Fast Girl

by Suzy Favor Hamilton

  When we got back to Eugene, I sat down with Coach Brown. “Am I missing the boat here?” I said. “Should I be using drugs? Everybody seems to be doing them.”

  He held my gaze for a long time, letting me know how serious he was.

  “You are absolutely not going to do drugs,” he said. “You don’t need them. You’re talented enough.”

  I was relieved. I didn’t want to break the rules. I was a good girl. But, still, I wondered what I needed to do to win.

  “I guess I’m just a little frustrated with where our training is going, then,” I said. “I sometimes just don’t think it’s intense enough.”

  He quickly reassured me, outlining a scientific plan for a new approach to our workouts that would bring my performance to a higher level. But I’d heard this from him before, and I’d never seen the results I’d been promised. I wanted, needed, to win. I should have pushed back this time, but I wasn’t strong enough for that.

  In 1996, I was approached about doing a swimsuit calendar, and I immediately loved the idea. Even though I’d been self-conscious about my large breasts before my surgery, I was comfortable showing off my body off the track. I’d even gone topless on a beach in Europe when I competed there, although Mark worried the whole time that I’d be spotted and photographed, leading to a scandal, and so I finally put my top back on at his urging. I wanted to do something that would make me feel good, for a change, when racing wasn’t doing it for me. I loved every aspect of putting the calendar together, from the shoot on a beach in Hawaii, which the entertainment news show Extra sent a crew to cover, to the process by which we chose the twelve photos we would use for the calendar. When I received boxes of the finished product, I was proud that I’d finally created something I’d enjoyed and was an expression of my personality. The calendar wasn’t available in retail stores, but we advertised it a bit, and it became an instant success. We quickly sold out of the five thousand copies we’d printed, and it seemed like we could sell as many again if we printed more. And then our phone rang. It was Dad.

  “What is going on with this ridiculous swimsuit calendar of yours?” he growled into the phone. “I didn’t even know anything about it, and suddenly, I’m getting teased at work. You’ve really embarrassed me.”

  “Dad, this is something I wanted to do,” I said, even though I felt queasy standing up to my father. “I love to model.”

  He was angry and embarrassed, believing the calendar reflected poorly on our family, and I was feeling worse by the minute. I’d finally found something I really enjoyed, and now my dad was taking all the joy away.

  “I wonder if I was a stripper, Dad,” I said, “would you disown me?”

  He didn’t answer the question. By the time I hung up the phone, I was anxious and depressed and feeling plenty of guilt. When Mark came home not long after, I was still crying.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “My dad called and he’s really angry about my swimsuit calendar,” I said. “He wants me to stop doing it.”

  Mark had been completely supportive of the entire project, even helping me to pick out the swimsuits I was photographed in, and he paused now before taking a side.

  “You loved doing the calendar,” he said. “And it’s doing really well. If we print an additional ten thousand, I’m sure we can sell them out. But it’s your call.”

  Within a few days, I stopped selling the calendar. I still couldn’t bear to make my father unhappy. But I was angry about his reaction and the fact that I’d caved to his pressure. And so, even though I wasn’t strong enough to fully rebel, I did pull back from my parents even more. And this was a crucial moment for me to do so because Mark and I had decided to make another major change. Every time I got tempted to focus on something other than running, like modeling or public appearances, they took me away from what I was here to do: run fast. It was time to double down on my training. Modeling was flattering and fun. But at the same time I still wanted to win. The inner conflict was tearing me up.

  Although the next Olympics were still three and a half years away, I was going to show the world what I could do. I’d been a professional runner for six years, but I hadn’t achieved anything like the success I’d had in college. And I knew there was only one man who could get me back to the competitive level I’d been at then: my old coach, Peter Tegen. For some reason, training with him long distance never worked as well as it did when we were on the track together. It was time to go home. It was scary for me to be moving close to my parents again, just as our relationship had grown more strained. Such tension was one of the reasons I’d left in the first place, and the physical distance between us had felt like a good thing to me. But Mark really felt the move was what I needed, if success on the track was my goal, and I eventually agreed. I was sick of hearing the whispers about how I wasn’t living up to expectations. I was sick of mediocrity. I wanted to win.

