In the summer time, on one specific evening of the week, every able-bodied man and child gathered to play some type of football on a field next to the highway that had been donated by one of the farmers for that purpose. The grass on it was seemingly damaged in places beyond repair from frostbite, but the local community had come together to put up a pair of goal posts with nets for good measure.
Our glorious football pitch was essentially a muddy field with all kinds of uneven bits of grass in between the two goals, but we enthusiastically went there every week and enjoyed a brief respite from the monotony of the country life as we ran around like headless chicken, kicking and screaming as we tried to shepherd a vaguely ball-shaped leather object into the other team's net without getting kicked to pieces by them.
One evening on the summer I turned 12, there was a Track & Field trainer there that was scouting for talent to compete in the regionals. I signed up of course, not knowing what I was signing up for.
On a side note, I had attended some Christian summer camp the summer I turned 10 and had won the cross-country competition that they held there so I felt pretty confident about my general athletic capabilities and cocksure I could do anything.
My training regime for the regionals consisted mostly of running around the countryside, throwing rocks and jumping across dikes... which was something I did a lot of anyway so it didn't really feel like I was training. I probably wasn't training in that sense of the word, but it felt like I now had a purpose for what I was already doing so I didn't mind.
On the day of the regionals, we drove from the farm along dusty gravel roads for about 3 hours before arriving in the county capital of Sauðárkrókur where I was dropped off at the sports stadium and told when and where I would be picked up (details which went through one ear and out the other without making a stop in between).
This was the first time I'd done anything like this by myself, to me this was completely alien territory but I did my best to figure out what to do and when. The information I had gotten sadly didn't include basic things like where any bathroom facilities were located or minor details like what to eat or drink during the day.
I ended up with having to improvise, which was something I was used to in any case. Let's just say that whoever was in charge of cleaning up afterwards probably got an unpleasant and smelly surprise when they looked behind one of the sheds that were conveniently out of sight of the track itself.
Given that I didn't have a clue what I was doing and there wasn't really a trainer that guided me in choosing a focus area - I had signed up for competing in every single event available; the long jump, high jump, 100m dash, shot-putt and 800m long distance. Decathlon wasn't a thing yet, but if it had been then I would probably have been doing that as well.
I didn't do well in the first 3 events - average at best. The shot-putt was however where I was expecting to succeed but even there the results were a disappointing 3rd place. Apparently, my muscles were less impressive in reality than they were in my imagination.
The final event I competed in was the 800m long-distance run, there were so many of us competing in it that it had to be split into 2 separate heats and the winner would be the heat with the best time across both.
The first heat completed, it was a neck-to-neck competition and two boys ended up sharing first place in it. I overheard some of the officials there worrying that they only had one gold medal to give out which was going to be problematic for a tie such as that.
It was now time for the second heat, my heat. I lined up with the rest of the boys and waited for the shot to go off. When it did I ran like I was trying to get away from a raging bull, but even that wasn't enough to get away from the rest of the heat. An 800m run consists of two 400m laps, the first lap being the warm-up and the second lap being a sprint for the ones that were still standing.
When you run, you're alone, even if you're in a group. I liked being alone, mostly because I didn't know how crowds worked and what to say, when to say it - or when to shut up.
I never thought of myself as being lonely as a child, even if in retrospect I most likely was. To recognize loneliness or to feel lonely you have to have known the opposite of it at some point I suppose.
Sharing was something that didn't come naturally to me and nobody taught me the importance of it so I simply didn't know what I was missing out on.
Sharing is caring, but I didn't know how to share so I couldn't care.
As a long-distance runner however, that loneliness and my lack of recognizing it meant I was able to push myself beyond my physical limits without feeling pity or fear for myself.
As the second lap started, I lunged forward. For every step I took, I increased the distance to the rest of the group even as I felt my lungs and heart burning, screaming and begging me to stop.
I ignored their complaints and warnings, they were unimportant and I would do this even if it killed me.
I reached the goal in first place and collapsed exhausted on the ground. I was only vaguely aware of the same officials I had overheard earlier saying "We don't need to worry about splitting the medal, this heat was way faster than the other one".
I won the gold medal for the 800m sprint, but what I remember from the trip back was that when Orren the farmer that was married to my mother picked me up and I showed him my gold medal he remarked that he was surprised that I had won anything and that he hadn't been expecting it.
That felt good, that's when I realized that sharing is caring.
And that I was lonely.
No comments:
Post a Comment