One of my biggest regrets in life, aside from taking a very short trip to the West Coast not long after recovering from viral meningitis for an awkward and anticlimactic encounter with someone I never should have been in communication with in the first place, is leaving Utah after my first year in college. I turned down so many opportunities including full scholarships from schools all over the country, and instead, I chose to leave a good thing and attend CU Boulder on a partial scholarship. I don't regret the friendships that developed or those that deepened on the cross-country team, but I regret not staying in a place with a nurturing coach and environment. It's so strange how little decisions have the potential to dramatically change everything, good or bad, not to mention events beyond our control drastically affecting us, too.
When I transferred, there were plenty of good runners on the team already, and CU was supposedly far superior to the school where I went, at least according to the people who worked there. Administrators made me repeat classes when there was no need, none whatsoever, and It was becoming more obvious to me that at CU, I was just not important. I thought running around fourth place on the cross country team at BYU had already taught me that I was no longer a "big fish in a little pond," especially in shorter races like the 5k, but at least in Utah, I still felt like an integral part of our team, an individual with scoring potential and the potential to go places in running. In Colorado, I was about to become as unimportant a varsity runner as could possibly be. The more I slipped into fatigue and eventually the role of generic runner, nothing special, the less I liked running and the more I struggled. My results reflected my unhappiness.
Sometimes I look back and wonder what the hell I was thinking, but I convinced myself that I wanted to be training in my hometown. The reality was that everything in my life revolved around my sport, and I had really come back to run in the mountains. What was pulling me back was some unfinished business relating to a particular hill south of Boulder, a possible record attempt that I couldn't resist, and I had some training partners and my former high school coach willing to work with me, at least for a while. Realistically, I had a shot at taking down the women's record at the Pikes Peak Ascent by a substantial amount. My plans were to do it all: cross country, road racing, track, and mountain running, and for a little while I did. Where I was excelling in one area, running, I was failing in another, life. And then I got Giardia, and everything went to shit, literally and figuratively.
Leading up to that crappy moment, though, I had a redshirt year and ran pretty well unattached. The following summer, I spent most of my training going up big mountains: Grays Peak, Mt Elbert, some big bald 14er with an old mining road that climbs right to the top, Longs to the boulder field, and a few others that weren't quite as tall. Oh those summer days! My goal was to run as close to or, based on my training runs, possibly under 2:30 and, instead, I struggled in one of the worst races of my life. Somehow, I managed to squeeze out a 2:53 for a very disappointing 7th place, so incredibly far off my goal. I tried to avoid getting too down on myself, but it was impossible, and then my high school coach pulled away, leaving me even more depressed.
Before that ill-fated race day, I won a bunch of races, set a course record or two, and was competing with the elite crowd. My confidence took a beating after missing the record at Pikes, but, in no time, I had to put my attention on cross country and track, which wasn't easy. Who knows how things would have played out had I not gotten sick and possibly won the race.
Despite initially running well outside of school events my first two years at CU, I didn't run to my potential on the team and was growing very tired. I never felt fully recovered and was entering a phase of catching every illness around me. How I wish to whatever deity could change the past that I had stayed with a coach who was sensible, kind, and who could coax me into doing the right thing. Coach Shane at BYU was the equivalent of a horse whisper for overzealous runners, and I thrived under his guidance my first year in college.
Coach Quiller at CU, on the other hand, was an exceptionally nice person, someone who was always kind, but a good coach only for those who could handle generic workouts, a lot of volume and speed work, and not a lot of feedback. In the end, I was on the team and friends with some of the women there but not part of the team. It's true that I carried excess baggage wherever I went and wasn't ready for that kind of environment. Coach Shane could always relieve some of the burdens I carried. Coach Quiller ignored them. That said, he was not a bad guy, just not the right coach for me. I imagine things would have been even more disastrous had I attended a school with a coach who was both unsympathetic and not a right fit, and there were plenty of those out there. Still, I was struggling.
The typical narrative of standout high school athletes who don't go on to the Olympics or to win a bunch of national titles, according to those watching from afar, is that we disappear, but this isn't really true. This mentality stems from a very unhealthy "winner take all" perspective or possibly from the equally unhealthy situation in which those who want to feel superior put others down or erase them entirely. In fact, most former high school standout athletes go on to fill other roles, and some even find success in their sport out of the spotlight. It's such a destructive take, this idea that if you don't go on to constantly win more big races and achieve tremendous success, you fade away into nothingness.
