Robert H Myers

In the Fall of 1994, I found myself thundering through a palmetto forest with two hundred dudes I’d never met. Moments earlier, there was a gunshot, and we were all running for our lives.

Sorta.

This was high school cross country in Florida. Somehow, it took fifty yards for me to realize my pre-race meal of a quarter pounder and fries was a terrible decision.

I was elbow to elbow with superior talent and I’d already blown my game plan. My strategy of getting out to the front of the pack before we entered the forest had failed spectacularly. We’d been funneled into a sand filled trench as wide as a hallway. I was now in the middle and getting beaten up by the uneven terrain and sweltering conditions. My Nike Air Huaraches were like clogs in this firebreak. I was sinking. This wasn’t working.

My pregame hype CD with Offspring’s “Come out and play” had faded away. It was replaced by a chorus of self-doubt. Fifty robe-clad Robs were singing. They mocked me for blowing off voluntary training sessions over the summer. One of them had a breakdown about how dumb I was to even be out here. This was a sport won by rail-thin Kenyans every year, not squat Irish marshmallows. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Nothing about this race was matching the David Fincher directed Nike commercial I had in my head. I was sure there would be sweat and glory but two minutes in and it was a quagmire of suck.

But a new plan was forming. In half a mile, we’d emerge from the forest and would run past onlookers before heading back into the woods. What if I was injured? What if I appeared to be in distress? Surely someone would insist I be yanked from the race. A sympathetic mother or concerned dad. Not mine, but someone’s. That would work. As we came out of the brush, I went for the Oscar. I gasped and looked lost in pain and fatigue. I slowed to a crawl and half-collapsed on a post at the edge of the woods. Any moment now, someone was going to get this kid help. They had to.  

My breathing returned to normal despite my theatrics. No one was coming. I could quit if I wanted, but no one was going to interfere. Two more miles of McDonald’s sloshing around in my gut. Two miles of my nipples bleeding because I forgot to put tape on them. Two more minutes behind guys I let pass me. Damn it.

I was now in the back third and realized I needed to get moving. The next part would lead to a paved road and more room to breathe. Get moving, man. Haul ass. You can still get a decent showing out of this if you can pull it together for about 12 minutes. As I got off the post, a dad of a teammate yelled, “You got this, 33!” and I flashed him a thumbs up. I poured it on and made up ground, bloody nips and all. In the end, I think I scored 100^th place.

I carried a lot of internal shame around this story. It was one of those things that visits you randomly as you’re going to sleep. Why did I do that? Why didn’t I do this? Why did I blah blah blah. And then the frame switched.

At 15, I realized firmly that no one was coming to save me. A lesson learned a thousand times since. I had gotten myself into this moment, and I was the only one who was going to get myself out.

I could have quit. I wasn’t vital to the team’s success, and we weren’t an elite squad. No one was counting on me. The shame would have been minimal, but it would have been mine to wear. No, thank you. That wasn’t going to be me. I made a choice about who I wanted to be even if I was the only one that knew it.

NO ONE IS COMING TO SAVE YOU.
And what’s more, you don’t want to be saved.

Self-reliance is a great trait to cultivate. It’s empowering to prove to yourself that you can endure hard situations. When you find the courage and energy to keep going, you build confidence. This is the only thing that’s going to propel you in the future – the knowledge that you’ve done it before.

I’m grateful to the guy who spurred me on. He let me figure out who I was going to be in a difficult moment. I try to do the same for my kids by not swooping in when they’re in a jam. Saving yourself is a revelation and something I want them to experience for themselves.

When did you learn that lesson? What did you do and how did you get out of it?

Bonus: That’s the team in 1994. I have, effectively, the same haircut 30 years later.