Chasing Grace Page 5

  There will always be challenges in life to push through, and sometimes they’ll come in the form of people. People you love and trust may betray, but look within and remember that everything you need is already inside you.

  Speak up if you feel situations are not right. This may leave you as an outsider or in the quiet minority, but trust that God is directing your path.

  We must always remember that God’s plans for our lives are too great to be diverted by anyone. In the end, it’s only His approval we need, and only His approval we should seek.

  Chapter 4

  COMPETITION OF ONE

  Getting Out of Your Own Way

  If anyone thinks they are something when they are not, they deceive themselves. Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else.

  GALATIANS 6:3–4

  I really thought they would cancel the race. I didn’t realize they sold tickets and that there was a strict schedule to maintain. I was young. It was my second world championships—my first as one of the favorites.

  Looking out the bus windows, I could barely squint through the Helsinki downpour to gauge the walk awaiting the competitors up to the athlete check-in. Mind games began to overtake me. This has to be the longest walk in track and field history, I muttered to myself. I wanted to ask the organizers if this was some joke or botched logistics lesson. They handed us umbrellas as we stepped off the bus and started our uphill trek through a gauntlet of wind, rain, and thunder. The umbrella was sucked up into the wind, and my hoodie and rain pants were no match for the conditions. I was soaked from hair to toenails, and I hadn’t even signed in to compete yet.

  This can’t be happening, I thought. Surely the organizers will reschedule. Sheets of rain covered my “oval office” in currents of water. This obsession with the uphill walk and my suddenly soaked socks really just distracted me from my main focus—Tonique Williams-Darling, the powerful runner from the Bahamas who had won Olympic gold in the 400 meters the previous summer in Athens.

  In 2004, I turned professional after winning gold on the 4x400 relay at the Olympics. I didn’t medal individually, but if I had run my fastest time from that season, I would have earned bronze. That validated to me that I was ready to move beyond the grinding team schedule of college athletics and pursue my potential to be one of the world’s best.

  Tonique was my main competition for the 2005 World Championships title contested on this water-soaked track in Finland. She beat me at a major track meet in the United States in June, but I had come back to beat her a month later during the European racing season. Tonique didn’t have the physique of a typical quarter-miler. Unlike the long, lean legs I’d typically see on my competitors, she had the squatty trunk of a running back. Her whole body popped with the chiseled cut of muscle, but she always styled her hair and did her makeup like a beauty queen. When my family scouted competitors and talked race strategy, she was simply known as “Miss Maybelline.”

  She announced her presence at the track with a regal aura. When she and her entourage arrived that day, the rain, falling harder and heavier by the minute, seemed to slide right around her. Tonique was dry as a bone. At least it seemed that way to me.

  The night before the race, I had a conversation with a runner I really admired. “To win against Tonique,” he said, “you have to beat her off the curve.” My youth crippled me once again, because I didn’t have the nerve to say that when I won in Lausanne—the Swiss city that sits beside Lake Geneva and is home to the International Olympic Committee—I had to make up ground coming through the turn into the homestretch, the final 100 meters. But he said it, and I believed his advice. I wanted to know I’d be doing something different—something extra—to guarantee a win. I failed to see that the winning formula was inside me all along.

  The rain was torrential, and it remained my tormentor. Coach Hart said it was the first and only time he’d ever seen a track covered in curling waves of water. Still, they lined us up to run. The last thing Coach told me before I walked out to my lane was, “Push, pace”—a reminder of the strategy we’d use to run every race. He always tells me to get out hard and then find my rhythm for the last half of the race. If I pace myself through the final turn, I can kick it down the homestretch, but that wasn’t the advice I was given the night before.

  Push, pace, whatever, I said to myself. I’m beating her off the curve, and I’m winning this final.

  I drew lane 3, and Tonique had lane 6. Running on the inside of your biggest rival can be, and should be, a big advantage. Pacing, movement, and position all become an auxiliary sense. When it comes time to make the turn and really race, that awareness is your friend. This time, though, Tonique became my target. I fixated on her instead of my lane and my strategy. Lost in Tonique, I neglected the 4 P’s.

  Coach Hart’s “push, pace” strategy tells me to power through the first 50 meters with everything I have and then transition after the first turn, throttle back, and preserve my best running for the end of the race. This time, though, I was intent on beating Tonique around the last curve, and I did. But when I got there, in front of the pack, my legs were all out of running. All of my energy had been used up chasing her. I couldn’t hold the lead.

  It was all I could do to hang on and finish second in the world championships. For a twenty-year-old, second-year professional, that should feel like an accomplishment, but I was heartbroken. And not because I lost, but because I beat myself running someone else’s race. Before I ever stepped on to the track and squinted through the downpour, eagle-eyeing Tonique, I talked myself out of winning.

  It was a lesson learned. “They can’t beat me if I run my best race” became a mantra I’d say before every race throughout my career. The disappointment and devastation that come when you allow the circumstances around you to create a negative mind-set were very real to me. As a young, still-maturing professional athlete, that loss in the 2005 world championships was one of the hardest things I’ve had to overcome. The moment I crossed the finish line, I knew I second-guessed myself to a second-place finish.

