valued these summer months and races, because it was then that I truly honed my craft and embraced the totality of focus required of championship performance.
My race days were strictly ordered.
An early wake-up call.
Breakfast with my family and close travel crew.
Alone time in my hotel room, a nap to reset, a shower to awaken all my senses, hair done, makeup applied, uniform on.
Race days unfolded with predictable choreography. I arrived at the track with a calculated sense of security, evident in my precise preparation.
The race inside the Olympic Stadium in Athens was the last of my season. My fitness was supreme. I held the fastest time in the world, 49.05, but I actually drew lane 7, making me the hunted instead of the hunter. My biggest competitors could set their pace off mine leaving me to run blind. It’s a funny system at the World Cup, because lane assignments had nothing to do with times or rankings, but rather with country affiliation. For some reason, Team USA drew lane 7.
I considered that a disadvantage, but over the phone, my ever-optimistic father encouraged me to find a different perspective.
“Let it work for you, baby girl, because you’ll have no distractions,” Dad told me.
On a nine-lane track, I had just two competitors in front of me, so Dad urged me, “Pick them up early, and don’t look back.” “OK,” I said, and then I promised him I wouldn’t look at the clock. I didn’t really believe it was slowing me down that much. I enjoyed looking at the clock. I was running so well that in most of my races I was far ahead of my competition, and the clock was my only adversary. I enjoyed staring it down, demanding that it stop before 49 seconds.
Dad begged me to try something different. “What do you have to lose? We’ve done it your way all season. Let’s try mine.”
Before I settled into the blocks I told myself one last time, No clock, all finish line, all faith.
I’ll forever remember that race. It was the most amazing feeling. I felt no fatigue, and I was sprinting the entire time. Within 10 seconds, I had passed the runners to my right, and the rest of the race was between me and my mind. Was I strong enough to eliminate distractions and stay focused?
In lane 7, I was not used to the dimensions of the track. I rarely ran in that lane. From lane 4, I know exactly my sight lines at 100 meters, 200—all the way around. But in lane 7, I was never sure exactly where I was until I came into the final 100. I was just running free, running from feel, instinct, and power.
As I sprinted down the homestretch, I maintained my promise. I was relaxed and ran through the line. Then, finally, I looked. The clock read 48.70. A new American record.
My eyes darted around the stadium and spectator stands. I was so accustomed to having my immediate family, extended family, and friends at my biggest meets when I accomplish great things. My mom was the only one who made it to Athens, and I had no idea where she was sitting. The World Cup was a smaller championship meet, not as well attended as most.
I remember looking into the stands, no friendly eyes to connect with, and thinking, Do you all know what I just accomplished? I’m the fastest American to ever run the 400 meters.
The race that chose me gave me the greatest gift—my name etched in the record books alongside the greats like Flo-Jo, Michael Johnson, and Jackie Joyner Kersee.
One thing the 2006 season taught me was that in order to achieve a significant goal, a clear vision and purpose were necessary. Because I was locked in on breaking the record, I was able to identify—with help and advice from Coach Hart and my dad, of course—steps along the way where I could improve, make progress, and eventually accomplish the feat.
I turned that lesson into a tool for the remainder of my career. Before each new year, I sat at my dining room table and constructed an audacious vision board. At the center of each is the cross, my constant reminder that all things are made possible through Christ and that my greatest desire is to please Him. I used my creativity to build tangible reminders of my goals. I would cut out pictures from magazines, turn gold foil into gold medals, and write motivational phrases around the border. Nothing was too crazy or off-limits. It was an expression of my happiness and eagerness to do the hard work.
The vision board is something that allowed me to narrow my focus. It also challenged me to get clear on what I wanted. What I like best about the process, if done the right way, is that it forces you to dig deep within yourself.
What has God put me on this earth to accomplish? Who am I supposed to touch, be an example for, or serve and support with my talents and gifts? My vision board was always on display, and I was able to mentally prepare for or reflect on each day. What is my plan today? Did my actions align with my goals? Am I progressing?
For me, the vision board is very powerful. Not only because of the time and tedious work required to create it, but also because it was a gentle motivator, a way I could push myself to make sure I was giving my very best each new day. That’s the simplest way I found to tackle these crazy goals and lifelong dreams. Some days will feel better, stronger, and easier than others, but as long as we give what we’ve got, we’ll stay on pace.
