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The Olympic Experience
The Dream
You can’t talk about the Olympic Games without first talking about the journey that got you there. For me, the 2000 Sydney Olympics holds a special place in my heart. It was my first Olympic Team, and the realization of a dream that began 12 years before.
In 1988, I was a freshman at San Diego State University. I was recruited as a high jumper, and had cleared 5 feet 9 inches that season. One afternoon at track practice, after watching hours of the Seoul Olympics on television, I marched right up to my high jump coach and said, “How can anyone be in this sport and not want to be in the Olympics?’ While I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was smiling. “I don’t know, Marla,” he said. “That’s a good question. Everyone would like to be in the Olympics.”
“Well, I want to be in the Olympics,” I said, “and I can’t do it in the high jump. I want to try the heptathlon.” I was certain my coach was trying not to laugh. “The heptathlon!”
he exclaimed. “Marla, you have to throw the shot put, the javelin, learn to long jump, run the 200-meters and 800-meters, and…..Marla, you have to hurdle. Can you even see a hurdle?”
Well, that was sort of a problem. Standing at my starting blocks, I couldn’t look down the straightaway and see all 10 hurdles. I saw one. I figured I would see the next one after I cleared the first, and so on. I didn’t see those hurdles, but I ran over them. I didn’t believe my vision interfered with my ability to be an athlete. I never believed it slowed me down.
The Heptatholon
I had a plan. I would complete my graduate degree in 1994 and then work part-time allowing me time to train for the 7-event heptathlon. My goal was the 1996 Olympic Trials. I had about as much of a chance at making the Olympic Team that year as I did in winning the lottery. I was not a natural sprinter and my throwing events were weak (down right embarrassing). I didn’t’ have a shoe contract or sponsor. As far as the track and field community was concerned, I was a nobody. Just a former high jumper from San Diego State who could run “sort of” fast.
My strategy for combating lack of talent and support was simple. Hard work. I believed that if I trained hard enough, anything was possible. I took that belief with me to Atlanta, Georgia for the 1996 Olympic Trials.
It was a dreary 2 days of running, jumping, and throwing. I ran the 100-meter hurdles in 13.98 seconds but my high jump fell apart. I was way off my personal best of 5 feet 11 and ½ inches, and struggled with my approach and left patella tendon pain. Shot put was next. My worst event. That dropped me further down in the standings, and by the end of the first day, I was in 20th place.
The next day, I managed to get through the long jump and javelin. All that was left was the 800-meters. I had a love-hate relationship with the 800m. It was one of my best events, however it was excruciatingly painful. I dreaded it, but thrived on it at the same time. While the Olympic Team was well beyond my reach, there remained a small sliver of hope in the final event; an American Record. The American 800-meter heptathlon record was held by Kym Carter and was 2 minutes 6.98 seconds. Something like that. I had run 2:08 a few times, but a 3 second improvement was significant. Not an easy thing to do.
The gun sounded and I took off. I had no real reason to run as hard as I did. No chance at making the team. No rewards of money or fame would come from such an obscure and barely recognized record. But I ran hard anyway. I needed some kind of success. It was personal.
I crossed the finish line in 2 minutes 4.70 seconds and celebrated as if I had just won a gold medal. No one knew why. No one even cared. But to me, it was something.
Eugene
It is amazing how just one moment in time can change your life. Because of that one race, that small piece of success, I decided I would try again in four years. But, not as a heptathlete. As a middle distance runner. I felt that something was missing from my training, and I had to find it. I would move to Eugene, Oregon and continue my journey towards that Olympic dream.
Nothing worth having comes easy. The next four years were far from easy. I had knee surgery on my patella tendon in the fall of 1996. Then, neuroma surgery on my left foot in 1997. Trying to turn a heptathlete into a distance runner doesn’t happen overnight. In fact, it usually doesn’t happen at all. I had hip problems trying to adjust to longer runs and struggled with my weight after two surgeries. In 1998, I was injured again, this time with plantar fasciaitis. I had not competed in two years. I left my coach, and I turned 30.