  Trusting myself—who I am and what I can do—wasn’t just a struggle I encountered on the track. It came into play even when I fell for the love of my life, my husband, Aaron Ross.

  We started dating when we were both athletes at the University of Texas. On the track is where I feel the most pure and most at peace. It’s where I learned to compete, stretch my limits, and explore my potential. On the track is also where my husband first admired me.

  Ross loves to tell the story. He was in the bleachers at the Texas Relays, a huge track meet hosted at the University of Texas, and he spotted me getting ready for my race. We were both Texas athletes, but hadn’t yet met. Ross pointed me out to his mother and said, “Just give me a few weeks. She’ll be my girl.”

  A year later, though, I made the first move. I saw him in a campus cafeteria and called him over. I guess you could say the rest is history. When he took me to dinner on Saturday night and to church on Sunday, I knew he was the one.

  Boys from Texas have a special swagger. They call it walkin’. And Aaron Ross is a true Texas boy. He’s calm and soft-spoken but with enough confidence to fill a football uniform. It’s attractive and also comforting how he shows so much love for his mama while appreciating the closeness of family. For me, that’s everything, because family is my everything. My dad has been a lifelong mentor; my mom is my manager; and my sister is my best friend and a business partner. Today we have our own lives and families, but our three houses are within walking distance of each other. That might intimidate some guys. It made Ross love me even more.

  When we met in 2003, Ross was a defensive back for the Longhorns, with his eyes set on the NFL, and our lives easily meshed together. I never had to worry about Ross tempting me with French fries, and every night when it was time for my sacred core routine, Ross happily joined in and counted for me. He understood and apprecia
ted the discipline required when someone is training to be the best.

  Our careers took off like our courtship. I turned professional in 2004, traveling to compete around the world, and Ross remained at UT. The Longhorns won the national championship the next year, and in 2006, he was named the nation’s best collegiate defensive back.

  When the New York Giants football team selected Ross—only strangers call Ross by his first name—in the 2007 NFL Draft, my professional career was already in full bloom. We were already dreaming together about our engagement and marriage, but some friends and family whispered to me that Ross would lose interest because I was caught up in my own career, with my own goals and championship dreams. Girls would line up, people said, just for the satisfaction of sitting in the wives’ suite on NFL Sundays.

  Those outside whispers became my own thoughts of insecurity. I understood how people viewed a typical NFL wife—someone who’d be there at his beck and call, satisfied to be beautiful arm candy and spend his hard-earned millions on diamonds and furs. And that wasn’t me.

  Ross was a catch. I had to remind myself I was a catch too.

  As I raced overseas, Shari stayed at my Austin apartment, and Ross was a frequent guest. She’d often cook him dinner and watch as he’d fall asleep listening to slow jams.

  “Please come home,” Shari would joke with me over the phone, “so this boy can get his life back and get out of this depression.”

  In my heart I knew Ross was devoted to me. But the mind plays nasty tricks. My tormentor returned as another flood overcame me. Emotions and insecurity overtook me. I’d imagine all the temptations lurking around him back in the United States, and I couldn’t shake the images others were planting in my head.

  During our college days, a teammate gossiped to me one day at practice that she saw another girl driving Ross’s car. I overreacted, crying and screaming hysterically before I even considered that I had been with Ross on the evening she was alluding to. And his car had been parked outside my apartment the whole time. But jealousy does that. If I got that upset while we were living in the same city, how could I manage when we were a world away from each other?

  Once again, I had to learn to trust—trust our connection and the commitment Ross and I shared.

  I was humbled after losing the world title to Tonique. Mostly, I was angry for not believing what I knew in my heart to be true: I was the fastest 400 runner in the world. A few days after the world championships race, I visited with Coach Hart and vowed to never make the same mistake again.

  “Coach, I’m going to win out,” I told him. “I’m going to win the rest of my races, and I’m going to be ranked No. 1 in the world.” Usually the world champion always got the Track & Field News top ranking, but I knew if I won my final races—if I ran to my potential—I could take the top spot.

  Not even two weeks later, I ran the fastest race of my life up to that point in Zurich and then closed out the season with another victory in Monaco. I ended the season ranked No. 1, and my 48.9 seconds in Zurich was the fastest time in the world that year. It also made me the youngest woman in history to ever run below 49 seconds.

  Yes, Tonique raced against me both times. But it didn’t matter. I ran my race.

  In February 2010, when I walked down the aisle toward Ross, it felt just like I was heading toward another finish line. I was floating down the homestretch, and before me was the greatest prize I could imagine—my soul mate, my best friend, and now, finally, my husband.

  Distractions threatened to break our bond, but we stayed true. Family members would say, “Ross is making enough money for the both of you. Do you have to travel so much?” “Be careful, baby; we don’t want you to lose a good man.”

