Meditations from a cross country meet

I want this night to be a celebration. A celebration of injuries healed, illnesses overcome, and guts. Lots of guts.

I want this night to be a celebration because I love runners. Because they’re a little bit skinny and a whole lot warped; because their sense of humor is way left of center and they are all angles and elbows, ribs and jawbones.

Maybe I love runners because they give up their weekends while others are home in bed with their electric blankets up somewhere between bake and broil; still others watching the TIVO edition of Grey’s Anatomy or House.

Maybe because they say things like Amelia Foster did: “Coach, you lied to me. There are no fat kids here!” This is Amelia – the one who lined up in Alabama with one shoe on and the other back in Georgia. The one who played the fiddle or the violin or whatever it was before region.

Then there’s Christina Touzet – the one who completed a 50-minute run and caught 20 fish in the middle of it. I told her to run a 24 and she thought I was talking about the television show. The one who took an innocent 4-mile run and said, “Let’s stop at Natalie’s house for some water. Want to?” Or: “Coach, can I just run from right here to over there and then come back?”

As you get older, you can arrogantly think you’ve seen and heard it all. To know Touzet, however, is to know completely different.

Maybe I love runners because sometimes they get so excited they wet the bus, literary. Or they say things like: I love cross country! Except for the running part. Or, my own personal favorite: Did you just put a booger on my pants?

There’s Kyle Donahue, speaking of wetting the bus. He began this season by putting himself in Group 17 at running camp last summer. Seventeen out of a possible 18! He just ran a 17:21, his best ever and top-10 best in school history. He just shrugged and went off to engulf a pizza.

There’s William Ward, who can quote Nietzsche or Kurt Cobain, who just ran a 1:30 better than last week’s time. He can’t run that fast…but he did. And Avery Robinson – God did you just see Avery Robinson? She just took off her boot, ran a 24 on one leg. She’s cussing her ‘stupid ankle’, tossing her boot aside and telling us she’s grumpy. I tell her grumpy for her is happy for most people. She just puts on a smile that will light up tomorrow. God don’t you love these kids.

Christina Callaway just left with her cupcakes. She’s got this big smile – all teeth and lips. She just ran the best race of her life; she and her mother are off in the urban assault vehicle. She left with her head held high and she should. She overcame chest problems and changes in medicines.

Look at Thomas Menk, he just ran an 18:58; his goal at season’s beginning was to break 21. Drew Wilkins is passed out at the finish line; I think he’s dead. He looks like he’s passing a kidney stone. I asked him how he was feeling – he was polite enough not to flip me the finger.

And speaking of guts, did you just see Greer Gafford? The one with her hair bobbing back and forth, the girl so skinny she could blend into wallpaper? She just followed Christine for 3.1 miles, ran a 20:07, overcame her nervousness, obstacles, projections be darned.

She was crying at the starting line – I guess the combination of Neugebauer, Kohl, Myers and Rahmeier can do that to anybody. Not to be sadistic, but it worked. Now she and her new car are off to Carrollton, off to state, to chartered territory.

Christine Georgakakos with the name everybody mispronounces. She runs the 5K, gets home, goes to Tophat Soccer. She’ll finish state on Saturday and jump straight into the pool, only to go back on the soccer field again come spring. Don’t you love that kid. Put it this way, if you don’t, you ain’t human. Period. End of story.

Maybe I love runners because they’re like Kate Borden, who can’t remember a thing after the second mile. That’s because she fainted, and ended up in the medical tent. Sadistic again, but don’t you love the guts?

There’s Wood Alter, - built like a lumberjack - who told me last spring he was going to run. My first thought was, “Run what?” He just improved his season time by six minutes, literally a mile. Name that man captain and clone him immediately.

Lucas Erlacher, the Italian Stallion. I’m not sure if he can speak English or not yet, but I do know he almost throttled me a minute ago. I told him he ran a 20 flat instead of a 19:59. He was quick to correct me. Still, he smiles and he should – he just beat his time by a light year.

Theo – the greatest JV runner in the history of the school. His keys are lost, his shoes are in his car, the map to the race in his locker. He’ll collect it all somehow, get himself together, win the race. Can’t wait until next year.

Maybe I like the runner because they get Tourette’s Syndrome on the third mile; their face looks like a Halloween mask on steroids. Or they’re like J.B. Meathe and they jump a fence one day and end up with stitches in their foot. He doesn’t tell me – instead just laces up, runs, he with his hole-in-one in golf already under his belt.

There’s Laura Capps, who ran the whole season on one foot, John Aldridge who led his team to the best year ever, Alex Hovancik, who limped his way across the finish line, and all 52 pounds of Callie Bergin. Chandler McMullen, who couldn’t complete warm-ups on opening day and is now competing for captain.

How do you salute these people who just gave you their insides? Who turned up their guts, their livers and their spleens and have no idea why or how? Who couldn’t come up with the answer when you ask them why they run?

Maybe I, as a writer will steal from J.P. Kinsella when summing them up.

Or maybe I’ll just call them up one at a time, tell them I’m glad I got to meet them. Tell them I’m glad I get to shake their hands. Tell them I appreciate them for who they are and for what they’ve done.

Thank you.

Dunn Neugebauer
Oct. 31, 2008