Women's Steeple

The US Women’s Steeplers offered the first glimpse of what was to come from this year’s 2011 Daegu squad and though the results mixed, things are looking up from this hopeful American track and field fan’s perspective. 

Heat 1

Bridget Franek was the first to take her crack at the worlds best and the result was lackluster for lack of a better term.  Its not to say the effort wasn’t exhaustive or that she in any way didn’t live up to the hype begotten by her all too many stellar performances through recent years, just that she had the unfortunate task of being an up and comer in a heat chock full of wily veterans with a standard to set. 

The field of eleven quickly shrank down to five women up front being lead mostly by eventual winner Binnaz Uslu of Turkey, who by the time all was said (nothing is said in a race) and done would walk away with a national record. 

As I sat glued to my computer screen hoping that the cameras might find Franek within the frame by the time they come back to the action, I couldn’t help but think of how rare of an event the women’s steeplechase really is.  It’s a niche event within a niche sport stuck within the niche (depending on how sexist your view of sport is) of women’s sport.  What’s amazing about this race to me is that Franek will now go home certainly disappointed by the race and trip, to the extent that her entire year of competition is defined by the one race.

It’s difficult to understand the truly sick talent it takes to be one of the country’s finest in this event, so much so that you have to literally hop on a plane halfway across the world just to get your ass kicked.  She’s that good.  Even a defeat on US soil, forgiving any peculiarities, a nasty spill into the water pit perhaps, will never find Franek too far back from the win.  If it weren’t for the miracle of modern aviation, she could spend years just waiting for someone to come knocking on her door.  As it stands there are a few meets out west every year in which she can go and test herself against our nation’s finest, but between those rare meetings she is her sole source of competition.  Any upsets she has handed to her on the many tartan ovals of the good ol’ red white n blue are miniscule when compared to the pure unrehearsed smack upside the head that the world stage has to offer. 

So with that said, and these words merely those of a stranger who has enjoyed her beyond bright, young, promising career thus far, I look forward to seeing what she does with the hard earned lessons she will take back with you from Daegu.  But until then back to the drawing board. 

Heat 2

I’m in love with Coburn before the race even begins.  Blonde.  Fit.  American.  What else is there?  Oh yes, a clever and patient tenacity that over the following laps will take me from mere adoration to being head over heels for the young chaser.  As if she had seen Franek’s race as I had, getting overridden by competing camera interests, Emma Coburn wastes no time in heading to the front.   

Just after the first k it was down to five women all vying for four spots…would the American find her way through?

After the necessary work of witling the field down to five, she had to realize that now its nothing more than a waiting game: as in wait and see if that wasn’t a bit too bold too soon.  After the field overtakes her and tosses her back into the five woman shuffle she keeps an incredible calm as she graces over the inside of the barrier waiting to see what transpires next.  Imagine what poise it must take to have the world’s best regain the few yards you’ve managed to bluff over the opening k, wondering if you’ve not gotten a bit too excited about what is ultimately the predecessor to the main event, only to realize that Oh shit I’ve got to jump over this thing again?!?!?

Cameras cut away and she’s back, fighting so hard to not be the American trying to hang onto the back of the pack.  Heading into the final lap though, it’s not her pursuit of the 5th place finisher but rather how she lets her simply slide back to her.  She seems to focus solely on herself, keeping all her gauges in check and allowing the opportunity to present itself rather than foolishly chasing it down.  And when it does, she strikes brilliantly.

I could see her having gone for it so much sooner only trot home after tossing her head to the side as if to say well I gave it all I’ve got.  Running in so many ways is like chasing a flush draw in a game of Texas Hold ‘Em.  It becomes very easy to toss in your chips all too early for the sheer novelty of being able to say that with the opportunity presented it seemed the most logical solution.  Meanwhile you’re left to watch as the turn and river come only to inform you of how misguided the gamble really was.   

