Diary of a Washed Up Runner: Day 4, The Legend of 5-Peat Continues

(*Author’s note: this is a new feature on Burnpoetry, chronicling my attempts to reconnect to my once-favorite sport of long distance running.  For the detailed explanation, click on this link.  This post is the 2nd chapter in a yearly tradition, where I recount one of the most legendary performances that I witnessed during my college track and field career.  I’m going to tie it into my DWUR post to keep moving that new project forward.  For part I of this legend, click here.)

Date: 4/21/2006
Distance: 1 Mile
Time: 4:25 split (I think?)
Location: Kansas Track
Self-loathing: Non-Existent

The next day dawned beautifully; the kind of spring day that causes track fans and athletes to close their eyes, lift their faces to the sun, and smile.  I was, indeed, smiling to myself as I stepped into KU’s stadium that Friday.  Focused on the task at hand, my impending race, 3-Peat had faded to the outskirts of my mind.  As I entered the gate to the stands my once proud, steely concentration promptly imploded like a rundown stadium getting demolished.

It was 3-Peat.

There.  Right in front of me.  His immediacy assailed my very consciousness.

And he was spitting some game.  In fact, he appeared to be trying his damnedest to pimp two girls.

Several things about the situation were notable; that pulled me in and rooted both my feet to the ground and focused my teetering-on-the-brink mind to the present fiasco unfolding before me.

First: the girls were no more than 13 years old.  They appeared to have just gotten done shopping at Baby Gap for Bratz gear and had stopped in to watch a few races before an orthodontist appointment.  Second: 3-Peat’s attempts to win over the affection of these tweenagers was rapidly degenerating into something that even I was shocked by.  He was trying to impress the girls by doing the “Lean Wit’ It, Rock Wit’ it” dance.

I stood there hypnotized by the idiocy of the moment.  3-Peat, his teeth jutting out like a male walrus flaunting the goods during mating season, was trying to impress a couple of girls who were likely there to watch their classmates run in the Middle School 4×100 Relay event.  By dancing.  Given the psuedo-celebrity status I had afforded 3-Peat in my mind at this point, it was akin to watching bigfoot C-walk around a still-living Elvis while an un-shot Tupac served as his hype man.

“Lean wit’ it!” He shouted, oblivious to his echoing cries bouncing off the walls of the stadium (*Author’s note: this exact moment would mark the turning point for me in realizing that all rap songs that have a pre-made dance to go with them are terrible.)  He flailed around like a shark attack victim, looking for all the world like an epileptic who’d accidentally wandered into a laser light show.

The 13-year-olds were unimpressed.  However, I counted myself truly fortunate to have run into a now-legendary KU Relays competitor for what I though was one final time.  Unfortunately I was unable to stay to watch the conclusion to 3-Peat’s “To Catch a Predator” audition tape.  I had a race to run.

And run we did.

We ended up winning the 4xMile in a complete and utter fluke.  It was quite possibly the slowest winning time in Relays history.  (*Author’s note: I haven’t fact checked this, but I feel certain it’s at least close to the truth.)  D-Block, one of my teammates, was his usual petulant self and was borderline offensive when we were asked for some quotes by the KU student newspaper.  My efforts to smooth things over didn’t go particularly well, either, as I was quoted as “Nick Garcia” in the story about our victory.  Apparently in Lawrence, Kansas I look half-mexican.

We headed home that night with a trophy, which our coach commandeered and we never saw again, some pleather-banded watches and what I already considered a pile of great stories.  Not even the Hardee’s food or our assistant coach’s country music singing could dampen my mood.

The final day of the KU Relays is reserved for the best of the best.

Better college competitors, elite-level pros and Olympians alike are let loose to chase after the glory and prestige of another record; another gold.  Garcia, a friend we’ll call Tonto, and I decided that while we weren’t competing we could at least go back and watch some great track races.  We arrived just in time to watch a hotly contested, blazingly fast 800 meter run and I wasted no time in regaling everyone around us with tales of 3-Peat and what we had seen in the last two days.

No sooner had I finished telling my epic tale then the remaining 800 meter races began.  These heats were reserved for the faster, more experienced collegiate competitors and promised to be much faster than the heats we’d run in two nights prior.

We settled in to enjoy some top-notch competition.  A few heats in, my gaze wandering across the runners toeing the starting line, I stood up and removed my hat and sunglasses like an overacting extra catching his first glimpse of the asteroid in “Deep Impact.”

