The best writing advice I ever received was from running track. When I was in tenth grade, I joined my high school’s track team. It was the first women’s track team at James M. Bennett Sr. High, and we were excited. We were proud to be the first. We were giddy, standing around in our gym uniforms, the spring wind blowing our ponytails, the smell of mown grass wafting from the infield. We were also novices. Most of us did not own real track shoes; I ran in Keds. That was back in the late 1960s when we didn’t know (or have) better. Nor did we know much about track. I just liked to run, but I wondered, how do you actually jump over the hurdles? How do you pass and not drop a baton to the relay runner ahead of you who is not looking back? When do you breathe? What do you do if you fall down?
Don’t Jump the Gun
Our coach was gentle and encouraging. She also made sure we listened. “Don’t jump the gun,” was her motto, at least that is what I remember. Because I was nervous, because I wanted to win, I anticipated the starting pistol firing just a little before it actually did. Bang! I was already down the track. Come back. Stay low. Start over. Pay attention. Rest. Pace yourself. Run. Repeat. These were basic lessons from childhood, from parents who provided swimming lessons, sewing instruction, bikes to ride, and roller skates. Track was my new challenge.
Get Good Coaches
Because I was determined to run the hurdles, my coach wisely asked the star hurdle jumper on the men’s track team to teach me. He was patient and instructive. He was my hurdle brother. He made sure I practiced. He showed me how to keep my back leg bent in just the right position so the toe did not drop as I jumped the hurdle. You’ve probably seen hurdle jumpers on T.V. When the toe even grazes the top of the hurdle, down you go! The track is in your face.
Our team competed against the few high school women’s track teams near our town, Salisbury, MD. At one track meet in the late spring, while running the hurdles, it happened. My stride went off. The number of steps between each hurdle were not even, I shuffled to adjust while running the distance from one hurdle and the next. “Off track” might have originated from track running jargon, I’m not sure. But one thing I am sure about is that being out-of-step, almost veering out of my lane, was my downfall. Literally. My back toe caught the top of the next hurdle, and the next second, I hit the ground.
Get Up and Go
I was more embarrassed than hurt. There on the track in the dust, my face aflame, I heard nothing, even though I’m sure people were calling out to me from the sidelines (they later said so), but I was shut down. Except for one thing: several voices—my parents’, my coach’s, my hurdle brother’s—formed a chorus that sang in my head. “Get up and keep going. Finish, Charlene. Just get up and go.”
I did. I hauled myself up, rubbed my scraped and burning knees, and limped along in my track lane until I crossed over the yellow finish-line tape that lay like a ribbon on the asphalt. My teammates were forgiving. My coaches were just glad I hadn’t run off in tears, even though I wanted to!
The rest of that track season is a blurred memory of chilly afternoon practices and sore calf muscles. I don’t remember much, even whether I came in first or second or third place in any event I ran. But sometimes it’s the failures that teach you the lessons you need most. While writing my book, for instance, I thought of this incident often.
“Learn, practice, and if you fall, get up and go” sticks with me. It is the best track advice and the best writing advice I ever got. But the downside about good advice is that we need to hear it over and over. I have to give it to myself every day.
Cheers!