The fitness necessary to make a U.S. Olympic Team is remarkable. I was no where near that kind of fitness. The injuries prevented me from training consistently. Finally, in 1999, I found a new coach and a group of runners who shared the same dream. However, they were not middle distance runners. They were marathoners and 10,000-meter runners. My new coach said, “If you want me to coach you, you have to run with them.” It was totally new training. Mileage, long intervals, and tempo runs. “What’s a tempo run?” I asked my coach one day. “Well, it’s a run, you see…you just hold a steady pace…you breathe….and, well……just run with the other girls,” he said. He was a man of few words.
The training worked. I was becoming stronger, had more endurance, and lost weight. It was a balanced training program that kept me healthy and kept me running.
I returned to the track in 1999 at the Mt. SAC Relays. The 800-meters under the hot sun and among fast competition. I labored in the dry heat, quite a change from the cool rainy weather of Oregon, and I found myself in dead last after the first lap. I tried to hold my pace, use my strength, and moved up along the backstretch. I crossed the line in 4th and ran a personal best 2 minutes 3.81 seconds.
I was still far from Olympic caliber. But it was something. And, after two years of injuries, I was running. A month later, I found myself on the starting line of a 1500-meter race. That’s 3 and ¾ laps. It was the Prefontaine Classic, and the meet director said I wasn’t fast enough for the 800m, but I could run the 1500m if I wanted. There are no lane assignments in the 1500m, so what’s another body? I was the last runner on the starting line. Hip number 17. The announcer said, “…and in lane 17, formerly of San Diego State, Marla Runyan.” I was still just a high jumper who could run “sort of” fast.
It was a strange feeling, not to run “all out” from the starting line, but to conserve energy for the longer race. Going out too fast might mean doom for the final lap. I tried to find a good position within the pack of runners. But once the bell clanged, I took off, got up on toes, and ran all out. I finished fifth. I was thrilled. Unlike the 800-meters in which I felt “maxed out”, the 1500m had room for improvement in the. I tad just found a new event.
There is always a feeling of anxiousness and a touch of impatience when the Olympic year rolls around. I had both. I wanted to increase my training in both volume and speed. Weekly mileage averaged 70 to 80 with a few weeks near 100. I ran a 5000-meter race in May to continue working on my speed-endurance.
I was healthy and finally free of all those injuries that had plagued me two years before. It finally felt like that Olympic dream might actually come true. Then, one afternoon, on a cool-down run on the trail, I was struck by a sharp pain in the side of my knee. So sharp, it stopped me cold. “What the ___!” I said. I grabbed my knee, rubbed it, and figured it would go away. But it didn’t. My run became a walk. “It will be better tomorrow,” I thought. But it wasn’t. Within 24 hours, I was in panic mode. How could I get so far, be so close and now this?
I saw my chiropractor, iced, stretched, and even got an injection. But no treatments made any difference. I couldn’t bend my knee. Walking was difficult. Running was impossible.
I traveled to Colorado to see a chiropractor who would do extensive myofascial release (ART). After 10 days, I could bend my knee in the pool or on the bike, but I still couldn’t run. Time was running out.
Upon returning home, I did pool workouts and the elliptical machine. Finally, just one week before the Olympic Trials, I tried to run. The injury would not allow me to jog, but I could however, get up on my toes and sprint. I could run only about 6 minutes total before the IT band rubbing against the side of my knee would shut me down. The 1500 meters is about a 4-minute race. Hmmm. I thought, “There is still a chance."
I packed my spikes and headed to Sacramento, California. The top 3 in each event would earn a position on the United States Olympic Team. (You must have also run the Olympic time standard within the previous year). The dry heat and relentless sun during the semifinal rounds of the 1500m reminded me of that Mt. SAC race a year before. It burned my lungs. But I finished second and advanced to the final. On July 16th at 2:10 p.m. I would run for s spot on the Olympic Team.
Trials
It was a glorious day. My knee still didn’t bend well enough to jog more than 10 minutes. I couldn’t warm-up as usual, and instead, walked in the grass. I had mixed emotions. “What am I going to do?” I thought. “I can’t run…but I can sort of run.” I sat on a table with a bag of ice pressed against the side of my knee. In just minutes we would be called to the check in area. “Well,” I thought, “I had better go.”
I left Matt and my coach and chiropractor and walked slowly to a white tent on the other side of the field. It was an intense area. You could feel the nerves, the tension, the anticipation. I put my spikes on and sat quietly. Other runners did drills, stretches, and last minute strides. I sat perfectly still and waited.