“Oh. . .shit. . .” I nearly shouted the last profanity, drawing more than a few looks from those around us.

“That’s him.  Down there.  The guy I was telling you all about.  3-Peat.”  I croaked out his last name, throat tightening with apprehension at what we were about to see.

“My God,” I whispered.  “I think he’s going for a 4-Peat.”

“How did he even get into this race,” Tonto said voicing what was one of the biggest mysteries behind 3-Peat’s KU Relays mystique.  With a high quality meet like the KU relays there are certain qualifying times that one is required to hit in order to compete.  To get into some of the tougher heats the times may even be checked by relay officials to make sure that they’re legitimate.

We watched with a mixture of horror and awe as 3-Peat began the race, with his patented terrified flinch, and was immediately left flat-footed at the start as the other runners surged directly past him.  It was like watching Vince Wilfork run a 40 against DeSean Jackson.  The people around us who were unschooled in the lore of 3-Peat couldn’t understand why my friends and I were in such an uproar.

I still don’t know how he weaseled his way into such a tough field of competitors but Ray Charles could’ve seen that he didn’t belong in that heat.  And he’s blind.  And dead.  That’s how apparent it was that this Nicole-Richie-On-Diet-Pills, armband-toting goofus shouldn’t have been in this heat.

He staggered across the line with his fourth straight DFL.  Dead Freakin’ Last.  He slumped into the infield, dropping as though hit by some unseen sniper and threw his arms into the air in a sign of utter defeat and exhaustion.  His fourth race of the Kansas Relays, and his fourth disastrous race completed, the man we were now triumphantly calling “4-Peat” appeared content to die on the infield.

After a few moments he stirred.  Once again realizing that we weren’t cheering on another human’s untimely death, we let out a collective sigh of relief and began laughing until our lungs burned.  Garcia was mumbling incoherent sentences and I couldn’t stop laughing except to hack like a pack-an-hour smoker.  I tried to ease myself down from the immense endorphin-high, but I felt like Tony Montana after he nose-dived into the pile of cocaine on his desk in “Scarface.”

Gradually my heart rate came down from 398 beats-per-minute and I relaxed.  My favorite event was coming up in a mere 20 minutes and I was thoroughly excited to watch some more great track and field.

The Elite Men’s Mile race is one of the premiere events of the KU Relays.  Attracting some of the most talented runners from the midwest, and indeed all over the country, this particular year it sported such talents as NCAA Champion and 2008 Olympian Christian Smith, KU Relays legend Charlie Gruber and a grouping of other amazing runners well capable of electrifying the stadium.

Even with such an exciting event soon up on the track, we were still abuzz with talk of 4-Peat and how he’d managed to get into such a tough field of 800 runners at such an important meet.  I felt certain that I’d look down and see that he’d conned his way into the women’s high jump, or was somehow sprinting down the runway to attempt a triple jump against professional athletes.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that the entire stadium was like a big game of “Where’s Waldo.”  Except that Waldo wasn’t wearing his patented white and red sweater, he was sporting neon orange arm bands.  And was an idiot.

Honestly, as my eyes scanned the crowd and the stadium for signs of this elusive creature, there was really only one place I didn’t think he’d be.

“Now on the track,” the voice boomed over the PA system, “the Elite Men’s mile.”

I assured Garcia that we were in for one “awesome” race and he nodded in wholehearted agreement. Toeing the starting line below us were 12 complete badasses.  12 men who could cover a mile in the time it takes me to microwave up a frozen dinner and could cover 5,280 feet at breathtaking, reckless speeds.

But there was a 13th man in the field on this day.

Call if fate, call it dumb luck, call it whatever the hell you want.  Pick a cliche.  But the unlucky 13th competitor on this day was a wily veteran of the Kansas Relays.  He was going for something that most athletes only dream of having next to their name.  The 13th competitor was going for a 5-Peat.

“Gaaaccckkguhghh.”  I could do no more than scream like some wildly incoherent Justin Bieber groupie coming face to face with her dreams.

“Unnghhgh.”  My mouth couldn’t seem to form more than ape-like, Tarzan-styled gargling.

All eyes in the section planted on me and I could do no more than merely point accusingly down at the line, lifting a suddenly-heavy arm and extending my pointer finger like a reluctant witness, fingering a mob boss for the prosecution.

Suddenly, like a beach full of tourists hearing the panicked cry of “Shark!” everyone whipped their heads in the same direction.  Down below us, shoulder to shoulder with NCAA Champions, Nike-sponsored Professionals, and future Olympians was none other than 4-Peat.

