Track Meet

A middle school track meet is the most relaxed sport. No cheerleaders. Small crowds. All the aggressive parents next door at the soccer match. Knots of kids in school sweats sitting on the grass next to ubiquitous backpacks, sharing juice and bags of chips. Twelve and thirteen year old girls with their hair pulled back into pony tails, teetering on the cusp of  womanhood; boys who look much younger, bringing up the rear in the big event of the day—the race through puberty. The field is seemingly in chaos. Young bodies disengage from their cliques in ones and twos and report for an event. Parents wander the infield looking to volunteer at the high jump or shot put.
It’s spring and clouds full of rain and hail gather over Grizzly Peak and look our way. A woman announces the relay and the teams slowly gather for instructions from the starter and haul the starting blocks onto the track. The calm of the meet is interrupted by the crack of a gun. Fifty seconds later the exertions are over, a winner declared and the athletes return to their tribes. Running, jumping and throwing. That’s all there is to track. At higher levels there is technique. At this level there is simply raw ability, or lack of it. A long calmness broken by moments of extreme effort. A pleasant afternoon. No pressure. Just participation.
I turned out for track in the ninth grade. I couldn’t run, jump or throw but I wanted to hang out with my friends Dave and Ron who were good track athletes. Ron did the 880 (in those days we ran in yards). Dave was an excellent pole vaulter right through college in the era of the bamboo pole. I tried hurdles and the high jump but was slow and had no lift.  We used the scissors kick and the Western Roll to try and get over the bar. Archaic. It’s all the Flop now. No talent for running or jumping; still, I liked putting on the sweats and enjoyed the pleasure of jogging around the track with my friends, feeling my spikes crunch into the cinders (in olden days, grasshopper, actual cinders were used to surface tracks). When spring comes one feels like running and jumping. It is natural. And, lack of speed or lift makes no difference in how good it feels to have cool air in your face and the sun on your back.

Comments

[dave andersen]

Absolutely poetic appreciation
of spring and track and field.
Well done. I remember when Ron, you, and me went to The A&W
before practice, had the Papa Burger, got to the track, ran some wind sprints, and did some rather vigorous reverse periostalsis.

[R Blog]

We ate a lot of bad stuff at the wrong time in those days! Thanks for the comment.