Chasing Grace Read online

  Prepare the body to throttle back to full speed. It’s a snapquick decision.

  Decide. Then go for it.

  It takes courage to execute the race plan. Coach Hart always said, “Most people will relax into the curve, but this is your advantage. This is where you have to start your kick. If you don’t start your work here, you will lose seconds, and you won’t be able to make them up.

  Taking your position requires faith, discipline, and determination.

  Where am I going? How badly do I want it? Will I stick to my plan when facing struggle, pain, fear, and doubt?

  Evaluate all of these factors as you decide what you want out of life and what is required to get there.

  POISE: Commit to the Finish

  The final 100 meters of the race test your mind even more than your muscle. Remember to stay poised, because if you panic and lose your head, you’re not going to win, even if the other phases are executed perfectly.

  At this point in the race, you feel fatigue. It’s only natural. Sometimes runners lose their form and start to flail. Losing your form is just like stopping or even going backward. Just hold your course. Don’t let the mind convince the body it’s failing, and distract you from winning the prize.

  Hold on to your faith. Believe you did all the right things, and it’s going to pay off. By this point, all the hard work is done. You just have to hold on and trust the process. Regardless of the outcome, be grateful and proud of your results.

  PRAY: The Silent, Constant, Invisible P

  Prayer is an essential element of every phase, and it does deserve practice. Every journey’s beginning, middle, and end is richer and sweeter when shared with God.

  When you pray, you ask God to intervene, and then submit to His will. Through gratitude and admission, you ask Him to take away your burdens, and by your faithfulness, trust Him to do it.

  Prayer frees you from worry, doubt, and fear.

  Prayer fills you with hope and reminds you of your greater purpose. Not to win races or make more money, not to become a CEO or a president, but in all things, serve and give glory to God.

  Life on this earth, as I learned through running the 400, tests your mind, body, and spirit. And the most important thing you can do at every point is pray without ceasing. Sometimes you may struggle to know what to pray for or even how to pray, but the key is consistent communication. Open your heart, and let the Holy Spirit work through you. He knows all and sees all.

  PUSH

  Chase Your Dream

  Chapter 1

  CHAMPION GIRL

  Realizing Your Talent

  For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.

  EPHESIANS 2:10

  I’m the only one awake in my house. It’s still dark outside, maybe five or six in the morning, and I tiptoe around the bedroom, being careful not to wake my sleeping sister, Shari, as I quietly assemble my outfit.

  Socks match my tank top. Tank top matches my hair tie, which also matches my wristband. I like to match. Show up. Dress up. “Look like you came to win,” Mom said as she labored over my braids the night before.

  I’m ready to go. I’m nine years old. Somebody has to get up and drive me.

  “Baby, guh back to bed,” Mom tells me from her pillow. “It’s not time yet.”

  “I want to go now.”

  We didn’t race until later that afternoon. I had all day to get ready. But I looked forward to running like it was Christmas morning.

  Born in Kingston, Jamaica, where track and field is the country’s prized pastime, I had no choice but to fall in love with the sport. Surrounded by murals and statues of track and field icons Merlene Ottey, Donald Quarrie, and Herb McKenley, I more readily knew their names and stories than I did of our prime minister. I wanted to be just like them. I wanted my picture on the wall.

  To me, there was no other option than to run track. It started in elementary school. Every day after classes at Vaz Prep, we had practice on our school track. Well, it was just dirt and grass. There was no rubber surface or really even a track. Our coaches spray-painted the field with white lines so it resembled a track, but to me it was everything. I couldn’t wait to get there each day.

  It was exciting to realize joy and passion for something I really loved, to experience being good at something, to discover a God-given talent. I even thought the tedious drills that marked the beginning of every practice were fun. Before we could start running, we marched in place, our arms shifting as perfect ninety-degree levers, and then we’d do A-skips and B-skips. Those movements were an integral part of our development, and throughout my career, I’d never start a training session or line up to race without warming up with the exact same drills in the exact same order.

  I did everything full bore, unafraid of what might go wrong. If I was hanging from the monkey bars, I’d try to swing too. As a result, I’d often fall and hurt myself. But I don’t remember my youth as one of scrapes or bruises. I just kept moving, running toward whatever was next.

  The Prep Champs are contested every year, determining the country’s best youth runners. Tens of thousands of people fill the national stadium in Kingston, Jamaica’s capital, to watch kids ages six to eleven run around a track. Imagine a carnival inside a track meet. Legions of school fans gathered in packs in the bleachers, waving flags, filling the thick, muggy air with drumbeats and rehearsed chants. At school in the days leading up to the meet, we’d practice, usually riffing on whatever reggae song was popular at the moment.

  “Vaz Prep a champion! Vaz Prep a champion!” I can hear it to this day.

  I first competed there when I was seven. The enormity of the meet, the energy, the competition, had adrenaline charging up and down my body. I was anxious, but mostly just excited to race—and to win.