But in Coburns case, she allowed the other to keep flooding the pot, all the while convinced that something will catch on the river…

With an eye fixed on Lyubov Kharlamova, Coburn knew that this is the still the steeple and even with 180 meters or so left anything can happen.  Maybe she falls down there in front of her, or better…or better yet maybe 3^rd place runner Sara Moreira of Portugal stumbles, leaving Kharlamova distracted right as Emma powers off of her final jump…executed with the same purpose and drive she has no doubt been practicing since the time she first discovered the event. 

 Of course the cameras cut away again, robbing us all at home of how brilliantly she holds off her foe.  Instead we’re left to focus on the winner of a race that no one truly cares about winning anyway.  But the American no less is through to the final, set to represent her country once more in the final.

Heat 3

Stephanie Garcia toes the line.  Announcers dismiss her right away as the 4^th place finisher (better for that than by sheer merit of being born in the US).  Though she can’t hear them, it’s a thought she’s got to be painfully aware of.  This isn’t how she pictured representing the US, stuck with the stigma of getting to the line on someone else’s ticket.

Sidenote: (who decided #3 was so great that it had to be the whole defining standard for the medal stand?  The crybabies at the ncaa took it and tossed in another trophy just so some poor bastard doesn’t hang himself after a rough day in Terre Haute) 

Anyway….

To complicate this disposition one only needs to look at whose place she is taking.    Puma darling Delilah Dicrescenzo, none other than the girl captured in the pop song that even out in Daegu has at least a 15% chance of popping on the radio, a constant reminder of the events which brought Ms. Garcia to the line.    

From there my memory fogs up, no memorable moves or reckless abandon.  What I saw instead was an honest effort.  Every second I saw of her she was fighting for it, wearing an outdated US jersey saying this isn’t my race, I don’t belong here in the first place but that’s not to say I wont be back…here’s hoping with a vengeance. 

 

Men's 800 

Heat 1

I knew that Nick Symmonds was going to win heat 1 of the opening rounds of the men’s 800 meters.  Given the entrants and the atmosphere, no real favorite to speak of, the occasion would appear ripe for Symmonds to do as he does: win.

That’s the thing about heats for 800 men-they’re a tedious process to begin with.  “I qualified, right?  I’m among the finest middle distance runners in the world and…Oh, you mean I have to do it twice more now?”  With so much space to fill, somewhere south of a minute 50 seconds and nothing to do but wait for the inferior minds and bodies to crumble under the pressure, the stage is set for Symmonds.

So the game then at this point becomes so much less about qualifying for Symmonds…rather it’s his opportunity to say I’ve landed safely and my luggage is quite intact. 

And intact indeed as he lets his gears easily slide into place along the back stretch shifting with ease from 6^th to 2^nd all within 80 meters. 

If he were a lesser runner hoping to stick his nose further into the world scene one might be all too flabbergasted to know what to expect next.  Any other hopeful hoping to see the good side of the semi-final rounds for the first time making that move would leave countless friends and family members back home wondering if he could hold on…?

But no, this is the opening heat of 2011 iaaf yayadayda and it is all old news by now for Nick Symmonds; a man who surely must take some delight as he gives the next few heats a brief reminder to linger on as they finish their strideouts.  I’m in, who else is?

So Symmonds makes his path and coming off of the final turn has found himself plenty of room to trot.  The engines up and running now and you can see as those coals get hot they cant seem to help but build upon themselves.  Symmonds is merely a hapless engineer trying to calculate precisely how to burn up his precious fuels best.  Meanwhile Kevin López of Spain looks on from the inside lane wasting precious energy as he glances over to see what Nick will do next. 

The American all the while completely in the zone, in his own, oblivious to the looks of distress being poured upon him from his competitor.

And with just over 10 meters left, as if to say well the car’s running I might as well tap the gas, Symmonds secures his spot in the semis. 

Heat 4

Jock gets off hot the first 100 meters and at the break finds himself on the edge of lane 1 as he hovers in or around 3^rd/ 4^th place.  It as if he sees the pure brilliance leaking so effortlessly out of Rudisha’s stride that slowly he begins to back away, aware now of his mortality.  He got his first glimpse at what TRUE greatness is and had to watch it slowly fade from view all the while wondering…now how do I run LIKE THAT! 

