Running in Lanes–I was Fast. Just not Fast Enough

200 Meters

Take your marks. There’s no one to the left. No one to the right. It’s just you. From standing to crouching, you’ve moved to the front of two blocks. Stretching to relocate that perfectly measured span, your strong foot finds the first. Your weaker one finds the other. Braced by fingers and locked elbows, you lean forward. Head down, heart pounding, you’re set, anticipating the sound of the gun.

Without a baton in hand, there aren’t many variables. Oh, you could false start, run out of your lane, or momentarily forget how to run the curve. But you won’t; you’re focused. Those years of training are about to pay off. Other than remembering to keep your body low for those first few steps, there’s nothing else to think about. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Coming into the straight, you only get faster. In moments, you’ve gone from digging to gliding. Still, there are a few that have already made the transition. Their ability is innate. Their focus unwavering. They possess an inherent ability to concentrate, to tune everything out. Manifested as swagger, they have more than their fair share of confidence. They were there to win, period. That recognizable arrogant gait was always evidenced both before and after the race. They were, and still are, the “Elites,” the one percent of the one percent. It’s a necessary attitude, one that I did not possess. I was busy finding my own lane.

So, what about us? You know, the mere mortals, the ones that are not so self-assured? We too possessed flawless form, trained hard, took sprinting seriously. After all, we were members of the next cadre. More than competitive but not elite. Yet, by sporting our varsity Letterman’s jackets, we also distinguished ourselves from the pack. We were athletes not just students. Our records were impressive but not as much. Given the day, were we just less capable, less focused, less confident, not as hungry? Maybe it was one, two, three, or all four.

The Path to the Track

Sometime in early pubescence, I stepped onto a track to answer a single question: How fast am I? It wasn’t my idea. At the insistence of some coach, all of us 7th graders were about to find out. The boys, and later the girls, were herded to the school track. Back then, junior highs actually had dedicated ovals. As directed, we lined up and waited our turn. Going four at a time, we stared down 100 yards of unevenly striped dirt to where two of our female classmates, probably 8th graders, stood. Separated by the width of six lanes, they stood face-to face, tightly pulling on nothing more than a strand of string. Each had two accompanying adults equipped with his very own school issued stopwatch. Even for a 12-year-old with better than 20/20 vision, that barely seen thin white line looked a mile away. From a standing start, my group found its marks, sort of got set, and bang, slipped and slid down the rock-hard surface. The sounds of huffing, puffing, and the stomping of PF Flyers and Red Ball Jets were over in, well, seconds. For some, it took a few. For most, it took a whole lot longer. As for me, I was the first to find the string.

Glad that was over, the majority went back to 1st or 2nd period P.E. To the few that remained, the ones with the ability, and more importantly the desire, they would become either “Runners” or “Sprinters.” One’s speed would dictate which was which. I would come to understand, that it would be the tutelage of my future high school mentors that would sort out my very own personalized events profile. Even their guidance would be predicated on my own evolving physical and mental maturation. It was clear, event profiles would change and change again.

For those who continued to show some semblance of increasing velocity, that would be me, were directed to races of no more than one lap. Our more coordinated brethren, those learning the art of hurdling, were included. Those gifted with more stamina than speed, the less swift members, were destined to round the full oval two, four, or even eight times. Some of those two lappers would get a glimpse of the mindsets of both worlds: One steeped in the technique and force of a sprinter. The other on the tactics and strategy of a runner. Ironically, there was some cross-over of thought. Mental strength was no less fundamental irrespective of distance. Elite runners shared this capacity with their sprinting counterparts. They were just as tough in mind and body for it was, they, that were the givers and takers of spiking, tripping, and flailing elbows. Running in lanes was safer. It was more civilized. It was a way to avoid the bullies of endurance that had minutes, not seconds, to think. Thank God I was fast. It was flight over fight.