  Jamaicans are passionate in their following of track and field. In Jamaica, winning is prized. It’s celebrated. Losing is an embarrassment. You’re either first, or you’re last. There’s no in between. Since I won the very first race I ever entered at seven years old, the taste for winning was established early and quickly. Like an addiction. I wanted more. And I was happy to do the hard work to keep on winning.

  I was fortunate enough to attend Vaz Prep, a high-quality school with a competitive curriculum that also afforded me national-caliber coaches. They set the team up for success by instilling mechanics at a young age and allowed us to practice block starts, even though we weren’t yet using them in races.

  By the time I competed in my third Prep Champs as a nine-year-old, anticipation was already building. My name and picture had appeared in the newspaper. People knew who I was and expected me to win, because that’s what I did. I had never lost a race.

  Wolmers, a neighboring elementary school, was our biggest rival, and the competition in the stands was already heated. Schools occupied their own sections and baited each other with dueling chants, Jamaican style.

  “She caan beat our girls dis year,” they’d say. The legion of blue and gold, the colors of Vaz Prep, proudly claimed, “Sanya was di best last year, and she’s di best again dis year.”

  A Vaz Prep chorus provided my walk-out music.

  “Sanya a champion! Sanya a champion!”

  It was raucous as usual, and in that moment, I felt invincible.

  Our coaches were so methodical with their teaching, our technique so polished, that they encouraged us to get a little flashy with our starts. Not all the kids did that. Maybe it was just a way to gain an early edge on our opponents, but at the biggest meet of my young career, it nearly backfired. Actually, it did backfire.

  We practiced our starts to stand straight (on your mark), go down and touch (set), and then rush off the line with the gun. This race, the girl on my left was already down before I set, and she shifted her position. It threw off my concentration. Instead of going down and getting in my ready position, I rocked back a little. I leaned back just as the gun fired to star
t the race.

  Everyone else surged into their sprints. I stumbled backward. The sense of panic that washed over me awakens me even now. The realization jerks me to life.

  “Sanya a champion!”

  You’re going to lose. I can’t lose.

  I had lost so much ground already, and in a 60-meter race, there isn’t much time for misfires. By the time I straightened up and bolted off the line, I had given up several yard lengths.

  It was the fastest I had ever run, an all-out, crazy, furious pedaling to convert panic into adrenaline. My mind and body were almost numb. The shouts and support of the crowd went silent, and I hurled along in a bubble. All I could see and feel were my lane and the finish line so many yards in front of me.

  Run. Catch them. Keep running. Getting closer. Run. Move. Arms, Sanya, use your arms. Be strong. Ten yards to go. Almost there. Catch her. There’s the line. Another two steps. Reach. Grab the line. Get through the line.

  No. It’s over. Did I lose?

  I looked up to Dad, in his usual spot above the line, and I couldn’t read his face. No one knew who won, but whoever did had won by an eyelash. It was close, a photo finish, and I had to run one of my best races just to make it close. With 10 yards still to go, there was daylight between me and the rest of the girls.

  But then and there, all I could do was hold back tears.

  “Sanya a champion! Sanya a champion!”

  I blew it. I just knew it.

  One of the longtime race officials who ushered runners on and off the track picked me up and hugged me as the group waited for the race results to be revealed. “Great job. Beautiful race,” he told me. The tears were streaming down my cheeks by now. “I think I lost,” I told him.

  “No, you won.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, you won!”

  A warm sense of relief came over me. The painful stiffness of worry released from my body. I found my family for victory hugs, and Dad beamed.

  “That’s one of the best races I’ve ever seen, dahling,” he said. “I did not believe it was possible. How did you get your shoulder in front?”

  Blue-and-gold fans were in hysterics. “Sanya a champion! Sanya a champion!”

  Everything else is faded. It’s just a haze, almost like I blacked out and moved around the rest of the day on instinct. Never before had my body or mind been asked to shift so intensely. From a confident walk to the start line to a crazed dash to the finish. From the panic of failure to the reward of victory. Was I happy that I pulled off this amazing come-from-behind win—or that I was freed from the shame of losing in a blunder?

  The funny thing is, I had already won a race earlier that day. I won the 150 meters. But this race was it. The 60 meters determines the fastest girl. And that was me.

  As the meet concluded, my family had packed up and was getting ready to walk to the parking lot. I yanked on Dad’s arm. I was stalling. They were preparing the field area for award presentations, and every year, they named a Champion Girl. If your performance is dominant enough by winning multiple races and relays, you get that distinction. And this year, I thought I had a chance. I wanted that trophy.

  We were still in the bleachers, and the voice came through the speaker.

  “The Champion Girl in Class Two . . . is Sanya Richards.”

  Dad was so proud. He picked me up, lifted me over the fence, and placed me on the track so I could accept the award. To be recognized by everyone, not just for winning races, but as the best in my age group—I was elated, and so was my family.

  From then on, every trophy I could get, I went for it.

  PUSH

  When you finally realize your gifts and talents, joy and satisfaction come as you walk in your purpose. That’s undeniable. God has uniquely prepared you for something special, and once you find your calling, run toward your passion.