I felt that way on the track too. The narrower the focus, the better. You’d never imagine that the clock, the ultimate decider in my races, could distract me, but it did. Focus was as important at the start as the finish. For those crucial first 50 meters of the race,
I’m looking as close as I can to my body. My eyes carry maybe 10 yards ahead of me. If I look around and see my competition, it just causes anxiety, and the lane feels claustrophobic.
Stay committed and true to your path, because distractions will come at you in all forms. Each day we have decisions to make. Every day is the outcome of thousands of decisions. This or that? Right or wrong? Left or right? Heels or sneakers? Each and every day, we have the opportunity to move closer to fulfilling God’s plan for our lives.
When we step into the grace of God, we step out of the confinements of time. God exists outside of time and space, which is why He’s not limited by them. He can accomplish in a moment what would take a lifetime, which is why His vision is too great to be limited to a piece of poster board.
It’s beyond comprehension or imagination. The beauty of eternal life is that we never have to look at the clock again. Our gaze should only be pointed in a single direction: to the undefeated Champion of champions.
PACE
The narrower your focus, the better. Side projects and other goals feel like they’re helping you to get to the finish line, but the truth is that it takes tremendous focus, patience, and discipline to achieve your dreams.
Stay true to your path, because distractions will come at you in all forms, in objects and places you least expect.
Chapter 6
FALLEN STAR
Staying Disciplined
“All this I will give you,” [the devil] said [to Jesus], “if you will bow down and worship me.”
MATTHEW 4:9
Marion Jones was my biggest hero in the sport of track and field.
And that meant a lot for me.
I didn’t admire many women outside of those in my family because it was never just about great performances for me. I wanted to admire people because of who they are. Contributors to society, great leaders, humble servants, and avid believers.
My dad is a passionate follower of sports. He’s aware and knowledgeable about every form of competition, from mainstream NBA to European specialties like cycling and rugby. Dad revered individuals for their accomplishments and ability to play and perform. But he wasn’t prone to hanging posters or holding up idols.
Integrity means everything. My family made sure I knew that.
As I readied to travel to my first World Indoor Championships in 2006, I was excited to be part of my third national team. I was starting to feel like a true professional.
I couldn’t believe it when I saw Trevor Graham in the waiting area by the gate.
From the first time I saw him at the 2002 Prefontaine Classic as a high schooler, I wanted to meet him.
Everyone knew him. He coached Marion Jones, along with a plethora of other bright stars. He was the man. I wanted to pick his brain. I always loved learning from the experts in my field. I was never shy and was the first person to introduce myself and strike up a conversation in hopes of building a relationship that would be mutually beneficial.
I changed my seat on our charter flight to Russia and talked to him the entire way. He was intriguing, smart, and friendly.
“You want me to come work with you?”
“You think I can be better than Marion?” I asked, trying to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. “After you’re done dominating the 400 meters, let me coach you, and I’ll make you equally as dominant in the 100-meter sprint. You’re the perfect body type—tall and explosive. You’re stronger than most short sprinters and not afraid of the work.
“You’ll be bigger than Marion.”
I hung on every word.
I always thought I’d run the 400 for a few years, win the Olympic gold, and then go back to the 100- and 200-meter sprints. They were my favorite races—where I got my start and dominated for most of my young career.
The thought of training with Marion Jones and Trevor Graham was compelling—very compelling.
The 400 is a tough race, and it’s also difficult to become world-famous running the event. Most people know the athletes who win the 100 final, but it takes a whole lot more for people to remember the other events.
If you could win the short sprints, the endorsements and opportunities were endless.
I called Mom and told her about my visit with Trevor. Always the even-keeled, less radical one, she wasn’t overly excited.
“I don’t know about that group, San. Too many rumors swirling around them all the time,” she said.
“But, Mom, he’s Marion’s coach. She’s been running fast since she was a kid. She’s a child prodigy too.”
I can’t even begin to put into words how much it hurt me on October 5, 2007, when Marion Jones appeared in front of a podium in a black suit and white blouse and admitted to the world that she had used performance-enhancing drugs.