Despite having gotten beaten like a dirty rug a mere 20-minutes prior, by far inferior competition, 4-Peat was somehow back on the track.

A hush fell over our section as the runners were called to their marks.  4-Peats twiggy, Calista Flockhart arms dangled loosely near his sides.  The anticipation was palpable.  You could taste it.

*Crack* The gun went off.  4-Peat, having clearly not gotten any better at starting, flinched backwards like a man receiving a guilty verdict in a capital murder case.  The rest of the competitors flew past, immediately gapping him by 50 meters.  Had it been any other competitor, in any other field, the beatdown was fast that I might have been shocked.

Short of teleportation, I’m not sure how anyone could move backwards so fast.  It was like watching that terrible movie, Jumper while rewinding.

The cameraman manning the big screen TV simply couldn’t pan out far enough to keep 4-Peat in the shot.  By the end of the first lap, 4-Peat was nearly 175 Meters back.

Bedlam reigned in our section.

I had become nearly comatose.  Garcia’s mouth was agape, unhinged like a snake downing its too-large prey, and he was sucking in great gasps of air.

I was enthralled.  Had someone offered me 1 million dollars to look away, at that moment, I couldn’t have even understood what they were asking.  4-Peat was moving in fits and jerks like a car running out of gas.  Had there been anyone in front of me I would have shaken them to death in a fit of pure adrenaline.

800 Meters into the race, 4-Peat began looking over his shoulder.

What he saw would’ve scared a lesser man, or anyone with an IQ above freezing.  It was a pack of the finest milers in the country bearing down on him, approximately 250 meters away from lapping him. IN THE FIRST TWO LAPS.

In all my years as a spectator of JV and fun-running competition I had never seen anyone in danger of getting lapped so quickly.  A roar was steadily building in my mind.  We were about to see a new kind of KU Relays record.  One of futility and ineptitude.  We were about to witness the worst beating in the mile race.  Ever.

As the elite runners bore down on 4-Peat I got that sense that he would hold the inside lane until trampled.

It was like seeing a car stall out on the train tracks with a Union Pacific behemoth coming at full blast.  Not even Chris Pine and Denzel Washington could stop this freight train.

Moments from doom, 4-Peat suddenly pulled the ejector seat on his crazy ride to glory.  Seeing that he was about to get destroyed for the 5th time in 5 races, the man we were referring to as “5-Peat” did something disappointing.

He played it smart.

(*Author’s note: Before you think that this story has some kind of happy ending, you should still keep in mind who’s narrating and who the story is being written about.)

Instead of bowing out of the race with his infinitesimally tiny amount of dignity still intact, 5-Peat faked like he blew out a hamstring.

He leapt into the air like a triple jumper in mid-ACL tear, head whiplashing backwards with a startlingly intense g-force, and fell in a sweaty heap of Adidas crap squarely in the middle of lane one.  5-Peat lay strewn face down on the track and appeared to have no intention of getting his broke-ass off the track.

He lay there, a cadaver, until the race officials sprinted over, unceremoniously drug him off the track and dumped him on the infield.

The officials deposited the scrawny carcass near the 50-yard-line and ran back over to watch the exciting conclusion of the race.  5-Peat lolled about on the infield like a whale run aground or a first-time drinker who just went 12 rounds with a bottle of Jack Daniels.

We were all elated.  I repeatedly made a fool of myself by high-fiving anyone around and jubilantly shouting, “He did it!  He did it.  It’s a 5-Peat!”

We left the stadium that day in a daze.

We weren’t sure what we’d seen.  Was this some kind of inane, practical joke pulled by a KU Relays official?  Performance art by an art-school hipster?

How did 5-Peat get into some of the most competitive fields?  Was the government involved in some kind of conspiracy?  We may never know.  I’m still not sure who won the Collegiate 800, the 5k Fun Run, the College Mile, the Open 800, or even the Elite Men’s mile.  What I will always remember, however, is that I witnessed a 5-Peat.

(*Author’s note: sometimes you can judge a book by its cover.  Especially if the cover is really bad.)

FIN

Diary of a Washed Up Runner: Day 3, The Legend of 5-Peat Lives

(*Author’s note: this is a new feature on Burnpoetry, chronicling my attempts to reconnect to my once-favorite sport of long distance running.  For the detailed explanation, click on this link.  This post is a yearly tradition, where I recount one of the most legendary performances that I witnessed during my college Track and Field career.  I’m going to tie it into my DWUR post to keep moving that new project forward.)

