In January 1997 I ran the best race of my life.
I was training with a small group of Hartford Track Club members who actually ran track races. We traveled to meets together, and we usually met once a week at the track for a workout with Coach Sam.
That year, I was targeting the mile/1500 and the 800. The plan was to first build strength for the former events, then later sharpen for the 800. The mile at Harvard’s indoor facility was to be my first of the year, and so far in training I had not run a single 200 faster than mile pace. But I was feeling quick when I did my 100-meter strides on easy days, so a few days before the meet I called Sam and told him I wanted to do the 800 at Harvard. I had just broken 2:12 the previous summer, and I thought I might come close to that.
My heat featured a 50-55 US indoor record attempt by a fast runner from Ohio, being paced by some 40-year-olds. (I was 43 at the time.) The lead group took off fast, and I was swept up in their wake and ran the first 200 at under 2:00 pace. My teammates later told me they were sure I’d lost my mind and was going to crash and burn. I hit 400 in 63, and hung on to finish in 2:08, a lifetime best.
The next weekend I was cooling down after a good-but-not-spectacular mile at Smith College when I felt a sudden sharp pain in my ankle. I know now that it was a partial tendon rupture that would finally give way 25 years later; at the time it was treated as tendinitis. I didn’t run for months while it healed, then spent many more months adjusting to running in orthotics. Although I ran some decent races through my forties and fifties, I never came close to my pre-injury level.
I relate all this not to relive my glory days (okay, maybe a little) but to reflect on what I failed to do. Almost as soon as I stepped off the track after that 800, my mind was on the training and racing ahead. If I could run that fast on so little real speedwork, how close might I get to 2:00? How good a mile might I run? What would the workouts look like? During the whole week between the race and my injury, I never took the time to celebrate.
What would celebration have looked like? Maybe taking the kids (pre-teens then) out for ice cream; calling my parents (still living then) specifically about the race; bringing some beer to share with my teammates after the next track practice. It doesn’t really matter what, but I didn’t do any of it – I just barreled ahead toward the next, bigger result.
Of course, I could not know that I would never run that well again. But it was a big accomplishment and it deserved better.
I think I’ve become better at this. Aging helps – it becomes increasingly clear that any accomplishment might be the last of its kind. My future athletic accomplishments won’t be in running, but I plan to celebrate each one wholeheartedly.