Chasing Grace

by Sanya Richards-Ross

  “We nuh cheat,” Dad would say. “A natural ting dis.” Then he’d hand me a tall glass of rainbow-colored juice—the bittersweet essence of spinach, beets, oranges, ginger, and the like. I’d hold my breath and gulp it down. These were my steroids, my edge, my natural performance enhancer.

  Throughout my career, the recipe for success was never simple, but it was straightforward. Dad and Mom never allowed me to believe there was a magic pill or formula. Everything revolved around commitment and discipline. It wasn’t easy. I’ve expended plenty of blood, sweat, and tears on a track. The reward of standing atop the podium, knowing that hard work does pay off, is one of life’s best gifts.

  How can we keep future generations from losing that hope? There’s a power in believing in something unseen, an outcome that isn’t promised. Each day you work in the faith that genuine effort will have a payoff.

  As I matured in my track career, that’s what nagged at me so much about Marion Jones’s doping scandal. She was the face of our sport. She transcended that 400-meter oval through her story and victories, and she challenged the notion that girls had to compete within a box.

  Win an NCAA basketball championship as a freshman. Drive for five gold medals at the Olympics. Anything is possible. Dream it, see it, do it.

  But you can’t do it clean. You need a shortcut. That’s what Marion also taught us. Marion taught us to work for the medals, the money, and the magazine covers. And those things are temporary. They go away.

  The International Association of Athletics Federation (IAAF) nullified all of Marion’s results after September 2000, including her Olympic titles. The International Olympic Committee stripped her of those five medals won in Sydney. She went to jail.

  PACE

  Sometimes the idea of winning or being the best clouds our judgment. We desire more—more money, more power, and more things. We become fixated on a destination and mesmerized by what we believe will come with the new level of success.

  The true prize is in the journey, the ups and downs, the character we develop along the way. Even the moments that hurt the most are crucial to your development. Don’t be afraid of the hard work, the failures, the disappointments. They only make your destination that much sweeter.

  Chapter 7

  SPRINT QUEEN

  Getting Back to Basics

  No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.

  HEBREWS 12:11

  After my dominant 2006 season, everything changed.

  Requests rolled in every day. My mom, now my manager, was mostly overwhelmed just trying to keep up with emails and contractual commitments.

  One of the requests, however, was too good to turn down.

  During the offseason, before the 2007 training cycle began, I was offered a generous appearance fee to make a three-day trip to Japan. It all seemed too good to be true, and this request did not include competing.

  They wanted me to be their guest, go to their most prominent restaurants, take part in cultural ceremonies, and run with the locals. It all seemed easy enough to me. Mom and I agreed and we set off in our first-class seats to Tokyo, Japan.

  As an athlete, I had the tremendous luxury of traveling the world. I’d been to some of the most beautiful cities but rarely had an opportunity to see more than the hotel and the stadium. It was work, and I was always on a mission.

  This trip sounded incredible.

  I’d be a guest, not focused on beating the competition but on simply enjoying the experience.

  First up, the restaurant—and just like on TV, we took off our shoes and sat on the ground in front of one of the largest feasts I’d seen outside of Thanksgiving dinner. Cameras rolling, all eyes on me—and I didn’t recognize a thing. Most of the cuisine looked alive. I was horrified. Already a selective eater, not eating red meat or pork . . . or crab . . . or lobster, it was hard for me to find meals in America, much less selecting from octopus and sushi. I did my best—closing my eyes and eating what I could. They were such accommodating and friendly people, and I didn’t want to offend anyone.

  I was scheduled to be a part of a fun community race, or at least that was my understanding of it. Something was lost in translation, however. This was no fun run; this was a serious event. Most of the participants prepared the entire year for the event.

  It was a four- or five-mile course in which four people ran different distances before being crowned the winner. The kicker is that the teams are handicapped. The slowest entrants went off first, while the fastest team was instructed to take off last. There was prize money, and the women on my team worked hard—they were aspiring professional track and field athletes, and this money meant a lot. A total of $4,000 would go to the winning team.

  The pressure was on.

  I hadn’t started training yet, and I was scheduled to run 1,200 meters. I panicked. I don’t even run that far in practice. How was I supposed to run the anchor leg on a handicapped team against men and women who looked forward to this event like it was their Olympics?

  I was a part of a team. I had to step up. I’ll never forget the race. My translator kept me abreast of all the trash talk and interactions.

  On the big screen inside you could watch the race unfolding. By the time I was up, there was only one man to beat. I took off a little too fast, full of adrenaline and excitement. There were people lined up on the street, waiting to give high fives and cheer us on. When I rounded the final curve back to the building in front of the audience, I literally thought I was going to faint.

  My tank was empty, but the gentleman behind me was too close to let up.

  I gave it everything I had and won for my Japanese teammates. I decided not to take my cut of the prize money. I had such a great season the year before, and this race was really for them. I wanted them to get as much as they could. They were so grateful.

  After the race, my mom couldn’t hold it together. She laughed so hard that I couldn’t help but join in. What had we gotten ourselves into?

