by Armen Changelian

Created on: May 04, 2009

It is the purest form of athleticism; the most direct representation of "hard work;" the most inescapable feeling of victory or defeat. It is the original sport.

You feel helpless and empowered at the same time. You finally know what pain is, and you realize that you love it more than anything else. You are in a dream, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of your breathing, the pounding of your legs, the beating of your heart. You are not running away from anything; you are simply running towards a goal.

In the beginning, I thought I was taking up cross-country. I now realize that cross-country was in fact taking me up; it absorbed me and made me a part of it. I could never put into words why I chose to run, but I knew there was a reason, and so I kept running, hoping to find the answer somewhere along the path to the finish line.

I spent seventh and eighth grade running laps around a couple of soccer fields every day until our overweight coach decided he was tired of sitting out in the sun and watching us. We never ran more than a total of 2.5 miles in a day, but at the time we all believed we were actually working hard. My first day of high school cross-country finally woke me from that peaceful slumber.

I was up at 6:30 on a cool August morning, sleepwalking my way to the car so that my dad could drive me to the high school track for my first official practice. I was tired, cold, and worried about handling the increased mileage required of a high school team. My dad tried to ease my anxiety:

"I'd be very surprised if you ran more than three miles on the first day, son."

We ran six. With that kind of a shock, I'm still not sure why I stuck with it, but from that day on it was an endless routine of training, healing, then training some more. I simply learned to expect everything that was thrown my way: an average of eight miles per day, layers upon layers of blisters, even the always popular chants of "Run, Forrest! Run!" from random passers-by. I became a machine, devoted to the task at hand and never deterred by opposition or pain. I relished the fact that I understood the meaning of hard work more clearly than any other athlete at my high school. I knew the meaning of pain, and I continued onward.

There is a certain moment in cross-country, perhaps when a particularly steep hill comes into view, or when the course seems to stretch into infinity, or when your lungs seem to swell to the point of bursting and your legs burn like fire. It is a moment every runner faces eventually, and it is a threshold into a new realm of glory and self-affirmation.

I remember my moment. I stared up from the bottom of a towering toboggan hill, already drained from the first mile and a half of a brutal race. It the loneliest feeling in the world, fighting your way up a steep incline, feeling your legs go numb, a small contingent of onlookers half-heartedly urging you towards the top. In that moment, I made the decision to fight. I picked off runners ahead of me, digging into the hill and accelerating to the top. In that moment, I learned the difference between being a runner and a racer. Cross-country was what I was meant for, and I knew that no other sport could ever offer the same type of satisfaction that running brought to me.

I still think about waking up at 6:30 on a cool August morning and going out for an "easy" six miles. I don't think I'll ever be able to escape that feeling. It's a sport that stays with you, one that reveals your true nature to the world, and to yourself. It is so pure, so simple, and once you cross that finish line, it can be so beautiful.

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