On To High School

It’s been over 50 years when an injury put to bed my short-lived six-year career running in the lanes of high school and college. To my chagrin, the first two were less than memorable. (Note to self—burn, don’t keep, every old record). Lack of confidence always seemed to over-shadow my natural ability. It didn’t help that I was also somewhat injury prone. When it came to meet day, I was easy to pick out of a crowd. Wearing my royal blue suede Adidas “Tokyo 64s,” I was shaved and taped from just behind my toes to the top of my weak ankles. I looked like the human version of a quarter horse. There was no doubt that I would be running on the balls of my feet. I ended my high school senior year with two league records, eleven medals, an MVP trophy, while advancing to the CIF second rounds in both of my events. I was even voted team captain, a somewhat ceremonial affair. None of this was even on the radar the year before. Still, even champions had mallet in hand. We still pounded our blocks into seemingly impenetrable concrete posing as dirt.

Unfortunately, the fastest in one’s school or even one’s league, may be just average in another. The truth of it all depends on two sets of numbers: one’s personal best time by event; and how those “Bests” compared to the postings of our spiking peers throughout the state. We were all members of the same club. Bound by results, our membership made us relative to each other, both the seen and unseen. Along with those of our local nemeses, we knew the names of the best. We constantly compared our times to theirs. We kind of knew who would go on and who would not. It’s a statewide kind of thing. For me, even being a member of the top 1% in the state wasn’t fast enough to get me where I wanted to go. That was UCLA.

The Summer of 1967

I was still working the same part-time job I had for four years. I had just graduated, moved out, and was living with three roommates. Spread four ways, summer rent and expenses were covered. Clearly, there was no parental aide on the horizon. I was a seventeen-year-old living in no man’s land, that period just after high school but before college. Still, I was one lucky dude. I was splitting my time between the beach, going to rock concerts, hanging on the Strip and yes, training. When I wasn’t rehearsing and playing with after-hours rock bands, I ran in “All-Comers” track meets. How’s that for leading two lives? A sporadically paid night owl one night. An amateur athlete getting 40 winks the next. It was really just a continuation of my senior year. Fortunately, I had few vices. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink. No red downers, no white uppers. I had nothing to roll, nothing to “Bogart.” With my paid for ’63 Chevy II Nova in the driveway, I was free to wander. Road trip anyone?

It was my first solo, driving up to Monterey and the Pop Festival. What an experience: No pun intended. I’ve never gotten Jimi, Janice, Gracie, Eric, the Springfield, and the Byrds out of my head. Music was the driver. It was in my bones. It was also a drug, a deliberate distraction from the civil unrest spreading around the country and a war that was coming closer, more real, more personal. A growing number of friends were missing the Summer of Love. Beating the draft, they just enlisted. Some were never seen again, their names later etched on a meandering wall in our nations Capitol. Their absence made Vietnam all the more real, all the more senseless. My focus turned inward. I needed to be more disciplined, a better student, a better athlete. I needed to stay in school. Deep down, I knew I was putting off the inevitable, the unresolved struggle between morality, duty, and fear. But for now, I had a formal commitment. That was to the track. That was my job. Music was my recreation.

Weeks before receiving my diploma, I had signed up to run in my first all comers meet. After all, I did have my obligatory AAU card and my Santa Monica Track Club “T” shirt. At least I looked the part, gray sweats and all. I could compete but as an independent amateur. I was on my own. There was no bus. No coach. No trainer. No one to tell me when to check in, when to warm up, or when to report to the starting line. I had to pay attention. Stretch, do some wind sprints, stay loose. Ok, what else? Shoes, check the shoes. Holy Moly, my spikes are too long. As it turned out, synthetic tracks need shorter ones. Since my only experience was on cinders, how was I to know? Lucky me. My spike wrench, along with an unopened box of factory direct Adidas supplied shorties, was in the duffel. A twist here, a twist there, problem solved. Still, even walking on a synthetic track was something new. It was a bouncy cushioned affair. From start to finish it was different. I would come to learn that drilling one’s spikes into the surface was more hinderance than help.

Then, over the loudspeaker it came: Welcome athletes. Welcome all you comers to Long Beach State. A few hours later and by more than two tenths I ran a PB! Wow, a PB and by two tenths no less? That’s gold in a 220, uh, I mean a 200. Even so, I was thoroughly trounced by one of the elites, one of the one percent of the one percent. He was Wayne Collett, the record holding UCLA bound Gardena High grad. I heard his measured breathing, his pounding feet as he went by. Wayne would soon be off to Westwood. He would later collect a silver medal in the ’72 Olympics. Unbent, I went off in another direction. At least, I would go on to running relay legs in conference finals.

