The Worth of It

“The world offers you comfort, but you were not made for comfort. You were made for greatness.”

-       Pope Benedict XVI

The sun wasn’t up yet. The orange light from the lampposts encircled us as my team and I ran our morning workout around the lake. We always did the kilometer workouts there. The lake had a path around it and was the perfect size. The ceaseless impact of the cement was wearing on the knees, but the light from the street lamps kept us from tripping over the cracks in the worn path, most of the time. There were a few weeks I went to class wearing a Band-Aid over a scrapped knee like a six-year-old. At the start of the workout we split off into groups based on our running paces. Some of the faster woman could run eight reps in the time I could run six; most of the boys could run ten.

That morning the sound of the alarm set off the same internal debate that it usually did. My body refused to move, even to turn off the alarm. I could text coach telling him that I couldn’t make it, that I was feeling too fatigued. I groaned, knowing that the rest of the team was just as tired as I was, maybe more so. Papers and midterms had stolen most of our sleep the past couple weeks. I wished I was sick. Very sick. Then I could miss classes too and just sleep for twenty-four hours. After a few minutes of failed attempts to convince myself that I was ill, other excuses trickled into my mind. The team didn’t need me. I wasn’t fast enough to score any points and I probably never would be. Why train as much as those that did and could?

But my conscience refused to be rebuffed by these arguments. After all, they were made every morning and did not gain ground with repetition. They could never alter the facts. I had a commitment to fulfill. Once I got up I would be fine, and if I didn’t get up I would have to explain to Coach and each of my teammates that I passed in the hallway on my way to class. At that point of the semester it wasn’t courage, or habit that got me up. Some have called it dedication. But dedication requires an aim towards a goal. I had none. My mile time was completely artificial to me. It had no call to define me, no business in claiming two hours of my morning. But they thought I could do it, or at least they said I could. My coach, my parents, my teammates. In the most encouraging way I felt that they told me if I just tried harder I could do anything. I could make that time. I didn’t know what peer-pressure was until I came to college. Dedication? Maybe. Or just fear of failure.

I dragged myself out of bed and started braiding my hair. I always had my hair braided. Ponytails never stayed in cause my hair was too thick and they pulled anyhow. I wondered what would be for breakfast after the workout. Breakfast was the most reliable meal in the cafeteria. They always had oatmeal and waffles. On a special day the potatoes were good. The toughest mornings were when my body was aching for fresh, juicy fruit. I pulled on my cool mint shoes. I usually preferred a darker color like burgundy, but these were a good brand and had been on sale. They had seen about two hundred and fifty miles in the past two months. I would have to change them out soon. I grabbed my white Hydro Flask and biked to the weight room to meet the team.

As always Coach started with a prayer and then explained the workout. Every morning, even if he told us to do a ninety-minute long run, he always finished with a proud smile and the same phrase, “And that’s it!” He ought to have been a salesman, every day he sold us a workout as if it was a piece of cake. He made it sound so easy. He could make life sound easy. The only thing he didn’t lie to us about was racing. He told us outright that racing hurt. But we did it.

“What’s the prayer intention for this rep?” one of the girls called. Three or four intentions were shouted out as we rolled into the fourth lap. One more step, one more step. I could dimly see my teammates’ bright pink and orange running shoes in front of me.

“Good work, good work! Eyes up!”

My teammates ponytails swooshed from side to side. “Maybe I won’t do this next year. Maybe I’ll be practical and focus more on classes and sleep.” One of the blue and green ribbons fell from one of my teammate’s hair. I filed my nail on the concrete snatching it up.

One more step, one more step. I listened to try and match their steady, deep breathing and heard the clinking of my miraculous medal. Coach shouted the boys’ paces from the far side of the lake as they crossed the line. The morning larks sang back in reply. My lungs were getting tight. The black cement was determined to prove that it was tougher than my shins and the arch of my foot was remembering an injury from a race over a year ago. “Maybe running on my toes will help my shins for a few minutes. Nope! Terrible idea. Golly, now my calves hurt.” The only thing that ever helped my shin-splints was slowing down. But the other girls had lapped us.

“Good work, ladies! Let’s go. Offer it up!” Called one of the team captains as she passed.

One more step, one more step, one more step. I could do one more step; but how fast? The sun was just about to rise, but I still couldn’t see clearly. I looked down the path in front of me and focused my gaze on a palm tree. It became terribly clear, but everything else was just a blur. One more step, one more step. We were approaching the loop’s halfway mark. It was a stone bridge with an incline of about twelve feet. The hills of my home state were five hundred times as high and twice as easy. But then we were at the top and running down. Now I could speed up, just go, getting faster, little by little, till I crossed the line. But the sharp turn at the bottom cut my pace. One more step, one more step. Why wasn’t I going faster? It didn’t matter. I was across the line and jogging the recovery.

We grouped up for the fifth rep and started. One more step, one more step; too late, I was already flagging. I told myself that I didn’t resent my teammates’ speed, reassuring myself that I could match it if I wanted too. My mind wandered back to the beginning of the season and Coach’s voice echoed through my head, “You have the Who and the Where and the How. But make sure you have your Why.”