  The entire experience was awesome, but I realized then that my position in the sport had changed, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for it.

  Before the 2007 season started, I decided I wanted to be the Sprint Queen. I had dominated the 400 so easily, or at least that’s what it felt like. I wanted a different challenge.

  I wanted to get better in the 100 sprint and dominate the 200 and 400 sprints.

  Only one American woman had ever won Olympic gold in both, and Michael Johnson, Coach Hart’s world-record-setting protégé, had done it at the 1996 Atlanta Games. So I thought, Why can’t I?

  But my intentions weren’t completely pure. I didn’t only want to switch my focus from the 400 because I genuinely wanted to win other events; I switched my focus because the pressure of repeating my performances of the 2006 season seemed daunting and overwhelming.

  Sometimes after we’ve stretched ourselves and achieved new levels of excellence, we fear going back there.

  In 2006, I was undefeated, ran nine times under 50 seconds—more than all the women competing that season combined—set the American record, was named the world female athlete of the year, and was the cover girl on our coveted track and field news magazine.

  I always wanted to be that girl, but uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.

  I thought if I went out on a different mission, I couldn’t fail.

  Well, I was wrong. I went into the 2007 season as the poster girl, and I imploded.

  Disaster. At the U.S. National Championships in Indianapolis in late June, I finished fourth in the 400 and ran one of my slowest races since college. What? Are you kidding? I go from winning races by tens of meters to not just losing but coming in fourth?

  At the time of the season when Coach Hart’s cycle kicks in and my times start to fall, I slowed down. How does that happen? I lost focus, that’s how.

  Mentally I wasn’t there. I
was shifting mind-sets between the 100, 200, and 400. Even though it’s only a few hundred meters difference, the races are completely different. They require totally different engines and strategies.

  In trying to spread my wings, I pulled my focus away from my calling and original passion. Becoming the best quarter-miler in the world is what solidified my commitment. When I diffused that mission by needlessly and selfishly adding to it, I faltered. My climb was intense. Straight up. A meteoric rise, and it created false expectations in my mind. I thought the line to success was a direct path. Every step I had taken led me to the next one. But 2006 set the bar so high that I wasn’t sure I could reach the next rung on the ladder.

  I bailed myself out by adding to my plate in case I wasn’t able to meet that same standard of success. In doing so, I lost my purpose, and I lost my race.

  PACE

  Life can lure us into this fantasy. A fantasy of fear. We look around and begin to fear we aren’t good enough for the right here and right now, so we create illusions in our minds of what we still need to be—when all we need to be is present in this moment, at this time.

  Our purpose is singular. We all share in it. To be bright stewards of God’s grace. It sounds like a simple task, and maybe that’s what’s scary. Because it’s not simple at all. It’s a daily journey that requires focus and commitment.

  Other missions and visions clutter our outlook. God calls us, and our response is to transform through the stages of learning, doing, refining, and also teaching. By turning our attention away from our primary purpose, we also inhibit our growth.

  Chapter 8

  WINNER’S GLOW

  Going with Life’s Flow

  The tongue has the power of life and death.

  PROVERBS 18:21

  There are a couple things that signify you’ve made it in your sport: huge corporate sponsors and rubbing shoulders with megastars.

  Both were happening for me.

  AT&T signed me as one of their ambassadors going into the 2008 Olympic Games, and NFL great Deion Sanders was scheduled to film a commercial at my parents’ house.

  It was the biggest production I had been a part of up to that point in my career. Emails zipped back and forth, permits secured to block the streets, park trailers, host camera crews and producers—the works. I loved being in the spotlight on and off the track, and the AT&T “Home Turf” trailer was an awesome opportunity to connect with more fans.

  About a week prior to the event, I had my first bout of mouth ulcers that were so painful I couldn’t talk. Out of nowhere, my mouth was full of frightening white pustules that were so uncomfortable I couldn’t even drink water. I went to my doctor, and he prescribed an ointment that seemed to do the trick. I also showed him a lesion on my skin that was unfamiliar. He thought they were unrelated and gave me another ointment for my chest.

  The night before Deion was scheduled to come to town, the painful ulcers flared up again. They made it so difficult to open my mouth that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do the interview.

  I broke down and cried. So much had gone into the production that I couldn’t imagine letting everyone down.

  For Olympic athletes, sponsorship opportunities were few and far between. Only being relevant and valuable to a corporation once every four years, we felt the pressure of wanting to deliver. Wanting to be memorable enough and pleasant enough to get the opportunity again in the future.

  I had to do it.

  My mom was so worried. Concerned more about my health than anything else, she became frantic.

  “San, this isn’t normal. We should go to the emergency room.”

  But I wanted to meet Deion Sanders, and I wanted to fulfill my commitment.

  I prayed to God, asking that He clear up my ulcers, if just for a day, and I’d get back to the doctor as soon as I could.

  He answered my prayers. My adrenaline and excitement fueled me to put on a brave face and a smile. Everything else about the day was perfect, but in the back of my mind, I was concerned that this issue might be more serious than I first thought.