  In early 1997, we moved back to Madison. Immediately, Peter and I fell back into our old rapport, and my running began to improve. I had a great year in 1997, winning in Paris and Lausanne. And then, in 1998, I had one of the best running moments of my life, competing in one of my favorite venues: the Hercules Meet in Monte Carlo. Because of the upswing in my career, Nike had finally come calling, and they’d written a clause into my contract stating that if I could run a mile in under four minutes, I’d receive a one-hundred-thousand-dollar bonus. The race happened to fall on my thirtieth birthday. I didn’t win the race. I came in eighth, actually. But I ran it in a personal best, 3:59, which meant I’d earned my sub-four-minute time bonus, and I felt like I was back where I wanted to be, running the best I could at that point, holding my own with the top athletes in the world.

  My happiness didn’t last long. That night, while I was attending a post-race celebration party, the meet promoter for one of the most prestigious meets in the world pulled me aside for a private conversation.

  “You could change the sport of track and field,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling proud.

  “I mean it. With everything you’ve done with your modeling and the press you’ve received, you could really help the sport in America. But you have to do better. You have to win, and to do that, you know what you have to do.”

  My smile instantly faded. I stepped back from him a little, tears forcing their way out. I was shocked and offended by what he’d just said without saying it: in order to be the best, I had to use steroids. If I did, I could change a sport I loved dearly. If I didn’t, it was my fault if I lost.

  “Excuse me,” I said, wishing Mark were there to defend me, as I pushed away from him and into the crowd. I never spoke to him again.

  The problem with being a top athlete is that there’s always another race, and no matter how many times you’ve won before, you have to keep winning to maintain your reputation. The next year, 1999, was a rough year for me. I tore my Achilles tendon in an early indoor race in Boston while setting the indoor American record in the 800 meters. I missed the rest of the ’99 season and was initially told by my doctors that my career might be over. I was determined to run and prove them wrong.

  I’d continued to maintain some distance from my parents following their disapproval of my swimsuit calendar. But when I did go to their house for a visit, it was impossible not to notice how my brother’s condition had changed, although my parents didn’t discuss the subject. We didn’t know it at the time but, after years of hanging on to his mental health, he’d stopped taking his meds. This had allowed him to lose at least forty pounds, and he looked better than he had in years. Both Mark and I couldn’t help but compliment him when we saw him at my parents’ house at the end of the summer. What we later learned was that his decision to go off his medication was a part of a downward spiral that would cause him to give his money and belongings away, paint graffiti all over his house and car, and then take his own life on September 9, 1999.

  I was shocked of course. We all were. None of us h
ad thought his illness would ever really lead to this. That fateful day had felt a little strange to begin with, and although I’d gone to train at the university gym with a friend, I paused in my workout to call Mark, which I never did. When I was training, I was training. When Mark heard my voice on the phone there was a long silence. After what seemed like an hour, Mark finally spoke.

  “Suzy, it’s your brother.”

  As soon as I heard these words, and the tone of voice with which Mark spoke them, somehow I knew Dan had died.

  “Dan’s gone.”

  I dropped the phone and fell to my knees in the coach’s office, where I had gone to make my call. When I picked up the phone again, I had just one question.

  “Why? Why did this happen?” I asked again and again.

  “Suzy, you need to get home,” Mark said.

  As I sobbed, he talked me through a plan where I would return to the gym, tell my friend what had happened and follow her to my house in my car, where Mark waited for me, so she could be sure I made it home safely. During the half-hour drive, my tears dried up, and I became like a zombie, totally checked out from reality and the pain it contained.

