An (In)convenient Excuse or: Why Noah Lyles and I Are Basically Twins

From July 26th to August 11th our life was put on pause. The Games of the XXXIII Olympiad took precedence above all other wants, needs, nice-to-haves. The kids want a snack? Let's watch the women's 200 individual medley first. I need a haircut? Maybe that's the good luck charm for the pommel horse routine. Great aunt Phyllis was just admitted to the hospital? But the breaking competition just started!

In the weeks between the trials and the opening ceremony, my wife and I watched Sprint on Netflix to familiarize ourselves with some of the key names in track: Sha'Carri! Noah! Shelly-Ann! Zharnel! Gabby! In my opinion, the most interesting narrative was around the Jamaican sprinters' factory -- a peek behind the curtain of decades of dominance. However, the most intriguing story-line was that of Noah Lyles.

Here's a 27-year old man fully embracing the role of cocky, alpha anti-hero because "that's what the sport needs." More personality! More eyeballs! But his own eyeballs give him away as they dart uncertainly around the press room every time he makes an outlandish claim or prediction. (This is not what makes us "basically twins.")

Noah has a chance to break Usain Bolt's world records one day, but he'll never have that innate swagger, the natural confidence. Ultimately, he's a workhorse with natural gifts that most of us will only dream about. And probably driven more by insecurity than the thought that he deserves "greatness."

(This is also not what makes us "basically twins," but we're getting warmer.)

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In the midst of the fun and games, my own date with destiny was approaching. I had The Fabulous Fahnestock Trail Races as a "tune-up" 50K on my calendar. Last year, this same race was a huge milestone for me. It was my first ultramarathon. In fact, it was the first time I had run more than 23 miles. This year, as the days got closer, my expectations turned from it being a "tune-up" for my next ultra in a month to an all out assault on my previous (and only) 50K personal best.

I was thinking about a one hour improvement... minimum. I was visualizing it. Every run leading up to it was about finding the balance between heart rate and speed; locking in the most efficient combination thereof. By the time I hit my shakeout run the day before, I was hitting a 10:35/mi pace at 128bpm heart rate. All I needed was 12:30/mi average to hit my goal... minimum. My all-knowing wearable claimed I was "peaking" at just the right time. The barn was raised and the horses were home. It was time to perform.

No gold in them there hills...

On the morning of the race, I was feeling fantastic... My seven-year-old might even say "fab-lee-ous." As we were milling around the starting line, one of my friends said, "I think you're going to crush this." My response was simply, "I think you're right." We stepped up to the starting line, the siren wailed, and the sound of a hundred feet crunching gravel took over.

Last year, we had unseasonably cool weather for this mid-summer race; 57 degrees and 83% humidity. This year 66 and 94 (and that temp would climb). Still on the cooler side of the norm for August, albeit far more humid than last year, the forecast gave me some comfort that I could maintain the level of effort I wanted without blowing up.

Even though each time I glanced at my watch during those first few miles my heart rate was about 20 bpm higher than I would have anticipated, I was feeling strong. I skipped the first aid station at mile five, per the plan. My friends were waiting for me (and everyone else) at the mile 11 aid station. I couldn't wait to see them.

"You're in 4th or 5th place! You look great! What do you need?" I was in and out in a flash. I had fish to fry. "Muah! Muah! Kisses. Y'all are the best!"

I hit mile 12 at an 11:11/mile average pace. Right on target. I knew things were about to slow down with a the steepest climb and descent ahead immediately followed by nearly four miles of ascending at an average grade of 4%. Take the next part slow and steady. It's time to hike with purpose.

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Two weeks earlier, Noah Lyles was officially kicking off his quest for a historic 100m/200m Olympic double. The bombast looked like it might be catching up to him when he finished 2nd in both the heats and the semifinals of the 100m. The final looked legitimately hard for America's chosen one before he pulled off the gold in the most exciting, closest photo-finish final in Olympic history.

In "Sprint" Noah says, "The 100m is my mistress, but the 200m is my wife." The shorter distance, while not technically a "tune-up" was a stretch-goal, a dalliance in the footsteps of the gods of track and field - an opportunity for real, Bolt-esque or FloJo-esque immortality. His wife, the race he (almost) never loses, waited for him at the altar. And waited. And waited some more.

In the 200m he gritted out a first place in the heats. Two days later he showed a chink in the armor in the semis coming in second. Then, in the final, he claimed a "disappointing" bronze medal. You could see it in his eyes on the starting line before each one of those efforts - those eyes that dart around nervously to see who might dare to call his bluff. Behind that mask of confidence was a question.

The question was answered as he poured into a wheelchair while still on the track followed by his coach leaking that he had tested positive for COVID a couple days earlier.

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Between mile 14 and 15 of my own race, I could tell something was off. Cycling through periods of feeling overheated and then immediately very cold when the cool breeze would pick up, everything was starting to feel a bit weird. It was time to fuel, but the thought of eating made me start to dry heave. Whoops. What was that?!