  I only had a week reprieve before the mouth ulcers came back.

  Why didn’t the ointment work?

  What was happening?

  These symptoms were the start of a really tough time in my life.

  Besides the horrible mouth ulcers, massive lesions spread over my skin. They started on my legs and eventually presented on my arms, back, and stomach. It looked like my skin was poisoned.

  As soon as one sore healed, another would appear.

  The pain of the lesions was unbearable, but the reality of having to step on the track with what felt like a modern-day leprosy was even scarier. Our uniforms left so little to the imagination, and I was horrified.

  For so long I took for granted the confidence that came from having great skin and a toned body. I was an athlete who ate well and worked hard and as a result was always fit and in shape. People always commented on how awesome my arms were, how they “envied my legs,” and how they would “die for my six-pack.” Little did they know, I almost did, every day. It was my normal, and I never thought twice about it.

  Now for the first time I was terribly insecure.

  Mom and I went to great lengths to cover the lesions and the scars they left in their wake. We tried bandages, makeup, everything you can imagine. It was really tough. When Nike delivered my racing kits for the season, Mom opened the package, and a smile appeared on her face.

  “Look how God works for you,” she said.

  She pulled from the box a set of newly designed compression arm sleeves. I couldn’t believe it. My arms were affected the most, and now I’d be able to cover them in a way that wouldn’t seem awkward or forced. They became a trademark look after a while, but I was initially so grateful to wear them because they hid my secret, my flaws.

  I crisscrossed the country for months looking for a doctor. We visited an infectious disease doctor in Austin, an ear, nose, and throat specialist in Maryland—almost every kind of doctor there was—looking for someone who could answer the question of what was happening to my body, what germ or virus was causing me to look and feel like this.

  Finally, we saw a doctor in New York who said it looked like Behçet’s disease, an incurable, rare, and chronic autoimmune disorder.

  There were no specific tests to confirm the disease; usually a diagnosis is based on your symptoms, but sometimes doctors ordered a certain test to see if it would come back with a positive result. The doctor inserted a clean needle in my forearm and told me if I had a lesion or small red bumps in the area within the next two days, it was likely I had Behçet’s.

  Two days later, I was back in the office. It only took a day, and my skin exploded again like it had done many times before. As we got ready to leave the office, the gentleman at the front desk asked, “Do you have it?” His words seemed so cold and morbid. It felt like a death sentence.

  I wasn’t sure what it meant for me or my career. I was so confused. Behçet’s affected individuals mainly in Asia and the Middle East. How did I get it?

  Amidst my many questions, I was relieved to have a diagnosis and a road map for treatment, but my symptoms never fully disappeared. The medication made it manageable at times, but I would suffer with the symptoms for more than seven years.

  After I set the American record in 2006, my endorsement career finally took off. Nike, my sponsor since day one of my professional career, began to feature me prominently in campaigns, and the requests for photo shoots and public appearances came in day after day. It was a dream.

  In track and field, the prize money awarded for winning races is modest and only flows in during competition season, so to support your income, sponsorships are coveted. I perceived increasing responsibilities to my sponsors as rewards for all of my hard work. With Mom as my manager, I stressed the importance to her, and we rarely declined a request. My schedule grew jam-packed. I’d juggle weight room work, training on the track, and recovery ses
sions, along with a list of business commitments. I was always on the move.

  As my skin was being ravaged on the outside, I internally boiled as well. I was scared. I felt lost. Every appearance was a marathon. Mom and I strategically picked outfits that covered my ulcerated skin, and we tediously applied makeup to camouflage any spots on my limbs that were exposed. Racing became an even greater task, because our aerodynamic uniforms are, by design, minimal at best.

  I was constantly hiding and holding this secret shame. I detested that my body was betraying me, and I did everything I could to prevent it from disrupting public perception. I didn’t believe I could measure up to my mind’s translation of society’s expectations for what a strong, athletic female should look like.

  Nike asked me to come to its headquarters in Oregon for wear testing and a photo shoot for its latest product line. You’d think I’d be through the roof with this news, but I met this invitation with fear and concern. In that setting—around all those cameras, designers, and handlers—there was no way my marked-up skin would go unnoticed. My body would eventually betray me and reveal the truth.

  Still, Mom and I devised a plan to do our best with cover-up foundation and powder. We arrived on the sprawling Nike campus for the shoot, and the setup was epic. They pulled out all the stops for this one. Lights and backdrops and people running this way and that. All this for me, I thought, and I was grateful—before my stomach tightened and the fear returned.

  In the dressing room, I laid my head on Mom’s shoulder. She held me as I let out a long breath.

  “Mom, mi tiyad.”

  “Yuh alright, baby. It will be fine,” she told me.

  I walked out, bared it all, and stood in my truth. It was difficult yet freeing, all at the same time. Most people were kind enough to not stare; others couldn’t help themselves, but I quickly told the room about my condition, smiled, and got to work.