Connectivity
“A self that is only differentiated—not integrated—may attain great individual accomplishments, but risks being mired in self-centered egotism. By the same token, a person who self is based exclusively on integration will be well connected and secure, but lack autonomous individuality. Only when a person invests equal amounts of psychic energy in these two processes and avoids both selfishness and conformity is the self likely to reflect complexity.”
There are nine Days Inn motels in Plainfield, Indiana. Around them the town unfolds upon the barren landscape; a desert of concrete and dead brown grasslands only interrupted by car dealerships and fast food drive-thrus.
The motels and restaurants accommodate mostly gray-suit-wearing middle-aged men with business in nearby Indianapolis. On this particular weekend every room is sold out, and the businessmen must seek other accommodations. Track athletes in college jackets of primary colors, browns, greens, oranges and purples spill from rental vans, talking and laughing as they lug packed gym bags.
Nicole, our coach, drives down Route 40, the central highway that connects Indianapolis with Greencastle and will bring our Middlebury College relay team to the track for two days of intense competition at the NCAA Track and Field Championships at DePauw University. We are certainly a long way from the snowy green mountains of Vermont.
Margo sits in back, her feet clad in scuffed old running shoes, and legs propped up on the seat in front of her. In just a few hours, she will be running the most important race of her life. While she naps her curly red hair splays out against the back window. She approaches nerves differently than the rest of us. Allowing her body to remain relaxed until just before race time. I sit in the middle row between Anj and Juliet. Anj’s spandexed knee bounces up and down as she focuses on the rain outside the window. A senior captain on the team, she has never been to this meet, though her composure masks any doubts she may be feeling.
To my right Juliet controls the music. She hums as she scrolls through her pink iPod and selects a Spice Girls song. Ironically lighthearted pop music blasts from the car’s speakers. Her ripped Middlebury issued sweatshirt is rolled at the sleeves and one leg is tucked beneath her. She is a freshmen who never expected to make it this far, and she nervously giggles when we bring up the race. Up front, Kaitlynn twirls a short brown ringlet as she types, pausing every few minutes to consult the open book beside her. I sit with my eyes focused straight ahead, picturing the race, hearing the starter’s gun. My muscles tense as I practically feel my feet hit the track.
We pull off of Route 40 and into Greencastle. A Pizza King and Whirl ‘O Mat mark the corner of frat row, the town’s central street lined with brick mansions and ancient sycamores. We drive by one frat house, its affiliation indicated by the three Greek letters prominently displayed above wooden double doors. Across the street from the house, the quad is empty, though a few beer cans are scattered on crunchy brown grass from what must have been a wild Thursday night for Beta Theta Pi.
Four women run by in purple sweats and yellow hair ribbons. Williams College, our rival team has also qualified for this meet. They are our toughest competition in our small New England league, and now we have the chance to compete with them on a national scale.
We pull into the athletic center parking lot, the tires of our boxy, black rental car spinning as we park in a muddy spot on the grass. I sling my drawstring spike bag over my shoulder as we walk into the athletic center. “Welcome NCAA Athletes” the banner reads. The brick walls inside are plastered with signs. “Athletes Only”, “Check-In table”, “Officials Review Area.” Crowds of athletes gather by color, painting gray walls with splotches of oranges, yellows and reds.
We check in and put on running shoes for a warm up. Outside the sun struggles to shine through a cloudy gray sky. The first five minutes are for loosening legs. My arms swing gently by my sides as my body once again acquaints itself with this familiar movement. Sneakers pound on pavement as I focus on the sidewalk ahead. The others run to the rhythm of their ipods, but I prefer the presence of the outside world. We run past the empty steps of the Putnam County library, barely noticing the advertisements for Bingo Night out front, or the crumbling brick of the community center next door.
We begin to run faster, each of us visualizing the race ahead. Race mode is a world of its own. My imagined scene on the track replaces the reality of my vision. I see the starting gun, hear the silent cheers of the crowd as I round each corner. Colors blur and thoughts dissolve until it is only my body, pushing until I can stand it no longer.
Back on the street I see my three teammates ahead, and speed up to fall into their stride. We will not leave each other’s side until the last possible moment. Though, in the time that will define our team, we must work as individuals for the group success.
Back inside we strip down to our navy blue and white uniforms and gather around our metallic blue baton, each placing blue nail-polished pinkies on the cool metal. We have spent months preparing for this moment. Every early morning hill workout and late night in the weight room will now be put to the test. Around us other teams gather similarly, praying or speaking in hushed whispers. The Williams team nervously reties their shoes. Five minutes until race time.
I clap flat palms against my thighs to “wake up my muscles” as a high school coach once called it.
“Well guys, at least I have my toothbrush,” Anj says as she pulls it from her track bag. We laugh and look around to realize that we are the only team laughing. This only makes us laugh harder, attracting confused stares from the skinny girls in purple and yellow.
A race official leads us onto the track, and we form a line along the banked edge. The leadoff runners walk with him to the starting line. The rest of us cheer for Kaitlynn as she takes her place in lane one. She steps up to the line to begin the 1200-meter leg of our relay.
“Runners take your mark,” says the starter.
There is a long pause. No sound comes from the usually rowdy spectators who sit in the bleachers on either side of the track. I notice Nicole nervously adjusting her watch. The other runners stretch already loose muscles to avoid that nervous stillness.
BANG the gun goes off, sending eleven runners forward in a frantic fight for the front position. Kaitlynn passes Williams, Tufts and Brandeis. She has the lead and runs with controlled purpose as ten pairs of spiked feet pound on the red rubber track behind her.
The announcer speaks calmly, but with interest. “And there’s Middlebury College out in front, led by junior Kaitlynn Saldanha.”
She rounds the first lap, navy blue and white blocking out the oranges, greens and reds in her wake. She has a look of silent determination, and her strong arms move to the rhythm of her stride, propelling her forward with each step. I try to cheer when she passes but can only manage an inaudible whisper and smile. My nerves tingle and my leg muscles feel useless. It is difficult to imagine them carrying me around the track within the next three minutes.
After five more laps, and still in the lead, Kaitlynn approaches the finish line. Anj stands on the line, her arm reaching out to show her position among the blend of color. She takes off, one, two, three steps, then turns and smoothly takes the baton from Kaitlynn’s outstretched arm.
Anj has two laps to run for the 400-meter. This distance attracts a tough field of competitors. The nation’s best long sprinters compete to shave tenths of a second from their teams’ overall time. Anj is short and quick. Her tanned legs fly around the track in sync with the sheer determination in her dark eyes. She finishes in third, barely slowing to pass me the tube of shiny metal.
When I grab the baton and go, my weightless spikes barely graze the rubber surface. My muscles no longer feel tired and with each step, my toes push off, and long legs propel me forward. There is no longer a crowd of spectators, only a blur of color as I run past. I spot two girls out in front. Illinois Wesleyan leads in green, and St. Thomas follows her in purple. These girls are shorter than me. I can see their legs working to maintain speed, but I know mine can run faster. We’ve got to get going, we can’t afford to waste a second. On the corner I catch up, then as we approach the straightaway, I move out to lane two, speeding up to gain the lead. I decisively maintain my position for lap two. On lap three, Illinois Wesleyan passes me, a good move. I know I’ve got to stay with her. I keep the green uniform within a stride as our pace quickens. Now our toes barely touch the track before they leave it again. One lap to go.
Outside light rain falls on soggy brown grass. Mary Walsh gets off of her shift at the Greencastle convenience store. She begins the half-mile walk home, passing by the old town cemetery on her way. Frat boys on the porch of Delta Chi crack open a fourth beer, passing time on a dreary Friday afternoon.
On the track my muscles tighten. We have 200 meters to go, I must get the lead. We take our last turn and once again I step into lane two. I can see Margo reaching for the baton. I am aware of a green uniform beside me, then she disappears. My burning legs carry me across the line. The baton never slows as it slams into Margo’s outstretched hand.
She takes off in first place, her red hair bobbing in pace with her steady, calculated steps. The race itself slows down as the milers settle into their pace. I barely feel tired as I run around the inside of the track. I keep one eye on Margo, while studying the clock overhead. I’m frantically figuring splits, calculating times. We’re on track to be National Champions, the ultimate honor in a meet like this. Now the race is out of my control. Only Margo will dictate how we finish.
With two laps to go, she tightens up. I can see her tired legs fighting to keep going as other runners begin to pass. St. Thomas flies by in purple, followed by explosions of green, orange and blue. On the last straightaway she is in fifth. The final ten seconds seem to last an hour. As Margo crosses the finish, the clock turns to twelve minutes. The Williams runner struggles to take her final strides, as the three runners in navy blue crowd around a collapsed Margo. We finish 7th, no national champions but good enough for All-American.
Together we step onto the podium to receive our trophies. And together we step into the light drizzle. We link arms and skip down the sidewalk, ready to face the world beyond the track, beyond the world of guns, and splits, and times, side by side.