Date: 4/20/2006
Distance: .5 Miles
Time: 2:00.22
Location: Kansas Track
Self-loathing: Moderate (Due to a terrible 800 time)

(*Secondary Author’s note: This past weekend was the 87th Running of the Kansas Relays.  When I think KU Relays I don’t think of my own races there.  Nor do I think of the recent battles on the track that will have made the KU Relays in 2014 a great event.  No.  I’m taken back to 2006.  When as a true freshman I bore witness to a performance that will echo through eternity like a brazen cry from atop a mountain peak.  I was there, Burnpoetry readers.  I saw him.  Every year I repost the legend.  Every year the legend grows.  Are people probably tired of hearing it?  Sure.  Do I care?  Nope.)

I was a freshman at Wichita State University at the time and was slated to compete in the 800 and the 4xMile relay at the 79th installment of the KU Relays.  I was excited to compete in such a storied even and equally as excited to watch some of the world-class talent that would run in the professional section of the meet.  The KU Relays attract some of the best U.S. and international competitors that track and field has to offer and that year was no exception.

My first race of the day was the Collegiate 800, I was excited to compete and was aware that the field would be both competitive and unpredictable.  However, I was unaware that I was about to witness something so epic and profound that it would shake me to my very core and change my view of the sporting world for all of time.

I first saw him at the check-in stand (*Author’s note: a place where runners sign in with race officials, receive heat information and get identification hip numbers).

Normally I didn’t pay attention to many of the other competitors before a race.  I was usually honing in on the task at hand.  One competitor was completely un-ignorable.

Clad in an outrageously expensive Adidas singlet, his gangly arms sprouting out at all angles like a dying tree, the runner was a neon sign of un-athleticism.  I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve had my share of bad race predictions based on outward appearances (*Author’s note: epitomized by the “Rupp Incident of 2003” when I, along with my brother and father, taunted Galen Rupp for rocking a nasal strip and running shorts short enough to make a rap video dancer blush. An incident in which I famously predicted that the future Olympic medalist would most likely “suck.”) but this runner wore goofiness and physical ineptitude as easily as he wore his skimpy black shorts.  The ludicrous outfit culminated with two raucous, bright orange arm bands that he sported on the ends of his pipe-cleaner-sized arms.  Clearly he was ready.  For what was unclear.

Shortly after my initial shock wore off at seeing such a side-show-quality character I was shuffled off to compete and drug ass through my usual 800 meter run.  After running another disappointingly lackluster race on KU’s spongecake of a track, I staggered over to the water station and turned to watch my teammates run their races.  Garcia and Sco-Jo ran well enough and came to join me where I was coughing up a lung on the sidelines.  As I was in mid-asthmatic wheeze, I caught sight of two familiar tangerine armbands attached to their familiar, Mary Kate Olsen-sized, biceps dangling at the starting line.

“This oughta be good,” I said, pointing.

The gun went off, obviously scaring the piss out of the inanely-garbed object of our attention.  After slowly recovering from his full-body shock, which made deer in headlights everywhere look decisive, he took off.  Immediately chugging to the back of the pack, he doggedly clung to last place.  It was a painful few minutes before he bungled his way across the line, chest heaving and breathing in death-rasping pants that immediately called to mind Reuben Studdard competing in windsprints.

He was mere inches away from keeling over as he lurched to a stop.

Sco-Jo cackled madly, trying to regain his breath.  Garcia’s mouth stood open, parted at the lips in shock.  All I could muster, for my part, were whispered swear words.  Already feeling lucky for having witnessed such out-and-out insanity I joined my teammates on a cooldown run.

Shortly after our cooldown, we found ourselves watching another teammate run the collegiate mile.  As heat after heat of miles were run, my attention waned.  But then, during one of the final heats, in the peripherals of sight I spotted something.  Something familiar.  Something neon, eye-wrenching, Ke$ha-clown-makeup orange.  Something in absolutely.  Dead.  Freaking.  Last.

“Holy shit,” I gasped, slapping Garcia on the shoulder and directing his attention back down to the track.  “It’s him!”

Our boy was midway through his second race in roughly 30 minutes and was faring no better the second time around.  In fact, if it was possible, he was faring worse.  His face was screwed up into a mask of hideous anguish, arms splaying out at all angles in a textbook example of how not to run; he crossed the line a good 30 seconds behind the leaders.  I was in stitches, laughing madly.

