Running for My Life: One Lost Boy's Journey From the Killing Fields of Sudan to the Olympic Games (18 page)

Toward the end of the season, I ran the 1500 in a dual meet and in the conference meet. After running ten kilometers during the cross country season and 3,000 meters in the indoor track season, 1,500 meters seemed short. I liked the race because it requires more than pure speed or sheer endurance. You need both, plus you have to think all the way around the track for all four laps. Coach was right. The 1500 is a tactical race, which is why I entered it in the NCAA championships.

Because of my inexperience, I came in as a dark horse. No one knew what to expect from me in this event. Everyone, from the other teams to the fans to the media covering the event, seemed shocked when I zipped through the heats and semis to make it to the finals. Not me. I like this event. I expected great things from myself in it.

“Remember what I told you,” Coach said. “Don’t take off chasing the rabbit at the front of the pack. You need to save as much as you can for your kick in the last 80 to 90 meters. But don’t get so obsessed over saving energy that you fall too far behind.” He pulled off his ball cap and rubbed his head. He wanted to see me succeed as much as I did. “It’s all about tactics, Lopez. You have to run strategically.”

I smiled and said, “Yes, Coach, I understand. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll let you get back to warming up.”

I lay down on the infield to stretch my legs, first the right, then the left. I looked around at the guys I would soon run against. The field looked very different than the one I ran against in my first “race” in the United States. It was more a fun run than a race because it took place at my dad’s company picnic. The day’s festivities included a 10K run. I never thought about entering until Dad said, “Come on. You should run.” I did not have running shoes with me. “Here, use these,” Dad said as he pulled off some generic running shoes for me to wear. They did not fit right. I hated running in shoes back then. They made my feet feel slow and heavy. But everyone who entered got a free T-shirt, and Mom promised me a Coke at the finish line. I couldn’t say no to free T-shirts and Cokes, so I ran. Back then, that’s all it took for me to run. It doesn’t take much more today.

Running in that August heat and humidity took its toll. I nearly stopped halfway through, except my mom cheered me on. “You can do this, Joseph!” I finished third or fourth against an experienced field of runners, which wasn’t bad for a soccer player.

Now I found myself in Sacramento, California, on a blistering hot June day. Some athletes complain about the heat, but I love it. The air was hot and dry, no humidity at all, just like Kakuma. Every day there was the same, with temperatures at or above 100 degrees; dry, hot air swirling around; zero humidity. My mind went back to running thirty kilometers around the perimeter of the camp without shoes, wearing ragged hand-me-down clothes. Back then I didn’t even pause to grab a drink of water after finishing my lap around the camp; I was too eager to get into the soccer game. I would never think of doing that today. “Stay hydrated,” Coach Hayes preached to the team. I could hear his voice in my head as I pulled out my water bottle and took a long drink.

“First call for the 1500,” the loudspeakers announced. I gathered my things and walked toward the start line. Outside I put on my game face. Sunglasses on, stern look of determination on my face, I looked ready to dominate. Inside, I wore a huge grin. How could I not smile? Although this was the biggest race of my life up to this point, I did not run for my life. I ran that race a long time ago when I took off in the night with my three angels. We knew the rebel soldiers might open fire at any moment, which made us run even faster. Once we arrived in Kakuma, I ran every day, not just to play soccer but to take my mind off of my empty stomach and the harsh realities of life in the refugee camp. Today I ran for pure, absolute joy. My past set me free to enjoy the present moment, and I planned to enjoy it to the fullest. No man ever felt so blessed by God as I did in that moment.

“Second call, 1500 meters.” My eleven competitors gathered near the start line. This was a strong field. Both the defending 1,500 meter outdoor champion, Vincent Rono, and Leonel Manzano, the Mile indoor champion, made the final. Any one of half a dozen guys could easily win this race. I had to run smart.

I pulled off my warm-up jacket and pants and tossed them to Coach Hayes.

“You ready for this?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said. I looked down at my navy blue jersey and the yellow letters across my chest: Northern Arizona University. Tom Hightower told me this place and Coach John Hayes would take me to the Olympics, and he knew what he was talking about. But over the past couple of years, NAU had grown to much more than that.

