.02 of a Second

By: Riley Buckingham

In running, every second counts. It could be the difference between winning a medal and walking home empty handed: the difference between making varsity, or staying on JV. But in my case, it was the difference between a new record and breakthrough, or the same time again. 

I’m a distance runner. I never have- and never will- voluntarily run a sprinting race. So when I began my first real track season last year, I knew my best event would be the mile.

And it was. I got new records in almost every race. I impressed myself and my coaches. I ran race after race, shaving seconds off my time, ending the season with a new record of 6:48 in the mile.  

But there’s another race distance runners participate in. And that’s the 800, or half mile. My enemy: my long-lost rival, the one true match to my track season. Two short, simple laps. Two short, simple laps that did everything in their power to prevent me from getting new records.

I was pretty good at the 800. I would shave a few seconds off every few races. It wasn’t the event I really focused on during the season - I was more of a mile gal -  so I didn't worry too much about the half mile, that was, until I broke my season goal in the mile. 

My goal was to break seven minutes in the mile by the end of the season. I did it after three races. I still wanted to lengthen my distance from the seven, so I still worked hard in the mile, but I began to shift my focus on the 800. And it began to shift its trouble to me. 

At this point in the season, my current record in the 800 was 3:08. I decided I wanted to break three minutes by the end of the season. In races as short as these, it’s difficult to take off four seconds, much less eight; but I was confident. There was still plenty of time left in the seasons, plenty more races to run. How hard could it be?

Hard. Very, very hard. 

I don’t know who hurt this race, and why it took it’s unbridled rage out on me, a simple track runner, looking to take eight silly seconds off her time. But for some reason, the half mile decided to get on my bad side. 

Race after race passed. I would run the mile first, 800 second. I would run the 800 first, mile second. But no matter what order I ran in, I couldn’t break three minutes. 

I would hear the starting gun and take off. I had a running list of advice I would give to myself, little notes I thought would help. Run faster at the start. Stay strong in the middle. Start your finish sprint earlier. Run faster here, run faster there. It was an endless list of notes and ideas, some from myself, others from teammates and coaches, and still no results. 

After countless races of this dreaded half mile, it decided to play nice. I took off seven seconds, making my new record 3:01. I was close to my goal, to my victory, to conquering this evil event. Two seconds. Two seconds stood between me and my goal. All I had to do was run slightly faster. 

You may be wondering to yourself, Wow, our fearless protagonist has made progress! Surely we are now at the point in the story where she conquers our evil antagonist and reaches her goal. Everything is okay again, and our amazing protagonist reigns victorious.

Oh, dear reader. Poor, innocent reader. Have you learned nothing thus far into my tragic tale? This is what the half mile does to you! It lures you in, makes you feel the bright rays of hope, only to snatch them away, one by one. 

It had given me a taste of victory but held it ever so slightly out of reach. The evil monster. 

I arrived at my next race hopeful. This was going to be the one, the race where I finally conquered my enemy, where I finally ended all the pain and suffering. I would reign victorious. 

I ran hard at that race. I had a fast start, stayed strong in the middle, picked up my pace in the last 200 meters, and spritinted the last 100. I crossed the finish line and stopped my watch. I looked down at the time. The three little numbers on my watch face.

3:01. 

You’ve got to be kidding me. 

The same time. How was that possible? I could practically hear the track laughing at me. It knew what it had done. And it knew I would come back to it next week, looking to beat the same time again. 

And guess what? I did not beat my time. 

I ran yet another 3:01. 

The odds of running the same time for two consecutive races are low. But three? It felt like a slap to the face, and the goading track was enjoying it. 

The season was beginning to come to a close. Only a few more races remained. I began to grow worried. What if I couldn’t do it? I would have to wait a whole other year to take two seconds off a time. 

It was at this point that I realized what I had to do. During races, this half mile could hold me back. But it couldn’t do that during practices. 

I began to run faster at practices. I would add extra reps on my workouts. I would do extra stretches. I drank more water throughout the week than I had in my entire life. The 800 had it’s fun, but now I meant business.

One warm up listening to angry songs later, and I was at the starting line. Adrenaline (and a copious amount of water) was running through my veins. I was ready. This was the one.

The gun fired. I cut in. I ran my starting pace for the first 100, then began to dial it back to race pace. I kept my pace consistent, never speeding up, never speeding down. I drowned out the cheering in the stands, keeping my mind focused. I kept my arms swinging, made sure my stride was long. I picked up my pace in the last 200, and I turned the corner.  I could see the clock at the end of the straightaway. 

The seconds were ticking down. I ran fast, faster than I had ever finished at a race. Everything became blurry. I think I blacked out during the finishing sprint. I don’t remember any of it, but I remember the feeling at the end of the race.

The feeling where I paused my watch and looked down. 2 minutes and 59 seconds. It was nerve-racking. I would have to wait for the official results. It was too close to call. I could have paused my watch one second earlier. What if I didn’t do it? 

Waiting was torture. I’m a very impatient person.

Half an hour later, results were up. I scanned the list for my name. Riley Buckingham. I found it. I looked to the right and found the numbers.

2:59.58.

I did it.

By .02 seconds. 

And in running, those .02 seconds mean a lot.