  As usual, I went into my default mode. I trained, or cross-trained at least. As soon as my brother’s funeral was over, I left for the airport to fly to Albany for an appearance I’d promised to make at a fundraiser in honor of a young girl who’d passed away, and then to Limerick for a much-anticipated miracle treatment I needed for my Achilles, skipping the reception my parents had planned at their house. My relationship with my sisters was already tense, and this was the final straw for them. They went off on me, telling me I was selfish, putting another family’s loss and my career before my family. But I didn’t know what else to do, and even when I tried to explain this to my sisters, they wouldn’t listen. Following the surgery I’d required on my Achilles, I hadn’t run pain-free in nearly a year, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I needed to do something to feel better. I needed to run. I limped through my physical therapy in Ireland, constantly thinking about my brother’s final moments as he’d jumped off a nine-story building to his death. I was haunted. Desperate, I attended church in Ireland, where I was made to feel very welcome. This helped, as did the letter I received telling me that my appearance in Albany had been very healing for the community. Slowly, I began to recover from the devastating loss of my brother, but his death still left a hole in my heart.

  The intensely painful treatment worked. When I was finally well enough to start racing again in 2000, Mark suggested I dedicate that whole season to my brother’s memory and add Favor back to the name under which I competed. It felt like the least I could do.

  The shadow of Dan added another layer to an already high-stakes year for me. I was thirty-two years old, and it would be my third attempt at the Olympics. Mark and I had been married for almost ten years but had put off having a family. I felt like I had to finally make good on all the sacrifices that Mark, my parents, and my coaches had made for so many years. I had to win.

  After the severity of my injury the previous year, it was amazing that I was running at all. But I didn’t take that into consideration as I geared up for the 2000 European season after qualifying for the Olympic team by coming in second—of course, to Regina Jacobs—at the Olympic trials in the 1,500 meters. I had pushed my training harder than ever, feeling like I had so much to make up for—my past two Olympic disappointments, the pain my family was experiencing over the death of my brother. If I could just bring home a gold medal, we’d at last have something to be happy about.

  A runner can typically peak only once in a season, so coaches try to have this peak at the time of the season’s biggest race, after which it’s difficult to run quite so fast because of natural wear and tear and physical and psychological exhaustion. That year, I was running great—too great, actually. I peaked in Europe just after the Olympic trials, running my career best, and a seasonal world’s fastest, in the 1,500 meters, 3:57, in Oslo, and establishing myself as the favorite in Sydney. This was just a couple tenths of a second off the American record set years before by Mary Decker Slaney. Although I injured my hamstring soon after and missed two weeks of training, there was nothing to do but keep running, especially because I was the favorite for the 2000 Olympics, and Nike had me shoot a major television commercial just before I left for Sydney. Unfortunately, the commercial itself was met with criticism—from my mom, who thought that the portrayal of me running from an attacker reflected badly on our family, given Dan’s death by suicide, and from some feminists, who condemned what they claimed was a message of violence against women. I thought that the message was a positive one: I could escape a killer without needing a man to come to my rescue. Even so, the money had been spent, and I felt pressure from Nike to make good by winning in Sydney. Not only that, but I wanted to win so badly for my family. I had a gold-or-bust attitude; anything less than the best would be a complete failure.

  Things were shaky from the start. I had two rounds before my Olympic final, and while I won the first round, I only felt okay, not great. In the second round, I came in second, but it was not as easy as it should have been, and I felt terrible, like I’d already spent everything. I knew I was in trouble for my final race two days later. I wanted to flee. I followed the other runners in a single file line through the tunnel from the locker room, a television cameraman close by my side. Even with a huge fake smile plastered on my face, I was worried the camera would capture my lack of confidence somehow. My brain started swirling with negative thoughts and doubts. The crowd was so loud. I glanced at the people in the stands, cheering. Stay focused, I thought. Then my eyes darted around at my competitors. Can they see the fear in my eyes? I wondered. Why can’t this be over? Why don’t I just pull out of the race? I wanted so badly to silence my critics, but I was such a mental mess that I just didn’t feel like I had it in me. I looked to the area of the stands where I knew Mark was cheering me on, wishing he would come down to the track and rescue me. I felt so alone that I felt my throat clog with suppressed tears. I can’t cry. I have to run. I can’t let him down. He has given up so much of his career for me and this moment. My family is watching, too. I have to win for them. It would bring so much joy to them after my brother’s suicide. I could help take away some of the pain. Focus, Suzy, focus.