When I arrived on campus, I found they had one of the best hotel management programs in the country. God planted the idea of majoring in this area back when I got a part-time job at a local Best Western near my home in Tully. My goal then, and now, is to build a hotel in South Sudan and help open the area to tourists. Tourists bring money, and money will allow my people to build schools and hospitals and dig water wells. My success as an athlete can also help make these things happen. The lost boys of Sudan made the news back in 2001, but people have short memories. The more successful I am as an athlete as a former lost boy, the more people will talk about where I came from and the greater focus I can put on the needs of South Sudan. Then, with my education from NAU, I can lead the way in doing something.

None of this made me feel greater pressure as I lined up for the 1,500 meter final. Pressure is trying to make a UN food allotment stretch for thirty days. Pressure is watching friends die of malaria and wondering who in the camp will be next. Pressure is writing an essay that will determine your entire future in a language you do not know. A footrace, even a championship race, did not make me feel pressure.

“Third and final call for the 1500. Runners to the line,” the loudspeakers announced. I stepped up to the start line in the sixth position, right in the middle of the field. Coach warned me to watch my position on the track throughout the race. “Don’t let those guys box you in,” he told me over and over again. The 1500, like every race longer than 400 meters, does not have lane assignments. If you are not careful, you can easily find yourself trapped on the inside, back in the pack, unable to maneuver. I planned to run a careful race.

“Runners, take your mark.” I took a deep breath.
Enjoy
, I reminded myself.

The gun sounded. I took off, five guys inside of me, six outside. Everyone descends toward the middle of the track before the first turn. I didn’t worry too much about running out too fast. The first lap of the 1500 doesn’t count for anything. Rabbits sprint to an early lead, but they never last.
“Relax, relax, relax
,” I could hear the voice of Coach Hayes in my head.
“Run loose, not tight
,” he preached to me. If I were any looser, my legs would give out from under me.

We rounded the first turn at a pace I liked. The leader did not take off like a rabbit, nor did he hold back and make the race too slow. The rest of the field takes its cues from the leader. Coach Hayes was right when he said this is a tactical race. All races are, to some degree, even the ten kilometers of cross-country. In my first season at NAU I did not understand race strategy. I just went out and ran as hard as I could for as long as I could. My approach worked most of the season, but not when the team needed me the most. At the Big Sky Conference cross-country meet my first year, Coach told me to keep pace with Seth Pilkington, Weber State’s top runner. Weber State and NAU went back and forth as the top team in the conference. Apparently, Seth’s coach told him the same thing about me. The two of us ran the first seven kilometers so fast that neither of us scored any points for our squads. My team won the conference title, but I beat myself up over my foolish race. The next season I came back a different runner. Coach Hayes and that race finally convinced me that strategy means as much as speed. My second season also convinced Coach that the Olympic dream I talked about nonstop was a real possibility.

I trotted along through the first lap, right in the middle of the pack. The leader ran the first lap in just over fifty-eight seconds. I ran it in sixty.
Okay, a good, honest pace. I like this. This feels good
, I thought.

Before the first turn of the second lap, I sped up, moving from sixth to fourth. My place overall did not matter as much as the distance I wanted to keep between myself and the leader. The second lap is all about positioning yourself. No one has ever won the race on the second lap, but many have lost it there. If I let the leader stray too far from me, I would not be able to catch him at the end, no matter how strong my kick. And I had a very strong kick because I run a variety of distances. Most runners specialize, but I don’t. I won the Big Sky Conference cross-country title in both 2006 and 2007, running 8,000 meters. Then, in 2006, I finished fourth in the NCAA outdoor track 800 meter race. My experience at so many different distances made me believe in my kick even more.

