The End of the Story

Few things inspire the imagination of a teenager like Christmas break—unless it’s summer vacation. But that was too far away. It was only December. I’d think about that later. 

Ninth grade had been awful and I needed a break. I knew it wouldn’t last. It never did. But this year, the end came all too soon. It came with the announcement that we would be moving—moving from Lawrence to Topeka. (Our parents were getting a divorce.) We would need to be enrolled in new schools and settled in a new home before classes resumed. 

There are a lot of things worse than changing schools in the middle of the year—worse than not having any friends when everyone else does—and one of them was gym class. I hated gym class. I learned to hate it at West Junior High in Lawrence. It was said that the gym instructor was a former Marine. It was probably true. He taught like a drill sergeant. In any case, I took that hatred with me to Washburn.  

In all fairness, gym class at Washburn Rural was far better than at West. But since it was winter, gymnastics was on the agenda. Gymnastics could make me miserable anywhere. After weeks of failed routines, spring arrived. We could finally go outside. Now, it was time for track and field—something I could get into. 

Unfortunately, we didn’t spend much time running. Washburn Rural didn’t have a track. But one memorable day our instructor had his class bussed to the new high school nearby—the new Washburn Rural. The building was not finished but the track was. Once there, he divided us into groups for a 100 yard race. 

I don’t remember if I knew the outcome of my race immediately. It was pretty close. But as we left the track I heard several of the boys ridiculing one of the other runners. “Why did you let that new kid beat you?” they asked. He must have had a reputation for being fast. In any case, they harassed him plenty. But they didn’t say a word to me. 

That was understandable. Few people will risk existing friendships to acknowledge an outsider. What was not understandable was the instructor’s silence. What did he have to loose? 

Honestly, I can’t understand a teacher who doesn’t encourage. He could have changed my life with a few words. He could have changed it for the better. “Mike,” he could have said, “You run pretty well. Have you ever thought about going out for track? If you’re interested, I’ll introduce you to the coach.” He could have said that, but he didn’t. Judging from my grades, his opinion was already set.

A short walk back to the bus, a short ride back to school and everything returned to normal. I didn’t think much about it at the time. As they say, losers can’t win. 

Eventually, I got over my hatred for gym class. I even took gym classes in college as electives. But I didn’t go out for track. I didn’t go out for track in high school or college. But that’s not the end of the story. 

28 years later, as I watched the Summer Olympics, I found myself intrigued by the black American sprinter, Quincy Watts. He had set a new 400 meter Olympic record in the semifinals. I expected him to take gold in the final and I wasn’t disappointed. 

Not long after the Olympics, as my wife left for the library, I asked her to pick up a book on running. The Complete Book of Running, by Jim Fixx, gave practical guidance to the inspiration Quincy had provided. A year later, I entered the 1500 meter event at the Sunflower State Games. I came in last but my time was encouraging. 

When the State Games moved from KU to Baker University, I started having some success. Two years later, the State Games were held in Topeka at Washburn Rural High School. This was the same school our gym instructor had bused us to. And this was the track I had raced on in ninth grade. It had been changed from a quarter mile to a 400 meter track. But that didn’t diminish the irony of competing there again. 

After the competition ended, I asked myself where the “athletes” were that I had gone to school with. To be sure, some may have achieved great things in sports. On the other hand, few would still be in the race at 50. For me, it was a moment of unexpected vindication. 

This story could have been different. It could have been better. With some help, it would have been. Still, it’s a chapter in my life my classmates and my instructor didn’t think possible. 

The point is, we are all writing a story—the story of our lives. If others help, that’s wonderful. Be sure to thank them. But if they don’t, it’s still your story. No one else can write it for you. So make it good. Make it the best you can. That’s how losers win. 

Mike Riley

January 28, 2018

Other Selections:

A Special Day

The Sledding Instructor