My son and I were the last ones left, the other members of his high school cross country team had left to head back to the team tents, their spikes clacking across the parking lot. The girls race had just begun and the finish area would soon be filling up, the scene repeating itself multiple times through the day as different divisions raced in the state finals. Luke was freezing, the JV teammate who held his warmups after the start had been delayed getting to the finish line area and now my sons teeth were chattering as he stood shivering in his varsity jacket that had somehow appeared before his warmups. His legs and backside were muddy, his fingers frozen as I gave him my winter gloves to put on.
Even though he’s been doing it for 3 years, race days can be difficult. A gentle reminder to hydrate and double check his duffel bag usually brings a withering glare and a snappish “I know what I’m doing” response. My sons a good runner but not great, and although his team has been to 20 straight state finals, they weren’t expected to finish in the top 10. It had been an emotional race and finish, I could see it in his eyes and face, his cheeks red from the cold and exertion. He said at the start line he was thinking about his 2 senior teammates who were running in their last race, their last time they would be wearing the school colors, the last time he would run with them as “brothers.” He said he thought about all the miles they had put in, the long runs, the speed work that made their lungs burn, the fun times at training camp staying up late. They had won some races this year as a team and had also had some disappointment.
The race had gone as expected, the boys ran hard, some doing better than they expected others not. Luke had done well cutting a minute off his time from the year before, and the team had a respectable top 15 finish. But as Luke crossed the finish line he could see his one teammate had collapsed after finishing, and Luke and another teammate had helped carry him to an ambulance for medical treatment. The boys were worried, they had never seen any of their teammates collapse during a run, incoherent at the finish. They huddled as one around the ambulance waiting for word on their teammate not wanting to leave, not caring about the results of the race, not caring that it had begun to snow and they were standing there in shorts and tank tops, and whatever heat they had generated from running was quickly evaporating off their bodies. Word came from inside the ambulance that he was going to be alright, he needed to get warm and drink some fluids. The boys began hugging each other and wiping their eyes as they slowly made their way out of the finish area.
The finish area of a race can be a chaotic scene. I liken it to the platform of a train station upon arrival of a train. Passengers spill out of the train, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. There’s joyous yelling and hugging, as family and friends find their loved ones. People mill about for 5-10 minutes before moving along and the platform becomes quiet again until the next train pulls in. Add in some disappointment, confusion, and occasionally at least one runner bent over throwing up, and you have the finish area after a cross country race.
The wind whipped through the area underneath the stands, a lone disinterested security guard sat with her back to us, bundled up to ward off the cold, probably wishing she could be anywhere but there. Somehow, we ended up being the last ones in the finish area and my son slowly put his warmups back on. He lingered for a moment, looking back toward the finish line, almost not wanting to leave. He’s a junior and next year when this scene repeats itself, he’ll have run his last high school cross country race. I don’t know if he was thinking about that at that moment, but I was, and I’m not sure who’s dreading that moment more. Neither one of us said anything for a long time as we slowly walked across the parking lot, his spikes clacking against the concrete.
John's Blog 