  Even when I fell backward, I still won the race. God ordains outcomes, and He divinely crafts us to find success. I knew early on that whatever God was to do through me was to begin on the track. You begin your push phase when you look to God to reveal your talent. By pursuing your talent, you respond to and experience God in special ways.

  Chapter 2

  A STAR IS BORN

  Manifesting Your Talent

  The man who had received five bags of gold went at once and put his money to work and gained five bags more.

  MATTHEW 25:16

  You can never accuse my father, Archie Richards, of not having a vision—or a plan to accomplish it. Once I was announced Champion Girl, my dad picked up a program and flipped through the race results and records. He noticed that my previous times in the youngest class were faster than the times of the boys the same age and the times of the girls a year or two older than me.

  He didn’t tell me until a few years later, but Dad realized I had a special talent then and there.

  My mom, Sharon, isn’t much into the numbers. Dad says she wasn’t impressed by his fancy time-comparison chart. She’s the diplomat of our family, making sure everyone stays even-keeled, but she believed in what he thought was possible. Everybody bought in.

  Dad, Mom, and Shari were my first entourage. Competition begins before you ever set your feet in the blocks and brace for the gun. Racers size each other up out of instinct. Track is as pure as it gets—me against you—but I always felt strengthened by the collective will of my family. Walking into track meets, with the three of them around me, I felt invincible. We all knew what we came to do: line up and win.

  Dad was our flag bearer. He led the way and set the tone. He decided early on that being able to review races on film would be essential to my development, so he bought a video camera and made sure to record all my races. That meant he had to have the perfect view, perched right above the finish line, regardless of the row and seat number printed on his ticket. He’s a slight man, fit and fast, but far be it from any burly security guard to tell him he couldn’t sit where he needed to be in order to capture the race on video. He would ignore stern instructions or bully his way if he needed to. He never intended to stay for the entire track meet, but he had to be in position and capture my race. No one could stop him. That countenance, paired with his inspirational words and constant encouragement, made me feel like I could win a race running backward.

  Mom and Shari evened me out. I could always count on Mom to be polite and graceful, and to greet everyone with a quiet smile. She kept me calm.

  “Be easy, Sanya. Don’t get crazy, Sanya. Just win the race.”

  Shari was my backbone, reminding me of my hard work and preparation, confirming that I was a winner. And honestly, before every race, it’s her voice that would start me as much as the gun. Silence envelops a crouched sprinter. Still and quiet, the entire stadium holds its breath.

  “On your mark.”

  “Set.”

  Pistol pop.

  “LET’S GO, SANYA!”

  That’s my Shari, using anything she could muster, her loudest voice, to reach down from the stands, lift me out of the blocks, and push me out around the track. I watch recordings of my professional races now, nationally broadcasted meets, and I hear Shari.

  My family was my rock, and their support was crucial throughout our move to America.

  Mom already had family living in the United States. Her sister had relocated from Jamaica to the Fort Lauderdale area in Florida. Though my education in Jamaica was top-notch, Mom knew scholarship opportunities were more readily available to American universities if I were to attend a high school in America. It took some convincing, though, especially Dad, before our family made the decision to move to Florida. But our new home was only an hour-and-a-half trip back to Jamaica, and the notion that I could compete for a scholarship—academically or athletically—and not have to pay for a college education eventually convinced Dad.

  I was twelve when we officially made the leap and committed to a new path and new home in America. The transition wasn’t easy, but it helped havi
ng family already in the Fort Lauderdale area. I’ll never forget my first day of middle school. In Jamaica, we wore uniforms, but in my new school, we could wear outfits of our choosing. I planned for a week. I tried on everything in my closet before settling on a denim dress with white Chuck Taylors.

  When I arrived to Pines Middle School for the first time, I was excited, anxious, and nervous, but some of that went away when I immediately got a compliment from one of my new classmates on my sneakers.

  Thank You, God! Things were going to be great. I had nothing to worry about.

  Then the teacher walked in to the first period class, and I stood. It was customary in Jamaica to stand when your teacher walked in and collectively say, “Good morning.” I was so embarrassed when no one else did, and the kids looked at me like I was some foreigner standing there all alone in the class. I quickly sat back down and avoided eye contact. It was instantly clear I was no longer in Jamaica, and this was my first real indication that things were going to be different.

  I was so used to being a leader—always voted class captain or prefect (what we called it in Jamaica)—but I now needed to learn that the best leaders first embrace the power that comes as a follower.

  Grateful to see a familiar face, I shared the story with Shari at lunch. She almost cried laughing. Shari was somehow clever enough to wait patiently in her seat and avoid the embarrassment I endured. Shari and I were best friends, and our bond intensified, because early on, we really just had each other. We shared a bedroom in the small apartment our family lived in before settling into our permanent home. No matter what school we attended, Shari and I knew we’d have at least one friend, because we always had a friend in each other. I always went to the school cafeteria to check on Shari during her lunchtime, even if I had to make up a new reason every day to leave class. It was important to me that she was OK, that she had friends and was having a good day.