By Juliette Rose Wunrow
Success is blocked by concentrating on it and planning for it.... Success is shy -- it won't come out while you're watching.
~Tennessee Williams
Success is blocked by concentrating on it and planning for it.... Success is shy -- it won't come out while you're watching.
~Tennessee Williams
I entered my freshman year of high school with a definite philosophy: work hard and stick to whatever I could succeed at. In this way, I reasoned, I'd be able to skate through high school and out the other side with a 4.0 and some impressive accomplishments. I wouldn't waste my time in areas where I didn't excel.
And this philosophy served me well. I worked hard in my classes and on cello practice and got the results I wanted, usually in the shape of grades, successful recitals, and other materialistic rewards. My academic standards were high, because my dreams for the future were ambitious. An A- would've been the end of the world. My friends would tease me about my all-or-nothing attitude, but in my eyes, it was the only sure path to success.
And this philosophy served me well. I worked hard in my classes and on cello practice and got the results I wanted, usually in the shape of grades, successful recitals, and other materialistic rewards. My academic standards were high, because my dreams for the future were ambitious. An A- would've been the end of the world. My friends would tease me about my all-or-nothing attitude, but in my eyes, it was the only sure path to success.
At the beginning of sophomore year, I fully intended to keep that same attitude. Then I joined the cross-country running team, a year after I'd watched cross-country races and said, "I could never do that!" I joined mainly because my brother was on the team; he was entering his senior year, and I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible before he left for college. Also, most of my friends were on the team, and they'd been trying to cajole me into running for months. When I came to the first practice, I was filled with optimism and grandiose dreams of making the varsity team.
But as the distance we ran each practice gradually increased from three, to four, to six miles, I realized with surprise that no matter how hard I tried, I wasn't physically capable of running as fast as my friends. I wouldn't be on varsity; in fact, I was one of the slowest on the team. This concept eroded my dream of running prowess. And the muscular strain of cross-country was often unbearable, especially on the last scorching and humid days of summer. With every step I ran, my mind reined me in with an endless string of complaints. Not only did I suck at running, but I was having no fun! What was the point of putting myself through so much pain? I'd never make points for U-32 in a race; I'd just be letting down my team. After the first few weeks, I wanted to quit.
Then we had our first cross-country meet. When we got off the bus at Lamoille High School, decked out in our blue uniforms with our team name emblazoned on the jerseys, the sight of the other teams warming up made me cringe. I wasn't the only one; our whole team was wired with nervous anticipation. We jogged to the starting line and went through our warm-ups silently. When we started the race, I felt the enormous pressure of expectations sink onto my shoulders. I watched the churning tide of runners begin to surge past me and was overwhelmed with frustration. It was a brutal course, comprised of a series of short, steep hills that looped around twice, and after a while I stopped running and struggled to walk up the last mammoth hill.
But then I heard my coaches yelling my name from the top of the hill, their cries of encouragement mingling with those of my teammates. I felt confused and embarrassed; why were they cheering for me? I was running terribly!
As I broke into a weary jog up the last stretch of hill, I realized that my coaches didn't care how fast I ran. Neither did my teammates. During the rest of the season, they were always on the sidelines of every race, cheering for me just as loudly as they'd cheered for the frontrunner. Those expectations that had weighed on me so heavily at the beginning of the race were simply my own. And once I realized that, I decided to cast them away. I began to put my effort into supporting my teammates instead of obsessing about my own performance. In that way, I celebrated my teammates' victories as if they were my own; I felt their pain and exhaustion as if they were my own. After a while, it didn't matter if the runners struggling up the hill were on my team or not -- I rooted for them anyway. And they would always return the favor whenever I needed it most, because we were linked by the understanding of having been in the same position.
The relationships forged within our cross-country team are ones that will carry on past our running days and into old age. The comradeship of sharing the intense emotions which sprung out of a grueling sport made the bonds between my teammates and me surpass friendship. And often, the emotions we shared were frustration, pain, disappointment, and sheer exhaustion. But together, as a team, we were able to push through those moments together and come out as champions -- not as champions of ribbons or trophies, but as champions of perseverance. The memories that stand out most clearly aren't the bitter ones; they're the moments when a teammate loses his shoes in the bog, keeps running barefoot, and laughs about it at the finish line. They're the expressions of pride on my coaches' faces when I tell them I didn't walk once during a whole race. They're the subconscious grins that spread over the runners' faces when they hear us yelling ridiculous things from the sidelines, and the frenzied jumping-up-and-down finish line moments when a teammate breaks his previous best time by two minutes.