  I know as a woman it can be hard to make choices that others criticize. I struggled at times knowing if I was maintaining the right balance. I wanted to be there for Ross. I loved him more than anything. But I was a happier person and a better partner to him when I was fulfilled from pursuing my purpose. I stayed true to my sport and worked toward my dreams with everything I had.

  Ultimately, you have to trust your instincts, your heart, even when the good-natured advice from others makes you wonder if there’s a better way.

  The woman Ross pointed to from the bleachers that day with his mother was me in my natural state. I was in my element. Vulnerable to compete, yet confident, self-assured, and ready to race. That’s the girl Ross fell in love with and the one he ultimately married. I know I can’t be the wife he wants me to be—the wife he deserves me to be—if I try to be someone I’m not.

  Ross made me know I was the one, his only love, and reinforced to me that he was the one for me. We prayed together before every one of my races. When I’m really honest with myself, when I quiet the noise and clean out the clutter of the world, I never had to worry about another person in our relationship. There was always someone else, but it was God. Faith gave us the foundation to move forward together as husband and wife.

  Our relationship started in a flurry. We moved out of the blocks fast and fell in love quickly, and even though our love was strong, it took time to find our stride together as a couple. That was mostly on me, as I listened to others and worried about opinions and gossip, when all I really needed to do was focus on Ross and how we would grow together.

  On our wedding day, Ross stood resplendent in a white tuxedo, calm and strong as always, waiting for me at the altar. I walked toward him, secure in my father’s clutch, poised for the move ahead. I’d be lying if I said I remember every moment, every smile, and every thought during the ceremony. It’s mostly a blur. What I have, what I hold on to, is a feeling.

  It felt right. It felt on time. It felt on purpose.

  The path to marriage wasn’t perfect, filled as it was with unnecessary tears and doubts. But in the end, I knew we got it right, because on that day, before God, our families, and closest friends, Ross and I said, “I do.”

  We ran our race.

  PUSH

  People can be great obstacles to our success, but sometimes our greatest distractions are in our minds. Negative thoughts and false emotions lurk to knock us unsteadily out of the blocks. Self-doubt, a lack of self-worth, and an overall feeling of unworthiness exist only if we give them space within. So get out of your own way.

  PACE

  Create Your Rhythm

  Chapter 5

  TUNNEL VISION

  Eyeing the Finish

  I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.

  PSALM 121:1–2

  At the start of every new season, I would sit down with Coach Hart and go over my goals for the year. At the end of every meeting, he would tell me—like a mantra—“If we can only get 1 percent better this season, you will remain the best in the world.” Three hundred twenty-three days of training to shave a couple hundredths of a second off my time. For most people that would be maddening. But standing on top of that podium, realizing a lifelong dream, keeps a person motivated and inspired.

  When you think about it, we’re all consumed with time. Being on time, wishing we had more time, and saving time. Time is the measuring rod of greatness, and I was determined to master it.

  Those little numbers on a clock are big influencers—the difference between good and great, first and last, fast and slow. And it’s amazing how much the little things can keep you locked down.

  In order to run your best race, you have to stay present and relaxed. You’d think the clock would be a motivator, that it would nudge you to run even faster, but it’s actually a significant distraction. The clock is a constant reminder of the past. Every time the second hand ticks forward, it memorializes the past, that moment forever gone. There was a physical manifestation in my body too. Looking at the clock always forced me to tense up. It was beginning to haunt me.

  As my professional career took shape, I felt like it was time to break records, and the American record was
the first on my list. In 2006, I had no pressure. There wasn’t a bull’s-eye on my back. Even though I finished 2005 in a flurry and was ranked No. 1 in the world, I was still an unknown commodity on the circuit. Everyone was chasing Tonique, the reigning Olympic and world champion.

  Mom was my main traveling companion during the European season, because she also served as my manager. Coach Hart would drop in for big races, when his responsibilities as a college coach allowed him to get away, so it was usually just me and my mom at the track and hitting the streets between races. We were on the phone basically 24/7 with Dad, who was back home. My personal goal to break the American record became a family obsession. Everyone had an opinion on strategy, and mine was to keep watching the clock.

  Dad is wise, and he knows me in ways that only a dad can. He always encouraged me to win big and win young, knowing that the window to compete is sometimes unexpectedly short. His advice for avoiding regret at the end of your career entailed breaking records and winning races as early and as often as possible.

  Standing between me and the record was its present holder, Valerie Brisco-Hooks, who ran 48.83 in 1984. By August 2005, I was within 1 percent of my goal after running 48.92 in the 400 meters in Zurich. Coach Hart was right: if I could improve just 1 percent, I could be the best American quarter-miler ever.

  The 2006 season became all about chasing the American record.

  We structured our training so I’d run two or three early meets, just to get races in my legs, and then by late May or June, my times would significantly drop as I pulled back the volume and intensity of my training sessions and really focused on racing.

  Sure enough, I ran 50-something in Waco to open the outdoor season, ran 49.89 in early May, and then busted out a 49.27 on June 24 in Indianapolis. Coach Hart’s plan had me on target, and I was ready to attack the goal as we went overseas for the Golden League competition.