My near hysteria, proved contagious and somehow organically spread to those around me. It only abated slightly when, for a brief moment, I felt certain the runner would die from his efforts.  Once it became clear that he would live to lose another day, and that we weren’t dancing on anyone’s grave, our merriment continued.  Needless to say, my cough hadn’t gotten any better.

The meet continued.  About 20 minutes after the mile races finished, we were dismayed to find out that we had to stay for the Open 5k; a fun run designed to give soccer moms, inevitably shirtless old men, and anyone with 20 bucks and a pair of Sauconys a chance to make like Jim Ryun.  Certain that we were going to have to sit through a glorified, geriatric race-walk, no one paid attention as the gun went on.

As is the case with most 5k races, the pack thinned out rather quickly.  With mild disinterest I glanced down at the track.

“What in the hell?!?!”  I very nearly shouted.  My mind was suddenly reeling, spinning into a collapse like some human black hole.  “Look down there,” I cried to anyone who would listen.  “He’s going for a 3-peat!”

Down on the track, horse-teeth glinting in the pale glow of the stadium lights, arms flailing like a chicken in its death throes was an inglorious sight.  It was him.  Again.  He was dragging ass through his third distance race in a little over an hour.

Sco-Jo was irrationally angry, feeling that the man we dubbed “3-Peat” was slandering the good name of college track and field.  Garcia thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen, bellowing forth laughter in between wheezes.  I filled in everyone around us about the historic attempt we were witnessing and 3-Peat fever spread amongst the team.  We weren’t entirely sure, but at some point we believed that the race standings, shown on the big screen TV, had 3-Peat listed as first.

(*Author’s note: This rumor, now widely thought to be untrue, was greeted by overzealous cheers and too-loud applause from our section.)

3-peat was a mess.  He was routinely blow past by 40-year-old mothers and pack-a-day smokers wearing basketball shoes with equal zeal.  He staggered along, hunched over like a woman in labor on her way to the delivery room, pain on his face visible even from the upper decks of the stadium.  I can’t speak for the others, but I felt a very palpable and impending sense of dread that 3-Peat was going to crap his skimpies.

At some point, and I’m not sure how, we lost 3-Peat in the commotion.  He must’ve somehow slipped off the track and disappeared.  Perhaps a coma, or the sweet call of a local Adidas outfitter, lured him off the track that night and away from his attempt at glory.

(*Author’s note: A day later, as I was perusing the KU Relays photography page I found a picture of 3-Peat from the 5K fun run.  Leaning forward precariously, his eyes narrow slits of pain, he was clutching his side as though prison-shanked in the kidneys.  Meanwhile, forever immortalized in film and in my mind, he was being passed by a smiling, 40-year-old woman, waving to her friends in the crowd.  He looked like he was just finishing up the homestretch on the Trail of Tears.)

Regardless of where he went, or how we managed to not see his finish, we were all on cloud nine.  I had laughed so hard that my face hurt and not even my poor showing on the track could dampen my spirits.  As we headed towards the team vans, idiotic grins plastered on many a face, I was so lost in thought that I nearly bumped into someone on my way out of the stadium.  Thinking nothing of it, I continued walking into the parking lot.

As I approached the team van, I noticed a group of three girls ducking behind cars, moving quickly and speaking in hushed tones; crouching low as they slid from vehicle to vehicle.  It was clear that they were trying to avoid detection and I paused, wondering if they were hiding from someone, or if they were merely a group of tweenage car thieves who had seen one too many Fast and Furious movies.  It quickly became clear that the former was clear.  I found myself wondering who, or what, could be so terrifying that it could drive a group of teenage girls to hide in a dirty parking lot at dusk.

“Come on,” one girl whispered to the others.  “Hurry up before he sees us.”

They seemed genuinely terrified.  I prepared to step forward and make sure they were okay, but moments before I could, a voice rang out in the night.

“What up, ladiiiiiiieeeeesssss?!?!”

Apparently they’d been found.  The voice calling to them sounded like some foul, and seemingly impossible, combination of one of the Ying Yang Twins and Forrest Gump.

“Crap,” said another of the girls, her voice waving a verbal white flag of surrender.

I turned to see who these innocent young girls were hiding from and again found myself in a state of utter shock.  My breath simply ceased to exist.  In a vacuum of surprise, no air could be had and my mind exploded into a humming blankness.  I’m sure you know by now who it was.

“Yo, ladiiiiiiiiiiiieees!”  He shouted again.  Dragging out the last syllable like some ridiculous Andrew Dice Clay disciple.