How realistic is it, percentage-wise, to find ongoing success in a demanding sport? How many great high school soccer players, football players, swimmers, or baseball players go on to find excellence in college and beyond? Are they supposed to? Do those who don't also disappear? Define success. Also, think about how long an average career of any top athlete really is. It's rare to see someone like Lorraine Moller who competed in multiple Olympic marathons throughout her time running. That doesn't mean those with a shorter period in the spotlight aren't notable. Look at Daniel Komen, for example.
Years ago, an Olympic coach told me that distance runners can generally expect to compete at a high level for about eight years if they're lucky. With sneaky ways of doping, improved gear technology, and new methods of training and recovery, it's possible to stretch that, but, in addition to needing a working and mostly injury-free body, athletes must find ways to keep the fire and the desire to compete, a mental edge. People often look at the Olympics as what should be the pinnacle of every athlete's career when very few athletes make it that far. In fact, more college football players are drafted into the NFL than athletes who qualify for an Olympic team in a specific sport or event like swimming or running. For many, other races or an event such as the Olympic trials is the final goal. The point being, going to the Olympics is unlikely, even for some of the absolute best athletes.
Like many other good athletes, I was probably never going to make it to the Olympics, even if I had chosen a different path and my career had gone better than it did. Also like so many other good runners, going to compete on a world stage was a dream, but a far-fetched one. Mountain running wasn't an Olympic sport, and I never had much leg speed. It's possible that under the right conditions, I could have developed into some kind of professional athlete if we were eventually allowed to accept payment or become an Olympic hopeful, and, had I stayed at BYU, my chances would have been much better. My body probably wasn't cut out for a flat marathon, and my 10K time would have had to drop from 35.04 to something much faster. Qualifying for anything shorter was a near impossibility. I just wasn't that fast in shorter distances.
But when I think about the people who say I was washed up and disappeared, I can't say I fully agree. Despite all the injuries and terrible illnesses, and there were plenty, I still had some stand-out moments. And considering the severity of the illnesses I faced, I'm surprised I was able to run at all, let alone race.
In my first year in college, I was 2nd at TAC junior nationals. In 1986, I was 3rd at the Vail Hill Climb and may have won it at some point after that, but for the life of me, I can't remember. I have a blue ribbon, but it doesn't specify what it's for. Not being someone who kept track of times and places combined with not having race results on the Internet back then is a problem when it comes to accuracy.
The following results I found in an old scrapbook my dad had. I placed in the top 10 in the Diet Pepsi 10K. In 1988, I ran the Pikes Peak Marathon. Throughout college, I consistently ran 36-38 minutes for 10K road races at altitude. When I was invited to run in the elite field of the Bolder Boulder, I managed to run under 37 minutes on a scorching hot day after developing severe blisters on my feet about halfway through the race. I must have looked funny taking the turns extra wide, but I had to find a way to prevent pressure on my feet and possibly popping the blisters. When I was almost through with school, I ran a 36:36 10K in California knowing I didn't feel well but not knowing I was dealing with walking pneumonia. Against all odds, I ran a 36:31 at the Bolder Boulder in 1993. That part of my life was such a haze of illness and struggling that I don't even remember the details around that and many other races.
At some point, I ran or really jogged a marathon in 3:49 or so. In my 30s, I ran under 21 minutes for a 5K. I also ran a 6:14 mile in 2003 and a 6:32 in 2004. Before that in 2001, I was 13th at the Mt. Evans Ascent. I won the Aspen Mountain Challenge hill climb in 2003 and came in 2nd a year later. This was during a period after almost dying due to complications related to anorexia but before getting sick with viral meningitis. Then there were all the foot surgeries.