We were escorted to the track and once my spikes sunk into that Mondo surface, I wanted to run. I got up on my toes and did a stride down the backstretch. I felt like I was floating. Effortless. How good it felt! While the circumstances were far from ideal, I smiled. I couldn’t help it. After all that had happened, I was standing on the starting line of the 1500 meters at the U.S. Olympic Trials. I couldn’t see the scoreboard that displayed our names and position on the starting line. I couldn’t see my family in the stands. But I heard the cheers from the crowd, and just then, the theme song from “Superman” came over the loudspeaker. “That’s awesome,” I thought. I smiled again.
The gun sounded. Off we went. Regina Jacobs and Suzy Favor-Hamilton were the overwhelming favorites for the top two positions. I was running for third. Most of the race is a blur. I just ran, trying to hold my position in the top 5 and stay relaxed and strong. Always saving something for that final last lap. The bell sounded and the pace surged. A new race had begun. I got up on my toes and began sprinting as if I were running the 400-meter dash. Down the backstretch, off the turn, I saw no one. Nothing. Just red track. I was on “autopilot” as if I no longer had control over my legs. I just wanted to close my eyes and have someone wake me up when I got to the finish. I crossed the line, out of breath, legs burning. I was not sure what place I had finished. “Was I third?” I wondered. “Was I really third?” I had to ask an official to be sure. He held up 3 fingers. It was true! It had actually happened! I looked up into the biggest blue sky I had ever seen and said, “Thank you.”
What do you do when your dream comes true? A dream becomes an integral part of your life, your purpose, and your identity. I had spent so much time and energy just trying to make the Olympic Team that I had not given a lot of thought to how I would do at the Games.
In a matter of hours, a new goal took shape. The Olympics. One morning, back in Eugene, Matt and I sat at the kitchen table and began laying out our plan for the next eight weeks. Get healthy. Train. Run fast.
The Games
Few people realize what happens “behind-the-scenes” at just about every major sporting event. The Olympic Games might very well be the largest and most recognized competition in the world. Which can make things complicated. First there is team processing in which each athlete enters an enormous warehouse pushing a grocery cart and is given an extraordinary amount of apparel and luggage. More than any one person can manage on her own. And, everyone’s luggage looks exactly alike. They give you so much, in fact, that you are given the option to ship one bag home if you wish. By the time I got through processing, I had 2 gigantic roller bags and one medium sized roller bag. The small one, I shipped home.
After processing, Matt and I arrived in Brisbane, Australia for a 10-day training camp. Finally free of that awful IT band injury, I was running well and trying to catch up on missed training. I felt I needed a little of everything, so I did interval combinations that tapped into both aerobic and anaerobic systems, like 1200m and 400m repeats alternating with change in pace. One afternoon on an easy 50 minute run on a grass field, Matt and I came across a large iguana basking himself in the sun. “Watch it!” Matt warned me and I leaped over him. “We’re definitely not in Eugene anymore,” I said.
Entering the Olympic Village is something like breaking into Fort Knox. To say security is tight would be an understatement. First, we had to fly to Sydney. About 50 or so U.S. Track and Field athletes loaded onto a bus with all of our identical luggage (I wondered if I would ever find mine again). At the airport, we boarded a charter flight to Sydney. Matt was not allowed to travel with me, nor was he allowed in the Olympic Village. He stayed with a host family about 50 miles away. I wondered if I would ever seem him again, too.
Once in Sydney, we boarded yet another bus and waited for nearly 3 hours for our luggage to be scanned and sniffed by dogs. It was becoming a very long day. Finally, we were told to get off the bus, claim our bags. Some 100 identical navy blue “USA” bags were scattered along the sidewalk and each athlete scrambled to find his own by reading nametags. A task that required good vision. Uh oh.
A teammate found my bags for me and we loaded onto the bus and were off. Upon arriving at the Olympic Village, our luggage was taken from us once again and each piece was scanned separately and would be delivered to our housing area. Meanwhile, we entered security one at a time, much like airport security nowadays. We also had to show our credentials – a laminated 5 x 7 pass that hung around our neck and included our name, photo, country and bar code for scanning. A credential was as good as gold. No credential, no village.
It was nearing midnight when we arrived at our housing area. There we stood, in the dark on a quiet neighborhood-like street once again waiting for our luggage. Just then a large truck pulled up and some guys started tossing navy blue bags out the back. The pile of bags looked like a small mountain in the middle of the street. We slowly picked through the pile, helping each other to find our luggage.
My bags in hand, I was ready for bed. I wanted to get some sleep and start the next day off with an easy run and a good breakfast. After all, I did have a race coming up. But just then, someone made an announcement. “Team Meeting!”
“You have got to be kidding me,” I thought. Who calls a team meeting after a day like this? Our team couldn’t get organized. People spoke out of turn. No one listened. I felt like I was in a junior high school class that just found out they were having a substitute teacher. There I sat, just waiting for it to be over.
Finally, I dashed for my room, but heard someone yell, “Don’t forget, team pictures in the morning!” I sighed. It was a good thing my races were later in the week.
Opening Ceremonies
The Opening Ceremonies signify the start of the Olympic Games. Broadcast on television to just about every country in the world, it is the event so many people look forward to. A day to celebrate. I wanted to be a part of it, but couldn’t help but feel concerned how the evening would affect me prior to competition. It would mean another long day – many hours of standing and walking and waiting. But, I still wanted to be a part of it.
Our opening ceremony attire consisted of a navy blue polyester ankle length skirt, a sweater with a bright red blazer, scarf, and straw hat. But my favorite had to be the shoes. Solid blue high heels! I don’t wear heels. I tried to go along with it, cramming my orthotic into that stupid shoe. But it was down right silly. I couldn’t spend hours in those shoes before racing at the Olympics. I wore my running shoes under my blue skirt and carried the heels with me, just in case someone noticed and I would be asked to slip them on. No one noticed or cared, and many hours later, I handed the high heels to a volunteer. “I won’t be needing these,” I said. So long blue shoes.
We loaded up on yet another bus and were escorted to the gymnastics arena where all the athletes by country were seated. We were given a brown sack dinner of a sandwich, bagel, and banana. There we sat for nearly 4 hours! The Opening Ceremony was taking place in the stadium adjacent to us, and we could watch it on the tiny television monitors in the arena. Some athletes left. It was just too long to wait. Then, finally, team-by-team, each country was escorted to join in the parade of nations and enter the Olympic Stadium. There was much excitement, teams chanting, yelling, cheers. So many thousands of people in one place. It was pure energy.
The dark tunnel gave way to bright lights and a crowd larger than I could see. It was magnificent. Around the track we marched, then took our position on the infield. Much of the ceremony was over by now, and so we stood for the lighting of the torch. I couldn’t’ see much of anything so my friend, Anne Marie narrated the play-by-play of what was going on. I felt so small in such a large stadium. I was swallowed up by the masses of people. Yet somewhere in that crowd were my parents and Matt. We were all there together.
Once the torch was lit, I had just one thought. “I have to get back to the village.” And, so did the other 3000 athletes standing on that infield. It was a race. I took off running, hiked up that blue polyester skirt and dashed for the exit. Into the parking lot, I hurdled a few shrubs and made my way towards the village entrance. Thank goodness for my running shoes. I ran until I couldn’t’ run anymore. I wasn’t tired, just stuck in a traffic jam of people all trying to go to the same place. Each athlete had to go through security show their credential, and walk through the metal detectors. I was pushed and shoved but held my ground and we shuffled slowly towards the village entrance. I was in. By the time I got to my room, it was after 2:00 A.M. Phew! What a night. But, it was worth it.
After the rig-a-ma-roll of team processing, traveling, and opening ceremonies, it was time to get down to business. I had some of my best workouts at the practice track just adjacent to the Olympic Stadium. It was too difficult for Matt to make the journey to Olympic Park on a daily basis, so the team coach timed my workouts. The first round of the 1500 meters was on Wednesday morning. Friday would be my final workout.
Despite the quality of my training, I still feared I lacked the speed of my competitors. I would do 3 x 400 meters in 60, 59, and 58 seconds followed by 3 x 100 meters. Wait a minute. 100 meters? I hadn’t run a 100-meter interval since college. What was I thinking? It is not a good idea to try something new five days before your race at the Olympics.
Those dumb 100-meter dashes made my quads tight and sore. “What have I done?” It was training I didn’t need. A 100-meter dash was not relevant to a 1500 meter race just 5 fays away. My 800-meter repeats were strong, 2:10, 2:09, 2:08. That was far more important.
The women’s 1500-meters was near the end of the games. Other athletes had finished competing while I had yet to race. The long wait did a number on my nerves. The morning of the first round, I was shaking
The race was tactical. That means, the pack slows down, no one wants to lead and everyone gets bunched up. In this type of race, you have to be patient and alert. Because the pace will change in a second, and if you aren’t paying attention, you’ll be left behind That’s what happened to me. I thought I could rely on my kick, but the leaders surged so fast with 500 meters to go, they had a gap on me. I started running all out, trying to reconnect to the leaders. I finished 6th. Only the top 5 would advance automatically. I would advance on time.
I was mad at myself. Angry. I had let my nerves affect my running. I decided the semi-final would be different. I couldn’t let the “kickers” slow the early pace. I would lead if necessary. And, that is exactly what happened. I ran near the front for the first lap, but the woman ahead of me was bumping me with her right arm. Her rhythm was labored. I needed to get around her, and so, I took the lead. It was short lived. My teammate Suzy Favor Hamilton took the lead away from me as we entered the bell lap. Other runners began passing me on the right. Zoom! Zoom! I felt like a slow car in the fast lane. Within 50 meters, I went from first to 8th position. It happened that fast. Into the final lap, I was sprinting all out, trying to hang on the pack just ahead of me. I would finish 6th and once again, advance on time. I had just made it to the Olympic final.
An odd thing was happening to me during the races. I was becoming disoriented and wasn’t sure where I was on the track. The stadium was so large and there was nothing to differential the 200-meter curve from the finish line. It all looked the same. Also, we entered the stadium on the opposite side – at the 1500-meter start instead of the 100-meter start. I was turned around. “Wait, where is the finish?” During the race, I was losing sight of where I was on the track.
The Olympic final was set for Saturday night just after 8:00 P.M. It was intense. My shoe sponsor at the time, Asics put me up in a hotel the night before the final so that I could have a good night’s rest. The only draw back was that I would have to take a taxi to the stadium for my race. Matt and I entered through the spectator entrance.
Time to Run
I had never been so nervous. I was not a medal favorite and I was easily intimidated by my competition. On the starting line, the Romanian, Gabriella Szabo stood to my left. Even though she measured only about 5 feet tall, she had a presence about her. I towered above her, yet she nudged me off the line at the start. The gun sounded and we took off like we were running the 100-meter dash. It was a race for position. Carla Sacramaneto wanted the lead, so she could slow it down. After just 75 meters or so, the pack slowed to a near jog. I was shoved to the pack. In my head I was screaming, “No! Not another tactical race!” I couldn’t bear to let the race become a 500-meter sprint. Before I could even finish my thought, was running along the outside of the pack and took the lead. Matt and I have a saying. “If you’re gonna take the lead, do something with it.” I picked up the pace to about 65 seconds per 400-meters. But, it wasn’t fast enough. I was now a “tow truck” for the pack behind me. It takes more energy to lead a race than to follow – about 10% more. It was no surprise when runners began passing me. Zoom! Zoom! Zoom! I once again fell back in the field. “Why is everyone running so fast when we still have 600 metes to go, “I thought. But just then, I heard the bell. “400-meters to go!” I was turned around again. Lost sight of where I was and how far we had left to run. I started sprinting. I couldn’t’ tell who was in front of me, how many runners. It was a blur. I just wanted to get to the finish line as fast as possible. Coming down the homestretch, it was chaos. Runners spread out all over the track, then, a fall. I kept on running and crossed the finish line. I had no idea who had won or what place I had finished. It had been a frustrating race, and I felt sick to my stomach.
It is one thing to run your heart out, give it your all, and still not win. At least you know there was nothing more you could do. But when a race become tactical, you have to make decisions and you may always question whether or not you made the right ones. It gets tricky. Some say tactical races aren’t honest. Others say it is a part of the sport. I say that’s the Olympics. You have to be prepared for anything.
For years, the dream of the Olympic Games was the driving force behind my running. But as fate would have it, I learned so much along my journey. I learned that I love running for the sake of running. I love crossing the finish line with a personal best. I love the feeling of floating down the trail in Eugene on a cool fall morning. I used to think I ran because I love the Olympics. But now, I say, “I ran in the Olympics, because I love to run.”
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