I spent a few moments wondering where it really went south for Jock and came up empty.  Perhaps a bit too much time on the outside?  Chalk it up to youth, inexperience or other empty clichés?  Whatever the reason, it has been a fun year watching Jock stretch his legs out and I can’t wait to see what’s next for the young runner.

Heat 6

Khadevis Robinson had an interesting race thrown towards him.  Getting off the line he finds his clear path on the inside obstructed by a bit of scuffling back near 4^th and 5^th place.  ‘Tis the price to be paid for not getting out quick enough, although if it’s a crime he is by no means the only one guilty (my god the first 400 was 55.58 or as the announcers put it 1500m pace, a nerve wracking split in itself only complicated by the fact that this is the final heat).

He manages the bumps as a veteran though, perhaps his duties as a pacemaker have served him well here.  A race is a completely different beast when viewed through a lens of someone who isn’t out to win it all. 

Not allowing himself to be distracted by what will prove to be an insignificant clash of the elbows and knees, Robinson continues on, biding his time and his chances.  Coming through 400 he sits poised waiting to see what opening might unfold next.  He seems to burn up a decent amount on the backstretch passing runners as they take themselves out of the race just in time to let Robinson pounce.  He finds his path outside and looks comfortable coming through for third place, good enough to see the next round.

Women’s 10k

Shalane Flanagan smiles from the starting line, her pearly whites glistening in stark contrast to the dark runners surrounding her.  Next to her, Kara Goucher has a determined grimace cemented to her face, perhaps already aware that today is far from her day.  The gun goes off and Jenn Rhines follows Sally Kipyego down the alley and back towards the familiar faces of Goucher and Flanagan.  The pace pedestrian, Shalane reveals what she was smiling about as she takes the lead, her American counterparts following suit.

And for a moment I behold a glorious sight: Three Americans tightening the screws amid the humidity of Daegu, putting pressure on the rest of the world as they boldly announce “we’re here to race”.  The announcers all the while gushing about the American’s presence at the distance, going as far as to state that they are perhaps even better than the men at the distance.

The moment is short lived and about half an hour premature, but still my hopes ride high for the American women.

Kara is the first to go.  Just past 2k she begins to spot 4^th place a few meters and the slope just gets slippery from there.  It must be a hard pill to swallow knowing that the race isn’t yours, yet there’s still a good 20 odd minutes to go.  Lesser runners might have dropped out, or not even have made the trip, but not Goucher.  What’s the fun in that?  So with a heavy determination, swallowing any regrets for the moment she trudges on, no doubt taking a mental snapshot of the Kenyan women as they lap her.  This will be the spark to the fire for 2012.  She will recall this moment on countless morning runs, training runs, coffee runs, toboggan runs?, runs in her dreams even.  And the next time she toes the line, it will be with that trademark Kara smile that says “Nope, not this time ya don’t”

Back up front Flanagan and Rhines have eased off as they sit comfortably around 7^th place.  Flanagan rides the inside rail, just trying to recover from the strain of leading and the humidity.  Meanwhile Rhines takes her cue from Shalane as she accelerates trying to keep pace with the steady rhythm Flanagan has locked into.   

A little past 5k, Rhines has given it her best and Flanagan is now the lone American in the pack.  And by pack I mean a few stray women left fighting against the merciless onslaught that is the Kenyan women’s team.  As the later stages of the race unfold, Shalane finds herself drenched in sweat, still fighting the good fight as she holds on to come home in 7^th place.  By no means does she toss in the towel, but surely she can’t help but wonder if she had a few more minutes with the lead pack in her.  But again, these are the thoughts of a champion, an Olympic medalist, as she looks forward to hopping right back on the horse next year.

It’s hard to not sound like a complete bummer here, but quite simply this was no one’s day but the Kenyans.  They cap it all off with a brilliant 1-4 finish leaving the screaming wheels of Meselech Melkamu crying for mercy.  Behind them the Americans slowly come across the line, no doubt already plotting their return to the podium…that beautiful day when the performances of the past no longer haunt them, critics silenced, satisfied in their efforts.