“Got to keep faith that your path will change, got to keep faith that your luck will change tomorrow”
From the song Tomorrow by James
I hit the final downhill at Holmdel with everything I had. I was either going to fall or win this race. Either way, I was going to have to be passed if somebody wanted to take this from me. Those back woods are the quietest part of the race. The start, the rolling hills, the meadow, the bowl and the tennis courts are always packed with fans. The noise is incredible. It can feel like riding a wave at times. The last 1k though is different. Little by little the voices disappear until it is just the heavy and labored breathing of the competitors dashing to the finish straight. No outsiders allowed. The race is decided there, alone amongst the runners.
As I crested that last rise, before the finish straightaway opens up, I knew I had won Parochial A. No one was going to pass. No one could take this. I was going to get to that line first. I heard nothing. Saw nothing but the clock. It was simply a matter of getting from point A to B. No emotion. I crossed the finish and took my card, 1, the first CBA runner ever to break that line. I had the chute to myself.
Our team had an overwhelming amount of friends and family at the meet. Well over 100 of our classmates came out to the race. Teachers, Brothers, alumni came out as well and we appreciated every last one them. It was a celebration. Finally. It had been a long year for everybody. But, as the seven of us that raced rejoined our teammates and friends we could tell that the prior year’s demons had been exorcised. We had made it through the trials and tribulations. Yet, all around us, Mr. Heath seemed to be the only one that knew there was still another race on the calendar. That’s why he’s the coach. Still, the run on Sunday would be slow and sweet for us. No doubt about that.
Monday would be a day off for me. Dad was at work. Mom had to go to NYC. I felt a severe case of imaginary flu coming on and made the executive decision to lay low. I grabbed lunch at the deli up the street and headed to Holmdel Park. Lunch was eaten in complete bliss right smack in the middle of the bowl. For the first time since my sophomore year I was living in the moment. I was not hoping or wishing for something down the road. I was not imagining life without a limp or a cough. I was not trying to catch up to some potential athlete I may or may not ever be. I was sitting down eating a sandwich just happy to be right where I was. The race was Saturday but I felt like I finally won it there at the Park on Monday. I had arrived for this lunch right on time.
Mr. Heath was in fact correct after all. We did have one more race. And I could not sit there on the grass forever no matter how much I wanted to. Lunch ended and I headed back home. We still had business pending before the ’93 XC season could be closed. The MOC was cold. Damn cold. Windy, too. Damn windy. The race never felt smooth. As a team we bent a bit, but never broke. For the seniors winning our third All Group Championship in four years was the bookend moment to the day we showed up to run on a hot and humid July evening 18 months ago. We were juniors then looking for an identity. We were seniors now and looking for a legacy.
What would be the inheritance for those guys that came after us? What lessons could we pass on to them? What could the teams that would follow find in us for inspiration? We owed them so much since we had taken so much from all those harriers that came before us. We could only hope that they understood that we were a team from start to finish. When we fell we got up. When we lost we came back and toed the line again. As individuals sometimes we were afraid but as a team we were fearless. Sometimes our legs gave out. Sometimes they carried us with speed we never knew we had. But, in the end, we always made it home.
Was that really the last race? No. Even though at times it feels like it was. There were so many more. I wore different uniforms, ran for different coaches and called different people my teammates. But, those four years there at the old horse farm in Lincroft will always hold a special place. If I ever doubted myself in one of those other uniforms, if I was limping amongst different teammates, if I fell off the pack on some different course so far away, I always had the moments, the lessons, and the memories from those four years to guide me home.