He strutted past me, scrawny chest puffed out, still clad in his Daisy Duke-sized shorts and those gag-inducing armbands.  He was as un-suave as is humanly possible.  Freddy Krueger has more sex appeal than 3-Peat did that night.

I watched as he was universally, swiftly, and unequivocally rejected by each and every girl, then I sprinted to the team van and informed everyone of what I just seen.

I couldn’t believe all that I had witnessed.  I had somehow slipped into the Twilight Zone: Morons Edition or some alternate reality where everything seemed to be spun wildly on its head.  The day one tally for 3-Peat stood as such.

1 Hour.

3 Races.

0 Wins.

Fully rejected by multiple too-young girls.

Ass: utterly and completely whipped.

The next day I was scheduled to compete in the 4xMile relay race.  I had never done a relay race of that distance and had never competed at the college level on such a big stage.  3-Peat was, therefore, the last thing on my mind as I entered the stadium for day two of the Kansas Relays.  But the legend of 5-Peat was far from over.  In fact, it was just beginning.

To Be Continued. . .

The Legend of 5-Peat, Cont.

The next day dawned beautiful.  The kind of spring day that causes track fans and athletes to close their eyes, lift their faces to the sun, and smile.  I was smiling to myself as I stepped into KU’s stadium that Friday.  Focused on the task at hand, my impending race, 3-Peat had faded to the outskirts of my mind.  As I entered the gate to the stands my once proud, steely concentration promptly imploded like a rundown stadium getting demolished.

It was 3-Peat.  And he was spitting some game.  In fact, he appeared to be trying his damnedest to pimp two girls. Several things about the situation were notable; that pulled me in and rooted both my feet to the ground and my teetering-on-the-brink mind to the presentation fiasco unfolding before me.

First, the girls were no more than 13 years old.  They appeared to have just gotten done shopping at Baby Gap for Bratz gear and had stopped in to watch a few races before an orthodontist appointment.  Second, 3-Peat’s attempts to win over the affection of these tweenagers was rapidly degenerating into something that even I was shocked by.  He was trying to impress the girls by doing the “Lean Wit’ It, Rock Wit’ it” dance.

I stood there hypnotized by the idiocy of the moment.  I can still see it in my mind’s eye today, as clear as if it was happening right in front of me again.  3-Peat, his teeth jutting out like a male walrus flaunting the goods during mating season, was trying to impress a couple of girls who were inevitably there to watch their classmates run in the Middle School 4×100 relay.  By dancing.  Given the psuedo-celebrity status I had afforded 3-Peat in my mind at this point, it was akin to watching Bigfoot C-walk around a still-living Elvis and an un-shot Tupac.

“Lean wit’ it!” He shouted, oblivious to his echoing cries bouncing off the walls of the stadium and oblivious to how this would mark the turning point for my realization that all rap songs that have a pre-made dance to go with them are terrible.  He flailed around like a shark attack victim, looking for all the world like an epileptic who’d accidentally wandered into a laser light show.

The 13-year-olds were unimpressed.  However, I counted myself truly fortunate to have run into a now-legendary KU Relays competitor for what I though was one final time.  Unfortunately I was unable to stay to watch the conclusion to 3-Peat’s “To Catch a Predator” audition tape.  I had a race to run.

And run we did.  We ended up winning the 4xMile in a complete and utter fluke.  It was quite possibly the slowest winning time in Relays history.  (*Author’s note: I haven’t fact checked this, but I feel certain it’s at least close to the truth.)  D-Block, one of my teammates, was his usual petulant self and was borderline offensive when we were asked for some quotes by the KU student newspaper.  My efforts to smooth things over didn’t go particularly well, either, as I was quoted as Nick Garcia in the story about our victory.  Apparently in Lawrence, Kansas I look half-mexican.

We headed home that night with a trophy, which our coach commandeered and we never saw again, some pleather-banded watches and what I already considered a pile of great stories.  Not even the Hardee’s food or our assistant coach’s country music singing could dampen my mood.

The final day of the KU Relays is reserved for the best of the best.  Better college competitors, elite-level pros and Olympians alike are let loose to chase after the glory and prestige of another record; another gold.  Garcia, a friend we’ll call Tonto, and I decided that while we weren’t competing we could at least go back and watch some great track races.  We arrived just in time to watch a hotly contested, blazingly fast 800 meter run and I wasted no time in regaling everyone around us with tales of 3-Peat and what we had seen in the last two days.

