Chapter Four: The Runner

There are three types of people that “leg it”: walkers, joggers, and runners. Walkers come in all varieties. My mother is of the serious variety. Joggers are recognized by the spring in their step. In not so subtle contrasts, runners are measured by how they take flight. My dad has been a runner all of his life.

Ever curious about my dad’s routine of running at the beach after work, I was in the sixth grade when I asked if I could run with him. The way that my dad tells the story is that we drove down to the beach and planned on running four miles on the sand; my dad was expecting to cut the route short, thinking that I would wear out early. My dad describes this event, with a slight smile on his face, that to his surprise, I dashed to the lead with him in-tow. Voluntarily running a few steps behind, he remembers thinking that I would fall off the pace quickly in the soft sand. After about half way through the run, seeing that I continued to lead, he hurried to run evenly with me. Now to his amazement, I surged to keep him behind. Nearing the end of the run, together we locked into a tug-of-war as we traded pushing the pace. With a wide grin on his face, my dad gives his conclusion to the story: “That is when I knew the girl could run.”

Running felt pleasantly fluid to me. Soon after, I began to run competitively. Quickly, I learned that running was unlike team sports I had played. In team events, your personal misfire of execution, laziness, or individual failure can be masked by the group effort. Parallel to the anxiety dream of being found naked in public, competitive running is the incarnation of being publicly exposed. In track, one’s performance is laid-bare for all to see, black and white, frozen to compare not only to all other times that day, but to all races past and all races future, down to the tenth of a second.

How do you measure a second? A blink of an eye. A snap of the fingers. A heart beat. The difference between first and second. The separation of a record-setting performance.

At the Bay League track finals meet my senior year of high school, I had the opportunity to break the school record for the 3200 (eight laps around an oval track). The 3200 is the second to last race of a track meet, and because it is the longest race in high school track, it is typically the least watched race demanding the fans’ endurance as well as that of the racers. Think of it this way, the spectators have to creatively invent eight ways to shout encouragement to the racer.

On race day, I supported my team’s total point effort by racing the 1600 and the 800. Competing in one of the toughest leagues, many of the competitors go on to CIF and to full-ride track scholarships at some of the nations most outstanding running programs. Paired with such brilliant runners meant that to continue after League, a PR and school record-breaking performance was required, a time I had only occasionally flirted with. How often does a competitor stand at the intersection of a single event with representation of the best athletes, on the last league race, with a record in the cross hairs, and the potential to define a four-year career? With the starter’s call for the 3200, I stepped on the spongy surface of the all-weather track at such an intersection.

When an athlete grasps every ounce of emotional, physical, and spiritual energy, directing it in a laser-like concentrated effort in a total release performance, it is not the competition that presents the greatest barrier, but a strong opposing force known to runners as “hitting the wall.” This physiological phenomenon of the “wall” can be described as running faster than you have ever run before when a shaky, unstableness is experienced. The unsteadiness escalates until every muscle fiber; every cell in your being simultaneously screams at you, “What are you doing? We are going to fall apart… stop… stop now!” As you come closer to the edge of what feels like insanity, you deny yourself the opportunity to slow down, putting aside your body’s demand, and you run even faster. You break through the wall of resistance, and running becomes easier. Runners call this “catching your second wind.”

Ignoring my body’s pleas to stop, I bulldogged my way through the 3200 finishing a second behind the school’s record.

Although I didn’t set a new 3200 mark, or continue past the conference finals, I ran fast enough to be a college running prospect. After meeting many coaches, I got a great scholarship to Vanguard University of Southern California. 

During my senior year at Vanguard, I had gained hope to break the university’s 10K record. The 10K is a 25 lap race traveling a distance of over 6 miles. As equal to physical endurance, the challenge to the 10K is maintaining mental awareness of the race as it unfolds. Circling a track at a steady droning pace can numb the mind. This can cause the runner to experience the race as white noise, causing him or her to loose track of the lap, position in the field, and sense of strategy.

Like four years previous, again I was faced with my last opportunity to set a record but this time for the 10K, the longest track event. The race was scheduled during the cool of the evening, which is perfect for such an attempt. Under the lights of Occidental College, my family and teammates shouted out 25 different variations of “run fast.” I crossed the tape a second behind the University’s fastest recorded time.

Now, there is a race where time does not matter: it is called Nationals. Out of hundreds of runners, Nationals is the final vetting-out of the last twenty-five runners from which the top six will earn All-American status. In Marion, Indiana, I was lacing up my spikes preparing for my last National’s race, my last opportunity to earn All-American status.

During high school track, one of my coaches nicknamed me “Rock” on account of the tenacity by which I competed. I didn’t know it then, but the longer distances suited me. In college, I played on my gift of endurance and played down my lack of sprint speed. When I beat the competition in the 10K, I passed them well before the 25th lap. If the race narrowed to a smoking sprint on the final straightaway, I was known for not having the zip to dash past the competition.

In Marion, I was facing the fastest 10K field of my collegiate career. Facing such a field would again require an all-out, total release performance to even have a shot at the podium.

My dad was the only family member to attend the race. He recalls that on the bell lap, I was in 7th place. I passed the 6th place runner with 300 meters remaining, and making ground on 4th and 5th. With 200 meters left, at the top of the last turn, I had run within striking distance of the two runners in front of me. By the bottom of the turn, I was shoulder-to-shoulder with 5th but three steps behind 4^th place, a tough competitor known for her final kick. Down the last straightaway, the finish to the last twenty-five laps would come down to a 100 meter dash. Stroking all the internal pistons I could find, I barreled blindly toward the finish line to the deafening beat of blood gushing in my arteries, just slightly louder than the frenzied cheers of the crowd. I gained the momentum to pass 5^th, straining in a focused concentration, taking flight in the last twenty-five meters, I scrounged out of my legs the last speed I could find.

Standing at the start of the first turn, my teammates and my dad’s vantage point was a perpendicular view of the finish line, so from their angle, it looked as if the 4th, 5th and 6th racers, crossed the finish line at the same time. Admittedly, I had no idea what place I secured. Exhausted and anxious, we waited for the final results to be displayed on the leader board. Flashed in digital bright yellow was posted: 4th Sopp. In unison, my team cheered, as I initially gazed stunned, but quickly joined the thrill of the moment.

I jogged my cool-down, with my competitor friend that had been in fourth place, and she congratulated me on a fine race. Candidly, she shared her surprise, when she saw me out-spring her at the end. In her words, “I thought, is that Rebecca? She found her kick!”

Living in Bridgeport, I have fallen in love with trail running. In Los Angeles, runners worry about the dangers of traffic, and other urban hazards. In Bridgeport, there are different threats. Like swimming in the ocean with the unsettling thought of being stalked by a shark, so while running alone on desolate trails the anxious thought of a wild beast mistaking me as dinner, unsettles me.  To calm my nerves and provide me with a running buddy, Will presented me with Foxey. Foxey is my constant running companion. Like me, long runs seem to bring her tireless pleasure. Only now, she is the one pushing the pace.

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