Writing Advice from the Track

Do you feel overwhelmed as I often do by the swirl of writerly information? Where have you discovered sound writing advice? The best advice I ever received was NOT from a writer-focused resource. In tenth grade at James M. Bennett Sr. High, I joined our school’s first women’s track team and learned what it took to write.

Mrs. Tucker, our physical education teacher, inspired enough of us wannabe female track stars to make up a real team. Heady with excitement, we were proud to be “the first.” Giddy, standing around in our royal blue gym uniforms, spring wind blowing our ponytails, the tangy 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. In the late 1960s we didn’t know (or have) better. Nor did we know much about track. I liked to run, but had a lot of questions. How do you leap over those rickety hurdles? What about relay? If you cannot look back, how do you grab—and not drop—a baton being passed to you from the runner behind you? When do you breathe? What do you do if you trip or fall?

Don’t Jump the Gun

Mrs. Tucker was gentle, encouraging, and made sure we listened. Her favorite motto was, “Don’t jump the gun.” Because I was nervous, wanted to win, and thought I knew what to do, I anticipated the starting pistol firing just before it did. Bang! I was already down the track. Come back. Start over. Pay attention. Run when it is time.
These were basic lessons from my parents who’d provided swimming lessons, sewing instruction, bikes with training wheels, tennis lessons, and roller skates. I needed to consciously apply hard-won lessons about learning and practicing to another “fun” discipline—running track.

Hint to writers: don’t jump the “get published” gun before your work is ready.

Get Good Coaches

You’ve seen hurdle jumpers at the Olympics on television. I was never that good! But seeing my determination to run the hurdles, wise Mrs. Tucker asked the star hurdler on the men’s track team to teach me. Patient and instructive, he became my hurdle brother, making sure I practiced after school no matter the weather. He demonstrated how to keep my back leg bent in the right position, at the perfect angle, so my toe wouldn’t drop while jumping over the hurdle. When your toe even slightly grazes the cross-bar of the hurdle, down you go … your face in the track.

That spring, we competed against one of the few high school women’s track teams in the area. Kelly green infield grass and cheering parents filled my peripheral vision. Ahead of me lay white lines separating gray lanes where hurdles, placed in regulated increments, looked like dominoes marching into the distance. The starting pistol fired. We leapt out of the blocks. Focused straight ahead, I cleared one, two, three hurdles. Then it happened. The number of steps I needed between each hurdle got thrown off; I shuffled to adjust, but my legs couldn’t react fast enough. I don’t know if, “Off track,” originates from track team jargon, but I do know that being out-of-step and ever-so-slightly out of my lane was my downfall. Literally. My back knee was too low, my toe caught the hurdle, and I hit the ground.

Get Up and Go

I was more embarrassed than hurt. Sprawled on the dusty track, my face aflame, I shut down. I heard nothing around me, even though I’m sure people were calling out from the sidelines (they later said so). What I did hear were voices inside me—my parents’, my coach’s, my hurdle brother’s—forming a chorus: “Get up. Keep going, Charlene. Just finish!”

With eyes down, I wanted to escape into the crowd, but those inner voices persisted. I hauled myself up, rubbed my burning knees, and limped down my lane towards the yellow finish tape now laying askew on the track. I walked over it. Our team had bonded well that spring, and my teammates were forgiving. My coaches were good sports, too, pleased I hadn’t run off in tears.

The rest of that season is a blurred memory of chilly afternoon practices and sore calf muscles. I can’t remember whether I came in first or second or third place at any other track meet. But that’s okay. Sometimes failures, more than successes, teach you lessons you need the most. The inner chorus, “Get up. Keep going. Just finish!” was not only the best track advice I ever got, it’s the best writing advice I ever got … and can ever give. I stare down those hurdles on every page. Don’t you?