University-Big Time Competition

I was ready, or so I thought. Now some 1,000 miles away and back in my home state, I was momentarily freed from the bipolarity caused by my other life. I did get faster, and I did get stronger. Better coaching, better training, better facilities, and finally finding the weight room will do that. In my first two collegiate years, I made it to the conference finals running the second leg of the 4 x4. As far as my two individual events were concerned, heats yes finals no. As it turns out, I was becoming more runner than sprinter. It was an epiphany that came too late; I should have been a two lapper. That required an even harder training schedule, one that now was out of the question. My torn hamstring made sure of that. It never totally healed, an occasional twinge I still feel today.

As it turned out, I was a journey level college athlete. Just happy to be there. Just happy to be in college for that matter. I got out of it what I put in. My god given ability, on the track, in the classroom, even in music, came to easily. Even posting new PBs, I was not where I needed to be. As a student, I kept the same pace. Studying the night before was the routine. Both on the track and in the classroom, “Bs” were good enough. Still, there was nothing like seeing and competing against those that were a step, sometimes two steps above. It was a clear demarcation. The separation between “Open” and “University” divisions. The great versus the very good.

Nonetheless, it was a great time of life. I enjoyed it all. Well maybe not all. Four days of weekly intervals were about as tedious as it gets. It went with the territory. Deep down I always knew–It was about as good as it gets, an experience reserved to less than 3% of all high school varsity sprinters nationwide. When it was all over, I was numb, tired, and back on the coast. Ironically, I did get to UCLA. I was a student minus the athlete. My identity, my self image, needed a readjustment. It was back to the old ways, living on the beach, bronzed, doing gigs, working part-time, but with an added priority, the classroom. I was even doing some background vocal work as a studio sessions singer. It was tough, but someone had to do it. Even my grades improved. So did my attitude. Maturity was slow in coming. Oh, and the unresolved dilemma of mine, the selective service lottery of 1969 solved it for me.

In the End-It Was All Over in Seconds

I hadn’t yet seen my 20th birthday, but it was over. In terms of a race and even a career, it was just a matter of seconds. Years later, I found myself taking my son to track meets. We made it a regular event to go to the UCLA/USC dual meet or even up to Oregon’s Hayward Field for the Pac-12 Championships. Occasionally, we’d run into some of my old competitors from those CIF days of yesteryear. My son thought it was cool how the four or five of us would BS and reminisce about the glory days. Sitting in the stands, one of them turned around and said to me: “Hardin”—the older you get, the faster you were.” As a competitor in “Senior” meets, this is the same guy that strapped a homemade parachute to his back. Regardless of where he finished, he still pulled the ripcord. Come on Gene, who’s kidding who?

It was those random encounters that made me realize how important those days really were. That rush of catching a competitor at the line while running the anchor leg of a relay. Those sensations had been well buried in the recesses of memory, a part of my DNA. I had long since forgotten the deep sense of loss when it all so abruptly came to an end. Whether I was unaware or just plain clueless, running in lanes HAD been my purpose, my personal reflection of a student athlete.

Postscript

There is a clarity to running in lanes. External intrusions affecting performance are minimal. Lacking the transference of a baton, it is not dependent upon the notion of team. Other than the view of a coach, it is not about the subjective opinion of others. It is not affected by the nuances of a slow pace, being boxed in, tripped, or knocked off the track. With few exceptions, there are no barricades to clear, no poles to plant, no steps to count. Putting, throwing, and jumping both horizontally and vertically come close, but those experiences are still not the same. For it is the lanes themselves that separate the athlete from everything else. It’s where performance is measured in the purest sense, the timer being the only judge.

Take it from a guy that back in the day was in the top 1%. I was fast, just not fast enough.

Post Script

Looking back, it’s hard to believe that I really was in the top 1% of all California high school sprinters in 1967. For those of you with insomnia, or for some odd reason are really really into track and field, my more detailed essay is here: