Dear Running: I've Always Invested My Time In You

Katie Clute is a senior at Olmsted Falls High School in Ohio and is a recent commit to the University of Oregon. She's coming off a state OHSAA Division I state track and field title in the 3,200m and clocked PRs of 4:49.55 and 10:28.97 in the 1,600m and 3,200m, respectively. A two-time state cross country qualifier and a two-time top 10 finisher -- she was second in 2021 -- Clute is searching for her first title this fall. Here, she writes about the early investment she put into the sport, and how much it's given back to her. 

"I love blasting off the line and hearing the mutter of spectators that dies off in the distance. I love cresting a hill with burning legs, finishing so exhausted that your fingers fumble to untie your spikes so you can take off the chip the officials keep asking for."

By Katie Clute - Olmsted Falls '23

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Dear running,

To start, here were some early signs that I was invested in you long before I even realized it. 

I should have known when, during my days playing soccer, I looked forward to running when we got the email to bring our "runners" (my soccer coach's name for running shoes) to practice.

Or maybe it was all those years back then, when my basketball coach (hey dad!) ordered us to do ladders at the end of practice. Most of my teammates dreaded you. I was excited and wanted to be the first to finish.

To this day, my grandpa still tells stories of me always wanting to run to the mailbox three houses down, of times when I was begging to be allowed to go further and further.

I've always had an itch to go farther with you.

Whether it was covering the bases, pacing after a soccer ball, or sprinting to stop a fast break, I ran. Back then, you were the space between things, not the main event.

I ran to save a goal. I ran to score (OK, brick) a breakaway layup. I ran to get the best popsicle before my brother did, always picking the red one. Then, in the seventh grade, I transferred to a new school.

The counselor said they had cross country.

"What's that?" I asked my dad after the meeting. He told me the sport was about racing on the grass and going "over hills and stuff." I signed up because it sounded fun.

I took a wrong turn in my first and second race and got passed, but once I figured out the art of following lines and cones -- or following a lead vehicle if it was a fancy meet -- I did pretty well.

I don't remember the first race I won, but I do remember the relief I felt upon finishing without getting lost.

But even then, cross country was still just something I did when I didn't have soccer.

Whether it was covering the bases, pacing after a soccer ball, or sprinting to stop a fast break, I ran. Back then, you were the space between things, not the main event.

Never did I realize I would love the actual running part. But even now, I love racing.

I love blasting off the line and hearing the mutter of spectators that dies off in the distance. I love cresting a hill with burning legs, finishing so exhausted that your fingers fumble to untie your spikes so you can take off the chip the officials keep asking for.

Maybe I used to loved the fact that meets terrified me. I remember getting so nervous a week before a big meet -- and that happened constantly, because meets were every weekend.

I soon realized that everyone was talking to me about how fast I was. Being a good runner made people notice the new girl at school. I wondered what would happen if I didn't win every meet like everyone said I would. What if I let my team down?

Before the conference championship in my eighth grade year, I remember seeing my dad as we were walking up to the line. I ran over to him and started crying, not even wanting to race. I was scared of losing and embarrassing my team.

He talked me through. I ran, and I won.

I don't get nervous like that any more, and I have a few things to thank for that.

First, I know I'm prepared when I step to that start line. Next, I work hard in practice and do everything that my very knowledgeable coach tells me to do, to the best of my ability. This makes me feel excited and ready to go, even though there are moments when I'm still nervous. I know being a little nervous is good.

Third, I've gotten better at understanding that running is not my whole identity. Losing a race doesn't make me a failure, nor does it make the people who love me love me any less. The people who really care about me wouldn't care if I stopped running tomorrow. Just because I have a bad run doesn't mean I had a bad day.

Running is something that I do. It's something I love to do. But I also love reading and baking and painting and hiking and so much more.

Recognizing this is so freeing. It allows me to race like me, unafraid to take chances.

Lastly, I've learned to stop racing with the intention of not losing. On the contrary, I start with the intention each race of meeting the finish line first.

I've realized that racing not to lose makes you more stressed, takes lots more energy and takes out the fun.

Racing to win has its bonuses: It forces you to push as hard as you can, not out of fear or regret, but out of the innate desire you have to do your absolute best and give everything so you can be better than everyone else on that day.

That's why I love running. I keep investing my time in you.