No sooner had I finished telling my epic tale then the other 800 meter races began.  These heats were reserved for the faster, more experienced collegiate competitors and promised to be much faster than the heats we’d run in the previous night. We settled in to enjoy some top-notch competition.  A few heats in, my gaze wandering across the runners toeing the starting line, I stood up and removed my hat and sunglasses like an overacting extra catching his first glimpse of the asteroid in “Deep Impact.”

“Oh. . .shit. . .” I nearly shouted the last profanity, drawing more than a few looks from those around us.  “That’s him down there.  The guy I was telling you all about.  3-Peat.”  I croaked out his last name, throat tightening with apprehension at what we were about to see.  “My God,” I whispered.  “I think he’s going for a 4-Peat.”

“How did he even get into this race,” Tonto said voicing what was one of the biggest mysteries behind 3-Peat’s racing.  With a high quality meet like the KU relays there are certain qualifying times that one is required to meet.  To get into some of the tougher heats the times may even be checked by relay officials to make sure that they’re legitimate.

We watched with a mixture of horror and awe as 3-Peat began the race with his patented terrified flinch and immediately was left flat-footed at the start as the other runners surged directly past him.  It was like watching Vince Wilfork run a 40 against Devin Hester.  That’s how quickly 3-Peat was left in the dust.  Those people around us who were unschooled in the lore of 3-Peat couldn’t understand why my friends and I were in such an uproar.

I still don’t know how he weaseled his way into such a tough field of competitors but Ray Charles could’ve seen that he didn’t belong in this heat. And he’s blind. And dead. That’s how apparent it was that this Nicole-Richie-On-Diet-Pills, armband toting goofus shouldn’t have been in this heat.  He staggered across the line with his fourth straight DFL.  Dead Freakin’ Last.  He slumped into the infield, dropping as though hit by some unseen sniper and threw his arms into the air in a sign of utter defeat and exhaustion.  His fourth race of the Kansas Relays, and his fourth disastrous race completed, the man we were now triumphantly calling “4-Peat” appeared content to die on the infield.

After a few moments he stirred. Once again realizing that we weren’t cheering on another human’s untimely death, we let out a collective sigh of relief and began laughing until our lungs burned.  Garcia was mumbling incoherent sentences and I couldn’t stop laughing except to hack like a pack-an-hour smoker.  I tried to ease myself down from the immense endorphin-high  but I felt like Tony Montana after he nose-dived into the pile of cocaine on his desk in “Scarface.”

Gradually my heart rate came down from 398 beats-per-minute and I relaxed.  My favorite even was coming up in a mere 20 minutes and I was thoroughly excited to watch some more great track and field. The Elite Mens Mile race is one of the premiere events of th KU Relays.  Attracting some of the most talented runners from the midwest, and indeed all over the country, this year it sported such talents as NCAA Champion and 2008 Olympian Christian Smith, KU Relays legend Charlie Gruber and a grouping of other amazing runners well capable of electrifying the stadium.

We were still abuzz with talk of 4-Peat and how he’d managed to get into such a tough field of 800 runners at such an important meet.  I felt certain that I’d look down and see that he’d conned his way into the women’s high jump, or was somehow sprinting down the runway to attempt a triple jump against professional athletes.  I felt that the entire stadium was like a big game of “Where’s Waldo.”  Except that Waldo wasn’t wearing his patented white and red sweater, he was sporting neon orange arm bands.  And was an idiot.

Honestly, as my eyes scanned the crowd and the stadium for signs of this elusive creature, there was really only one place I didn’t think he’d be.

“Now on the track,” the voice boomed over the PA system, “the Elite Men’s mile.”  I assured Garcia that we were in for one “awesome” race and he nodded in wholehearted agreement. Toeing the starting line below us were 12 complete badasses. 12 men who could cover a mile in the time it takes me to microwave up a frozen dinner and could cover 5,280 feet at breathtaking, reckless speeds.  There was a 13th man in the field on this day, however.  Call if fate, call it dumb luck, call it whatever the hell you want.  Pick a cliche.  But the unlucky 13th competitor on this day was a wily veteran of the Kansas Relays.  He was going for something that most athletes only dream of having next to their name.  The 13th competitor was going for a 5-Peat.