Crohn's Disease is known as a bathroom disease. An urgency disease. An uncontrollable diarrhea disease. But that was never my primary problem. The top two symptoms I've always had to deal with are the abdominal pain (oh, the pain, for which the word "cramp" does not do justice) and the nausea/vomiting (name a place and I've puked there).

Not so magic mushrooms.

I got one little flash of that pain and that puke-y feeling and I was immediately off the rails mentally. "I have to quit. I have to quit right now." I was still doing great, ahead of my goal pace, legs still relatively fresh with 25K behind me, but I couldn't concentrate on anything else. What was that?!

At the aid station at mile 16, I sat down truly unsure of what I should do next. This was the best place to quit, but it was all probably just in my head. I felt too hot, if I could just cool down and readjust my goals everything would be fine. Or I could just quit.

A friend surged into the aid station. He looked good, great, fantastic even. "He's out here running in this same humid muck and looks fresh as a daisy." After a couple of swigs of Coke and contemplating how I wanted to spend the next 4 hours of my life (spoiler alert, it would be another 5.25 hours), I decided to run off into the vibrant green yonder.

Mired in the "should I quit, I should quit, for sure let's quit" spiral, I forgot to refill my bladders at the aid station. I hadn't eaten anything either. My friend was hot on my heels out and blew past me at mile 18. I thought maybe I could feed off his energy; use his wake to keep up for a little while. Nope.

Instead, my brain was still fixating on all the times that Crohn's seemed like a convenient excuse for failing.

Remember all the times you pulled out of swim practice in high school? The flares you had the night before an exam? The parties you ditched? The people you disappointed? And here you are doing it again, and it probably wasn't even REAL, just like those other times you were probably just imagining it!

Reluctantly, I kept moving. By mile 20, nothing was working; my legs were shot. But most of all, my brain wasn't working. At each of the remaining aid stations, I didn't take in any food. I was "saving it" for the people that deserved it that weren't quitting (a real thought that went through my head). At each of the remaining aid stations, I threatened to pull myself, death-marching between them until I had no choice but to finish. For what? A medal I "hadn't earned" (another real thought)?

Every remaining step I was thinking about what how I would title my DNF on Strava. And every remaining step I started to cramp up a little more because of the cascade of poor nutrition decisions until I found myself at the finish line immobilized and yelping in pain.

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And this is how I know Noah Lyles and I were probably separated at birth.

When his diagnosis was publicized after his surprising bronze, I had the same initial reaction as a lot of people: "What a convenient excuse!" I even chuckled at some of the funnier sofa-bound commentators on Instagram.

Can you even imagine a bronze medal being a failure. How good do you have to be to rationalize it that way? Probably the best (or by definition at least the second best).

Even the most elite athletes on the globe have to contend with things outside their control. A wet track. An ill-timed injury. A miscalculated difficulty score. A virus that brought the world to it knees. This is life.

But our results rarely have a permanent asterisk next to them. Eventually we forget about the difficulty of the road (or trails) traveled to reach the finish line, and it all turns into the woulda/coulda/shoulda game. Maybe the healthier way to look at it is the wouldn't/couldn't/shouldn't... but did it anyway game. At least for us mere mortals.

Look at all the food this guy didn't eat...

I'm sure that Mr. Lyles thinks of his bronze medal as a missed opportunity, probably even as a failure. Certainly that is true of my thoughts on my own finisher's medal. It's hard to erase the 5.25 hours worth of thinking that I didn't deserve it. But, I never did build up enough courage to DNF. I lacked the balls to actually give up, because that would have been accepting the convenient excuse.

Did Noah really have COVID? Was he just hedging against the ultimate uprising of African sprinters? How do you measure variables in a race where thousandths of seconds separate success and failure? Would we have been nicer or more understanding if he had just quit?

Was it a legit Crohn's pang? Maybe, but that's enough. Was it heat exhaustion? Uh, yeah, probably. Did my lack of mental tools to escape stress/panic spiral end up making it worse? Pro-tip: Two pieces of watermelon, one energy bar and one gel for a 50K will not get the job done. Why did the goal become more important than the learning experience? Um... Would I have been nicer or more understanding if I had just quit?

If I had quit, I definitely would have hurt less. Five hours of poor decisions resulted in cramping so bad I had to see the finish line medic and a kind friend had to drive my car home (thanks, Ivan!). But at the end of the day, I have to believe that answering the harder questions about why I failed-yet-finished is more important than dismissing the questions entirely by waving the white flag. Maybe the real question is how I failed-yet-finished. In fact, I need to embrace the celebration of that accomplishment.

It's time to change my narrative into the "wouldn't/couldn't/shouldn't... but did it anyway" messaging, because I have an even tougher challenge in four weeks. Luckily, I won't have quite the same heat or humidity to contend with in Montana... It will be replaced with scree and altitude and bears. See, plenty of (in)convenient excuses no matter where you look.

If Noah can turn around a couple weeks later and start rustling feathers with misplaced bravado, confident that the ghosts of the past are just that, than I can too. We'll have a chance to chat about it at the next reunion. Because we are basically twins. And I have a medal to prove it.