I had defended her in so many trackside debates, saw myself and all that was possible in her success, believed in her abilities. I felt she had betrayed me.
It felt personal.
I wanted to feel compassion for her, but I was angry.
Angry that she didn’t have the courage to say no to drugs. Angry that she didn’t believe in herself the way I believed in her.
She was a once-in-a-lifetime athlete. In high school, she was the Gatorade Athlete of the Year because of her success on the track, and then she went to North Carolina and won a national championship with the basketball team. She was that good.
I believe that Marion could have still had a remarkable track career, competing in multiple disciplines, and even if she didn’t win all her races, she would have won most of them—and that would have been OK. That would have made her a hero. It would have shown young girls like me what success actually looks like. Not a rocket shooting straight up, but a roller coaster with high and lows that are as challenging and exhilarating as you can find at any amusement park.
But this idea of being perfect, winning every race, and getting all the money became more important than standing for something.
As a competitor that’s infuriating. Just consider how many athletes who did it the right way, who meticulously trained and planned their nutrition and devoted their minds and bodies to the pursuit and who were denied the opportunity to even line up because Marion was in the field.
In track and field, the winners claim all the glory. Especially when you’re as big as Marion Jones. She had all the sponsors, from Nike to American Express. She commanded the highest appearance fees and was on the covers of all the magazines. No one else existed.
I wanted to still love her. I wanted her to walk away a hero.
Now it was time for her to own her truth. No more deception. No more lies.
Tell us that the pressure got to you. Tell us you feared losing and wanted to make your sponsors and country proud. Say you got greedy, arrogant, misled. Anything—just own it.
Instead she went on Oprah and told us once again she didn’t know she was doping.
I was disappointed.
Still she taught me the importance of choices. I knew then and there that if I ever became a role model for young girls, I’d treat them the way I wanted Marion Jones to treat me.
I’d think of them individually.
I’d give them something real and tangible they could hold on to.
A picture of success that was attainable and true.
I never wanted anyone to have a reason to rip my posters off their wall or strip my medals away.
After my airplane meeting with Trevor Graham, I never had any interaction with anyone closely associated with drugs. I truly believe it’s because of the people I had around me. Most people were probably deathly afraid of my dad, but they also saw that we were a family that believed in the fundamentals of hard work.
Even when not in the lane next to you, the remnants of cheaters’ performances always linger. Take the women’s 400 world record, for instance. I always wanted to be the world-record holder. The best female quarter-miler ever. But the record was so out of reach that it always seemed impossible.
If you look at most record books, times gradually drop. As technology gets better and techniques are refined, the performances progressively improve. But in the 1980s, the 400 women’s record was demolished, with three seconds shaved off the time in a ten-year span. Compare that against the men who, in a span of twenty years from 1968 to 1988, only lowered the record by six hundredths of a second.
What Marita Koch did simply doesn’t happen, and many experts attribute it to the excessive use of steroids during that time. In October 1985, the East German runner Koch ran 47.6 at the World Cup in Canberra, Australia, to set the world-record time. It’s a full second faster than my American record. No one has come close to breaking it. No one has even run sub-48 since then. Marie-José Pérec, the long-limbed French runner, came the closest when she won her second 400 gold medal at the Atlanta Olympics in 48.25.
If there wasn’t so much speculation regarding the world record, I’d be much more settled with my place in history. We know that Marita Koch competed in an era when East Germany was known to be systematically doping its athletes, and many of Koch’s East German peers who raced with and against her have since admitted they doped in the state-sponsored program administered by the country’s secret police.
Following German reunification in 1990, records were made public, detailing substances and quantities, and who received them. A book was later published that contained doping data for East German athletes, including Koch, though she never failed a drug test and has never publicly admitted to doping. The World Anti-Doping Agency isn’t able to investigate these claims due to their statute of limitations clause.
The record stands, though it remains clouded in suspicion. I believe it was a record that was created in a lab.
Dad, a Rasta, believed in eating from the land. He faithfully juiced vegetables and fruits for me to supplement my diet, which he also oversaw like a hawk. My family didn’t eat pork or red meat, and we’d fill our plates with colorful vegetables, fruits, and whole grains.
Chasing Grace Page 6