  The official called us all to get on the starting line. I was assigned to be the first runner, closest to the inside rail of the track. This meant I had to get off to a fast start in order to avoid getting boxed in by my competitors. I adjusted the blue sunglasses that matched my USA Olympic uniform, a nervous habit, wishing the cameraman would get his lens out of my face. I shook both legs out, patted the numbers on the side of my uniform so they wouldn’t fall off. Why are they holding us so long at the start? Can’t we get this over? My heart felt as if it was going to pound itself to dust, and I hadn’t started running. Then the gun went off, and the sound was so loud, it echoed in my head as I took my first strides. My newly sharpened spikes gripped the track’s surface. Around me, everyone was pushing to get into the position needed to win the race. I tried to push my way in, too, focusing on the strategy Peter had drilled into me. But with every stride, the only thought in my head was I just want this nightmare to be over.

  After running three laps in sheer panic, I had one more lap to go. But the closer I got to the finish line the more certain I became that something terrible was going to happen, any second. The gusty exhales of the runners behind me grew louder, making me feel like I was being hunted like an animal in the wild. My body turned to stone. I couldn’t take another step. But I had to. I wanted to vanish, just disappear, but there was nowhere to go. I tried to hold on, but the tornado of negative thoughts and doubts was spinning through my brain faster and faster. My legs grew heavier and heavier, and with 150 meters left, one by one, the other runners passed me, until there was no one left but me. I was going to come in last, in my last Olympic race. No gold for Mark, no gold for Pet
er, no gold for my parents, no gold for my brother’s memory. Heartbroken, panicked, almost dumb with grief, I just stopped. I told myself to fall, and then, I fell. Feeling the track against the bare skin of my arms and legs, I felt like such an idiot, a fuck-up, but at least I didn’t have to run anymore. And then I realized I was still far from the finish line, and I couldn’t leave this race unfinished. I forced myself up onto my feet and made myself finish, but when I saw the media crowding around me, I couldn’t bear the shame of what I’d just done, and I collapsed again. It was over. I closed my eyes, woozy with emotion and exertion, and felt the medics lift me off the ground and into the air.

  Untreated bipolar disorder is a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. No matter how much a person might love the high of the manic episodes when they come or might want to climb out of the lows in order to feel better, function normally, and even be happy, this is not a condition that can be self-regulated. This is not a matter of goal setting or positive thinking or getting some rest. Studies show that 15 to 17 percent of those whose bipolar disorder goes untreated ultimately die by suicide. And that’s only the cost that can be measured. Not to mention the sufferers who, without realizing their brain chemistry is driving them to do so, turn to drugs, alcohol, sex, shopping, anything to quiet the torment of their rushing mind. And in so doing, lose jobs, destroy marriages, break up families, all the while being blamed for their reckless behavior, as if they had any choice in the matter.

  Even my brother, Dan, who was diagnosed relatively early, when he was still in high school, and treated with electroshock therapy and medication, still became a casualty of the disease. Of course, back then, getting the diagnosis wasn’t the same as gaining an understanding of what it meant. Learning that Dan was bipolar in no way prepared my family or me for the struggles he would face in his too-short lifetime. I first learned of Dan’s specific diagnosis not long after he received it. But, at the time, I was too young to understand what bipolar disorder was. When his behavior was at its most destructive—and painful for my family—I resorted to the easy slurs of the day, calling him crazy in my mind and wishing he would just snap out of it so my mom would stop crying. Looking back, I’m embarrassed by my own ignorance and regretful that I didn’t have the same knowledge I do now. But I still had so much to learn back then, and unfortunately, I would have to learn it the hard way.