I’ve never been the best runner.
When I ran track in college, I was fueled by my teammates. They made me want to run and not give up. I made a commitment to show my gratitude in support for them. I started leading them and helping out the young guys, like a coach would.
Today was my first day coaching track at my high school. Only one athlete showed up, so I ran the workout with her.
Something tells me I’ll always be a player-coach.
I ran by Saint Joe’s today. I turned into campus and walked around the track, the same track I made countless memories on. Running, stretching, sweating, laughing, cheering, supporting, striding, giving, receiving, loving….
Running track for 4 years molded me into a lead, a captain. On the team, everybody called me “Lemma;” calling me “Aaron” was an oddity. I began to identify with Lemma because he had certain admirable traits.
He was ferocious, dedicated, and determined. He always looked out for his teammates, supporting them no matter what beef was present. Others looked for him to lead them around the track at the right pace. They looked for his leadership.
Lemma did things whether he felt like it or not.
During quarantine I’ve struggled to balance responsibility with self forgiveness. I’ve been easy on myself because I experienced so much loss–or so I told myself. I haven’t been holding myself accountable because I’ve been operating as Aaron. Plus, I’m more than whatever I identify as because there’s no depth to Who I Am.
That’s all bullshit. I was Lemma once and I loved being him. There’s no reason I can’t tap into who I was to create the ideal of who I want to be. I want to be a leader who holds myself accountable and does the hard things.
Aaron is necessary. But don’t forget about Lemma. It’s time to start embracing both.
I’m sitting here in tears as I try to put words to this new reality…that I will never run track again. For 10 days I’ve been at a loss for words, unable to grasp that this part of my journey is over. I’ve tried to ignore it and avoid it but it’s eating me up. I have to face it and I have to cry. These tears aren’t only for the love of memories past but for the loss of those yet to come, the unwritten stories that will remain untold in Spring 2020.
I’ve had this feeling before and you have too—when a loved one passes away and you don’t get to say goodbye. I wasn’t done running. I had so many personal records left to break and so many workouts left to lead. I wasn’t done cheering for my teammates and being cheered by those who love me. I wasn’t done waking up at 5:30am to lift and explaining for the 100th time why I don’t drink chocolate milk. I wasn’t done, and it really hurts.
I didn’t get to have my teammates congratulate me after my last ever race, saying how amazing it was to see my transformation. I didn’t get to shake my coach’s hand before we got on the bus at my last meet, making sure he knew that I appreciated everything he’s done for me. I didn’t get to celebrate my 4 year career, one full of injury and upset and triumph and leadership. I didn’t get to, and I never will.
This will not get easier. It will be something I come to live with—the pain of loss. I don’t know where I will go from here, but I do know one thing. I know that what got me around Boston University’s magic carpet on January 25th wasn’t my desire to be a great runner…It was those guys in Crimson & Gray around the track who gave their best all day long and still had enough left to yell my name. It was Magee & Moscoe & Davies & Dave & Welde & Baumy & Seabass & Sauer & Josh & the rest. At was Mom & Dad & Camille & Adam & Rachel cheering me on at home. Watching and hearing the support in this video…that’s what matters. Not the time.
When I first started running, I ran for myself. That’s how most of us run. But then I got the greatest gift I’ve ever received: the chance to run for others, the chance to run for a team. My team. The best team that I’ve ever been a part of. I can’t name you all in this comment, but you know who you are. Thank you for making this worth it. Thank you for making this all worth it.
At the end of this video, Camille said: “This is probably so different for him too because now he’s not thinking about other people; he’s just running.”
My wish for all of you is that you come love something as much as I ‘ve come to love running. Thanks for reading.
We’re on our way back from the Nittany Lion Challenge at Penn State. I ran the 400 and a 4×400. In both races, I ran well but I wasn’t aggressive enough. My mindset was right, I was prepared for both races, but I just didn’t bring the right amount of do-or-die energy. I was soft in my execution and not strong enough in my race demeanor.
I ran okay, but could have raced better. There needs to be a different approach to my future races, one where I ferociously compete and rule out the possibility of loosing. If I ran harder out of the gate, i would’ve been in the race. I would’ve been pulled through, would have ran a faster time, and might not have lost.
Balancing the triviality of running around an oval with the fierceness that can only come from a passion to destroy others and be victorious is a difficult task that I’ve yet to master. It’s a strange thing: trying to act like running doesn’t matter so that I don’t get anxious while recognizing that I need to make it matter to be any good at it. I don’t know if I ever will. But I can try. And try again. And try until my very last race.
But I’ve made a decision. Next race, I’m going to run as if my life depends on it. Period.