I settled into fourth position, keeping myself close to the leader. If he’d sprinted out from the pack, I would have moved up. But he stayed at a steady pace, and I matched him stride for stride. The track felt hot beneath my feet. Through the years I’d run on many different surfaces, from the jungle, to the savannah, where thorn bushes tore into my legs, to the sand and rocks under my bare feet in the camp. Back in high school, the track team ran through the school halls when it was too cold and snowy to run outside. I didn’t so much run as bounce. Every other stride I jumped up to try to touch the ceiling. One day I didn’t notice the door frame right in front of me. Next thing I knew I was in the nurse’s office with no idea how I got there. Mom showed up, scared to death. “Joseph, from now on you need to focus on running straight, not jumping and running!”

I did not plan on doing any jumping or bouncing today, but I still planned on having fun.
Relax and enjoy this moment
, I reminded myself. I stayed just to the outside of the runner in third, leaving myself plenty of room to maneuver in case someone in front of me tripped and fell. I did not want someone else’s mistake to take me down.

Back in Flagstaff, I had lots of people who went out of their way to keep me from tripping over myself. Professor Hales, my academic adviser, had me come into his office anytime I found myself getting frustrated under my class load. He sounded a lot like my mom. “You can do this,” he told me over and over. Then he helped me plot a strategy to get through whatever had me overwhelmed. One of my Hotel Restaurant Management professors, Wally Rande, took me under his wing. He made sure I understood the material. He and Professor Hales used to listen to me go on about my crazy dreams of going to the Olympics and building a resort in South Sudan. Most important, they kept me on course. They became my family in Flagstaff. I could not have survived there without them.

I crossed the start line and began lap three, the lap where you put yourself in position to strike. We went along at a minute-a-lap pace for the first couple of laps, which is very fast but not too fast to maintain. I stayed less than half a second behind the leader. Fatigue starts to build in the third lap. Feet grow heavy. Legs weaken. I stayed focused on running my race. I ran relaxed over the first two laps. I kept myself in a safe position, avoiding the bunch-ups that often come in these races. Now I prepared my mind to strike. I thought back to watching Michael Johnson run in the 2000 Olympics. Head steady, arms pumping, legs flying.
Today is my day
, I told myself.
Run your race, and you will win
.

I stayed loose but focused through the third lap. We crossed the start line. A bell rang out. The first lap does not matter. The second lap is all about positioning. Lap three is when you prepare to strike. And lap four? Lap four is “Help me, God!”

Right into the curve we ran.
Wait for it . . . wait for it .
. . I told myself. The leader through the first three laps started to fade. Leo Manzano, the 1,500 meter indoor champion, moved into the lead. He’d run in the second position on laps two and three, with me right behind him. He sped up. I quickened my pace to stay close. I felt someone moving up on my outside shoulder. I moved out just enough to keep myself from getting boxed in.

Just a little bit more
, I said to myself as we moved toward the back straightaway. Up ahead was the three hundred meter mark. The moment my feet crossed it, I started my kick. I darted into second. Up ahead, Leo Manzono sprinted hard. My legs felt strong through the final curve. “Save your energy for the final one hundred meter sprint,” Coach had told me. We came out of the curve. The crowd roared, but I did not hear them. All I could hear was the rush of the wind past my ears and my heart banging in my chest.

I pushed myself as hard as I could. Manzano pushed himself as well. Fifty meters to go. He stayed one step ahead of me. I sprinted with everything within me. I moved to the outside. At the thirty meter mark I pulled nearly even with Manzano. A dead heat. At twenty meters I pulled just ahead. I never saw him again. Head up, eyes focused on the finish line, I ran as hard as I had ever run in my life for the win. I cruised through the finish line, took a few steps, punched the stopwatch on my wrist, then collapsed on the track in joy. I looked up at the heavens and made the sign of the cross. “Thank You, God. Thank You. May You multiply this gift You have given me more and more.” My prayer had to do with far more than running.

I got up and shook Leo Manzano’s hand. “Great race,” he said.

“You too.” The third place finisher came over and shook my hand as well.

A CBS television camera came over to me. I could hardly contain my excitement. Now I understood why Michael Johnson cried after winning the Olympic gold in his last race. “Lopez, congratulations. You ran an incredible race,” the reporter said.

“Thank you,” I said. Then I looked into the camera and said, “I told you, Mom. Thank you for the opportunity.”