September 2025 Alumni Update

In the early weeks of September, the summer miles of training behind us, the cross country season ahead of us, the first steps of a race or a workout were like sunrise, a bright and clear vista of possibility and promise. A fresh start. The long and solitary months of June, July, and August had been a renewal, dissipating every disappointment from the previous year, every race that hadn't gone as planned, every handshake we didn't get from Coach, because the race hadn't gone as planned. In the harvest light of September, in the early races of the season, on the afternoon runs of Old Farmer's, Appalachia, and Pheasant Ridge, we felt lighter and faster, the weight of regret gone. We felt unburdened by what once was, emboldened by what might be. The moment was exhilarating, as rarefied, quiet, and pure as the sound of footsteps and breathing, footsteps and breathing, each of us, all of us, shoulder to shoulder, the only sound of cross country.

There was intimacy in that sound, more than we knew, but years later would come to know. There was eloquence in that sound, more than we knew, but years later would come to know. The intimacy and eloquence were unspoken, because words were unnecessary, and words were inadequate. We simply understood. We were to carry each other. We were to run as one through races and workouts, faster than we ever imagined we could, making each of us more than we were, making all of us more than we were. Yes, there were tensions, rivalries to be the best, distinct from all others, held by those of us long ago accustomed to having been the best, and knowing no other way. We were young. But when the shirt went on, we were to carry each other. We were to run as one, the long and solitary months having brought us to accept we could go no further alone. "Group up!" Coach would yell as we passed by in a race. His directive was to run together, to draw strength from each other, to carry each other. But in retrospect, from the vantage point of life's many challenges over the half a century since, his directive conveyed far more than a race strategy--which I have to believe he knew it would.

Maybe this directive to carry each other is why we come to each other now in times of need, come to each other when we're searching for advice and counsel, encouragement and support; come to each other when we suffer the ravages of a hurricane, fall victim to a serious illness, struggle with the passing of a loved one. Maybe this directive is why we're there for each other, day and night, shoulder to shoulder, without question or condition or hesitancy, devotion drawn from the intimate and eloquent sound of footsteps and breathing, footsteps and breathing, rarefied, quiet, and pure. And not just the distance runners. All of us--every jumper, thrower, vaulter, sprinter, hurdler, quarter-miler, middle distance runner, and distance runner--instinctively recalling from years ago the sound of footsteps and breathing, footsteps and breathing, triple jumpers looking to each other to get the steps right, high jumpers looking to each other to get the approaches right, sprinters looking to each other to get the starts right, making each of us more than we were, making all of us more than we were.

We carry each other now, because we carried each other then.

--Bob