The boys had come back around by this time. We heard the chimes of their watches starting as they approached the line behind us, and then they sped past as we all turned the corner. That’s when I saw her.

She was sitting there, on the cold mettle bench at the corner, in the orange spotlight of a street lamp. She was looking out across the lake at the rose sky as the stars fell behind her. The lines on her face told a tale of some eighty years. Her hair was a beautiful white, and was in a thin braid, tied at the end by feathering, silver and blue school ribbons. Her clothes were simple, a plain dress and leather sandals, wet with dew from the grass, and a beautiful, lavender, wool sweater that had seen much wear. Her bony, shaky hands rested on a carved, wooden cane. On her wrist was a polished, silver bracelet, just delicate enough to have been a gift from a young boy. A slender, gold wedding band was on her left ring finger, glimmering, but not polished, as if it hadn’t been off her hand in over sixty years. A wistful look was in her eyes when she smiled, watching the runners speed by in the raw energy of youth, with worn faces, wind tossed hair, and determined eyes. She saw each and every one of us, noticing who ran in a stride and who was a loner, seeing the subtle difference between someone competing against a teammate or gently pulling them along.

My soul stopped, facing her through the forest of my teammates, looking at the flower of age through the stems of youth. It was like the opposite of driving through a forest. It was the forest that sped by. She sat still. She had come to the end of time, while we were plunging into it headlong.

My teammates were pulling away from me. They were light footed, those girls. Their feet barely touched the ground before they sprang back up. Each of them had a different Why. Scholarship, fitness, comradery. I’m sure at least a few of them had an Olympic dream.

At the beginning of every season one of the seniors would speak to the team and give advice on how to balance being a student and an athlete. Each year they made the same claims; pray, keep your priorities straight, every teammate is important. Whether they are the first or last across the line every teammate needs to give their all. Even if they felt eighty percent, the team needed every percent of that eighty.

At that moment I just wanted to be curled up in my bed.

I looked up at the last of the stars fading into the dawn. It would be grand to sit comfortably and watch them, like the old woman. Maybe with a cup of tea. She must have come to look at the stars as well as the sunrise or she wouldn’t have been there so early. I realized, she hadn’t been facing the sun rise but the reflection of its colors in the sky. It was the stars that she had been looking at. I had often thought of doing just that when the cross-country season ended. I never did though.

“Let’s Go! Last rep!”

The old woman was gone when we next turned the corner; she must have gone to continue her walk. She had risen before the sun and seen it rise. That had been her challenge for the day. Ready and waiting she had beaten the day itself.

I took a deep breath and moved my arms in rhythm with my quickening feet. One more step, one more step, one more step, one more step. A stitch started to knot itself in my side as I lost my breathing pattern and the nerves in my legs went into panic. But the more it hurt the faster I went, focusing on my breathing and moving my feet more and more quickly, so that before they could register the pain from each previous step I had already taken another one. My Claddagh ring felt cold as I clenched the ribbons in my hand. A drop of sweat fell into my eye as I squinted against the sun and the wind. It was the wind of my speed, though, and it felt exhilarating. As we turned off the bridge the sun raised her head and peaked over the horizon on my left, blinding my good eye. I shut both and I felt the sun on my face and shoulder and my medal slap against my cheek. I must have been near the edge of the path; the long grass brushed against my knees. I saw the picture if the old woman on the bench. I heard coach calling out the girl’s times as they crossed the line.

Then I heard my name. I opened my eyes and saw my teammates ahead of me, jogging, panting, lying on the ground. The pleasure on their faces was mingled with surprise when they saw how close I was behind them. They started cheering me on without catching their breath.

“Let’s go!” “You’ve got it!” “Finish strong!” “Bring it in!” “All the way!”

Maybe the team needed my individual effort, even if I never scored any points. But I needed the team to cross the line.

I tried explaining to one of my teammates afterwards. I never tried again.

“You good? You really picked up the pace on that last one!”

“I think so. I figured if she could do it I could.”

“Who?”

“The woman on the bench. Did you see her?”

“Like, fifteen minutes ago? Yeah. Just for a second though. We were going pretty fast.”

“Oh, but it only took half a second to see – She looked like the end of time itself –.”

“Wow, wow, let’s be respectful of her age…”

“No - No - that’s not what I meant! – She made it out here – like she’d been – she came out to see the stars – just for me - Did you see her ring? - I bet her husband used to watch the sunrise with her - Maybe that’s why she does it still - I wonder if she prefers the stars or the sunrise – or maybe the way one melts into the other.” May haps if I hadn’t been gasping for air these scattered fragments would have been cohesive. But I doubt it.

“Say what now?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

Later that night I tried telling my roommate as I sat on my bed. She was… slightly more understanding.

“Well of course you have to give your best in everything you do. What did you think life was about?”

She was a straight A student.

Eventually I gave up trying to explain and instead considered the red ink on my weekly Latin quiz which was lying in the open folder on my desk. Seventeen correct answers out of twenty. It would have taken me fifteen minutes of studying to have gotten those right. I had a full twelve hours before the next one. I rolled off my bed and dug out the text book.