To be honest? I don't remember the exact grade I got on my U.S. History summer assignment. When I got my first A- at the end of sophomore year, the world managed to keep turning. Cross-country running made me realize that I don't need to be the best to be successful in life. It taught me to value my relationships with people more than my relationship with my ego. It taught me to cheer for others even if I never learn their first names. High school doesn't last forever. But maybe someday, way down the road, an old high school friend will call me out of the blue. We'll gradually ease back into the familiar with summer memories we shared and jokes we used to laugh at. Maybe we'll stretch our memories all the way back to the days when we were limber enough to run three miles, and she'll say with a laugh, "Do you remember that State Championships meet when there was that downpour and Zac lost his shoes in the bog...?"
And I will.
But as the distance we ran each practice gradually increased from three, to four, to six miles, I realized with surprise that no matter how hard I tried, I wasn't physically capable of running as fast as my friends. I wouldn't be on varsity; in fact, I was one of the slowest on the team. This concept eroded my dream of running prowess. And the muscular strain of cross-country was often unbearable, especially on the last scorching and humid days of summer. With every step I ran, my mind reined me in with an endless string of complaints. Not only did I suck at running, but I was having no fun! What was the point of putting myself through so much pain? I'd never make points for U-32 in a race; I'd just be letting down my team. After the first few weeks, I wanted to quit.
Then we had our first cross-country meet. When we got off the bus at Lamoille High School, decked out in our blue uniforms with our team name emblazoned on the jerseys, the sight of the other teams warming up made me cringe. I wasn't the only one; our whole team was wired with nervous anticipation. We jogged to the starting line and went through our warm-ups silently. When we started the race, I felt the enormous pressure of expectations sink onto my shoulders. I watched the churning tide of runners begin to surge past me and was overwhelmed with frustration. It was a brutal course, comprised of a series of short, steep hills that looped around twice, and after a while I stopped running and struggled to walk up the last mammoth hill.
But then I heard my coaches yelling my name from the top of the hill, their cries of encouragement mingling with those of my teammates. I felt confused and embarrassed; why were they cheering for me? I was running terribly!
As I broke into a weary jog up the last stretch of hill, I realized that my coaches didn't care how fast I ran. Neither did my teammates. During the rest of the season, they were always on the sidelines of every race, cheering for me just as loudly as they'd cheered for the frontrunner. Those expectations that had weighed on me so heavily at the beginning of the race were simply my own. And once I realized that, I decided to cast them away. I began to put my effort into supporting my teammates instead of obsessing about my own performance. In that way, I celebrated my teammates' victories as if they were my own; I felt their pain and exhaustion as if they were my own. After a while, it didn't matter if the runners struggling up the hill were on my team or not -- I rooted for them anyway. And they would always return the favor whenever I needed it most, because we were linked by the understanding of having been in the same position.
The relationships forged within our cross-country team are ones that will carry on past our running days and into old age. The comradeship of sharing the intense emotions which sprung out of a grueling sport made the bonds between my teammates and me surpass friendship. And often, the emotions we shared were frustration, pain, disappointment, and sheer exhaustion. But together, as a team, we were able to push through those moments together and come out as champions -- not as champions of ribbons or trophies, but as champions of perseverance. The memories that stand out most clearly aren't the bitter ones; they're the moments when a teammate loses his shoes in the bog, keeps running barefoot, and laughs about it at the finish line. They're the expressions of pride on my coaches' faces when I tell them I didn't walk once during a whole race. They're the subconscious grins that spread over the runners' faces when they hear us yelling ridiculous things from the sidelines, and the frenzied jumping-up-and-down finish line moments when a teammate breaks his previous best time by two minutes.
To be honest? I don't remember the exact grade I got on my U.S. History summer assignment. When I got my first A- at the end of sophomore year, the world managed to keep turning. Cross-country running made me realize that I don't need to be the best to be successful in life. It taught me to value my relationships with people more than my relationship with my ego. It taught me to cheer for others even if I never learn their first names. High school doesn't last forever. But maybe someday, way down the road, an old high school friend will call me out of the blue. We'll gradually ease back into the familiar with summer memories we shared and jokes we used to laugh at. Maybe we'll stretch our memories all the way back to the days when we were limber enough to run three miles, and she'll say with a laugh, "Do you remember that State Championships meet when there was that downpour and Zac lost his shoes in the bog...?"
And I will.
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