“Gaaaccckkguhghh.”  I could do no more than scream like some wildly incoherent Justin Bieber groupie coming face to face with her dreams.  “Unnghhgh.”  My mouth couldn’t seem to form more than ape-like, Tarzan-styled gargling.  All eyes in the section around me wer firmly planted on me and I could do no more than merely point accusingly down at the line, lifting a suddenly-heavy arm and extending my pointer finger like a reluctant witness fingering a mob boss for the prosecution.

Suddenly, like a beach full of tourists hearing the panicked cry of “Shark!” everyone whipped their heads in the same direction.  Down below us, shoulder to shoulder with NCAA Champions, Nike-Sponsored Professionals, and future Olympians was none other than 4-Peat.  Despite having gotten beaten like a dirty rug a mere 20-minutes prior, by far inferior competition, 4-Peat was back on the track.

A hush fell over our section as the runners were called to their marks.  4-Peats twiggy, Calista Flockhart arms dangled loosely near his sides.  The anticipation was palpable.  You could taste it.  *Crack* The gun went off.  4-Peat, having clearly not gotten any better at starting, flinched backwards like a man receiving a guilty verdict.  The rest of the competitors flew past, immediately gapping him by 50 meters.  Had it been any other competitor, in any other field, the beatdown was fast that I might have been shocked.

Short of teleportation, I’m not sure how anyone could move backwards so fast.  It was like watching that terrible movie, “Jumper,” on rewind mode.  The cameraman manning the big screen TV simply couldn’t pan out far enough to keep 4-Peat in the shot.  By the end of the first lap, 4-Peat was nearly 175 Meters back.  Bedlam reigned in our section.  I had become nearly comatose.  Garcia’s mouth was agape, unhinged like a snake downing its too-large prey, and he was sucking in great gasps of air.

I was enthralled.  Had someone offered me 1 million dollars to look away, at that moment, I couldn’t have even understood what they were asking.  4-Peat was moving in fits and jerks like a car running out of gas.  Had there been anyone in front of me I would have shaken them to death in a fit of pure adrenaline.

800 Meters into the race, 4-Peat began looking over his shoulder.  What he saw would’ve scared a lesser man, or anyone with an IQ above freezing.  It was a pack of the finest milers in the country bearing down on him, approximately 250 meters away from lapping him. IN THE FIRST TWO LAPS.  In all my years as a spectator of JV and fun-running competition I had never seen anyone in danger of getting lapped so quickly.  A roar was building in my mind.  We were about to see a new kind of KU Relays record.  One of futility and ineptitude.  We wer about to witness the worst beating in the mile race.  Ever.

As the elite runners bore down on 4-Peat I got that sense that he would hold the inside lane until trampled.  It was like seeing a car stall out on the train tracks with a Union Pacific behemoth coming at full blast.  Not even Chris Pine and Denzel Washington could stop this freight train.  Suddenly 4-Peat pulled the ejector seat on his crazy ride to glory.  Seeing that he was about to get destroyed for the 5th time in 5 races, the man we were referring to as “5-Peat” did something disappointing.  He played it smart.

(*Author’s note: Before you think that this story has some kind of happy ending, you should still keep in mind who’s narrating and who the story is being written about.)

Instead of bowing out of the race with his fractionally tiny amount of dignity still intact, 5-Peat faked like he blew out a hamstring.  He leapt into the air like a triple jumper in mid-ACL tear, head whiplashing backwards with a startlingly intense g-force, and fell in a sweaty heap of Adidas crap squarely in the middle of lane one.  5-Peat lay strewn face down on the track and appeared to have no intention of getting his broke-ass off the track.  He lay there, a cadaver, until the officials came and unceremoniously drug him off the track and dumped him on the infield.

The officials deposited the scrawny carcass near the 50-yard-line and ran back over to watch the exciting conclusion of the race.  5-Peat lolled about on the infield like a whale run aground or a first-time drinker who just went 12 rounds with a bottle of Jack Daniels.

We were all elated.  I repeatedly made a fool of myself by high-fiving anyone around and jubilantly shouting, “He did it!  He did it.  It’s a 5-Peat!”

We left the stadium that day in a daze.  We weren’t sure what we’d seen.  Was this some kind of inane, practical joke pulled by a KU Relays official?  How did 5-Peat get into some of the most competitive fields?  Was the government involved in some kind of conspiracy?  We may never know.  I’m still not sure who won the Collegiate 800, the 5k Fun Run, the College Mile, the Open 800, or even the Elite Men’s mile.  What I will always remember, however, is a 5-Peat.

(*Author’s note: sometimes you can judge a book by its cover.  Especially if the cover is really bad.)

FIN