These aren't great achievements. I know that. Despite some wins in very small races and age group showings, my running resume looks even worse after 2005. But I'm grateful that I was able to run at all, all things considered. I write of these races and times not to brag -- I'm actually embarrassed about most of them -- but to point out that I didn't disappear, not entirely. I didn't even really disappear from my sport. I'm still here, even if I'm invisible to most. And despite all the troubles I faced, I never really blamed my coaches. Some environments are not good for some people. That's not to say that there are no bad coaches; it's more to point out that not every instance of an athlete struggling is due to an abusive coach. Then again, some coaches really do encourage unhealthy behaviors in their athletes.
In a recent Outside Magazine article, the author profiled a young athlete who experienced hardships at the University of Arizona. I'm not here to deny or discount her experience. It was somewhat similar to mine and many other athletes, but, her story aside, the article itself fails in a few areas. As a result, it does a disservice to the athletes who were brave enough to share what happened to them in less than ideal athletic programs. For instance, to say, "Cain’s story was pivotal. It helped reframe what many young female athletes feel is a personal shortcoming—that they aren’t cut out to run competitively—as a systemic and cultural problem instead." is misleading.
The issue was never athletes feeling like they weren't cut out to run competitively, at least that's not the message I got from reading what the athletes featured in the article said. The bigger issue is athletes knowing they are cut out to race or at least wanting to but facing outside and internal conflict. Additionally, alleged abuse by college and high school coaches is not a new story and wasn't back in 2019 when Mary Cain's story was brought to light. In 2018, for example, an article came out that addressed allegations of years of abuse by the track and cross country coach at the University of Washington. It wasn't just women who came forward in that case. Anytime there is a power imbalance, there is the potential for abuse, but not everyone defines abuse in the same way and misconduct can be perpetrated by both males and females. The article made none of this clear.
Instead of addressing realistic solutions to toxic running environments that harm both men and women, the Outside article, like that in the New York Times regarding Cain, is framed in a way that's set up to blame men, specifically male coaches. I've addressed this issue before. What I find strange is the omission that in 2018, the Arizona team was guided by a male head coach and a female assistant coach, which suggests that merely having a woman present isn't going to solve every problem.
At CU, we also had a female assistant coach, and yet the environment at BYU was far, far healthier despite the lack of ovaries guiding us. The article is one of many that suggests men are to blame for any athlete who overtrains or has an eating disorder, but in the case of the main athlete profiled, she came into a program already suffering from an eating disorder that developed in high school. Absolutely, the environment can contribute to individuals thriving or suffering, as I pointed out above, but it's not about male versus female coaching; it's about individuals, their makeup, and the overall environment. In a perfect world, every track and cross country program would have qualified male and female coaches, therapists for emotional support, registered dietitians, and physical therapists.
It's unfortunate that Cain's voice is almost completely drown out by
others who push the false idea that hiring women will solve any problem. She has a better suggestion that change begins with education. I've already rambled more than I intended here, but it's hard for me to understand the tremendous approval of a pro athlete previously saying we should look at numbers on a scale objectively followed by this article with the message that weighing an athlete is ineffective and harmful to athletes. People blindly support both takes without acknowledging the contradiction. It's hard to imagine productive progress considering these kinds of inconsistencies. Regarding numbers and certain comments, people will respond differently, and if you have an eating disorder, it's almost impossible to look at either with objectivity. That doesn't mean everyone should change for you or that numbers can't provide useful information.
These days, you can't even call an athlete fit, which is such a bizarre take. Asking others to stop giving out compliments or offering neutral comments because these statements are taken in a negative way by the receiver doesn't actually help heal whatever causes a person to mistranslate what others say. "Fit" can be applied to anyone, really, from a bodybuilder to a person walking down the street. It doesn't secretly mean "thin" unless you apply that incorrect meaning to the word, and if you do, it's up to you to figure out why. On the rare occasion when someone might associate thin with fit, maybe show some compassion by realizing we are all products of our society. Perhaps when the pendulum has been held tight, it swings too far in the opposite direction before settling on some kind of more reasonable norm, but right now, it's a little concerning to see the kinds of unrealistic demands people are making while possibly thinking it's real activism. It's not. In some cases, it perpetuates an unhealthy way of viewing the world, that enemies are all around you, that men are bad, and that anything they say is a negative.
Below is one of my favorite excerpts from "Out and Back" by Hillary Allen. I wish more people had this kind of drive for integrity. These days, it just seems lost in a world of journalistic lies, bias, and condemnation:
