5 months ago 15 notes
I know I’m a bit late with the story, but I had to either wait to take this picture or wait until UC admission letters were out so I can either submit my second personal statement or write this.
I have exercise-induced asthma. Before you say anything, I know that a lot of runners have asthma, but it’s always been bad enough to hold me back—way back.
Let me begin with my days as an elementary school student. I used to dream about running a 10-minute mile; at best, I used to run one in 12 minutes. Eventually, the possibility of having asthma came into my thoughts, but no one would believe me. Even my own parents thought I was simply out of shape. It wasn’t until 7th grade when I was officially diagnosed with asthma.
Skip to 9th grade. I joined Track as a hurdler as a freshman. I had good form for a newbie but had horrible speed, and that year I was dead last in every single race. The hurdling coach was also an alumni who had ran Cross Country and Distance in Track when he was in high school, and that got me interested in Cross Country.
10th grade, I wasn’t able to join Cross Country because my parents wouldn’t let me. I was, however, able to join Track, but I went through the same ordeal as I had in freshman year—just as a varsity hurdler.
11th grade, I finally joined Cross Country. This was probably the best decision I’ve ever made in my life. First of all, it was the hardest thing I have ever experienced. With my asthma, I was trying so hard just to keep up with everyone else. Hell, it felt like I was trying twice as hard to do half of what the others were doing. For half the season, I came in dead last in the races; and when you fail that many times for that long, it begins to eat you up, even destroy you from inside out. But it wasn’t until one day when we had to run pick-ups when I knew why. That day, the coach—my hurdling coach—was telling me that I had to still run despite getting no sleep the day before (it was my fault, really). I’m not really sure why, but I suddenly felt like crying at that very point. The entire practice, my mind was just blank—yet I was still thinking. Then it hit me: I wasn’t trying as hard as I could have. I wasn’t pushing myself as much as I should have. I made myself promise not to finish dead last ever again; maybe 2nd to last, maybe even 3rd to last—but not last. And from that day on, I never finished dead last ever again. I finished the season by a total improvement of two and a half minutes, finishing the season with a time of 17:04 for the 2-mile course at Coyote Hills, Fremont, CA.
The following Track season, I worked just as hard to improve. My PR for sophomore year was 19.24 for the 110m HH. For the first race of the season, I was at 18.02. I finished that season with a time of 17.02—a total improvement of 2 seconds.
12th grade—this year—I worked harder than I had ever worked for Cross Country. I tried my best not to let my asthma hold me back this time around. Before the season even began, I was already able to run more than I did my junior year. There was one problem though: I was consistently getting between 17:04 and 17:00 every race, and my goal was to break 17 minutes. Again, I began to become more and more annoyed at everything that was happening, but what could I do when I was already doing all my asthma would allow me to do? As time passed, the league meet (MVALs) came around, and I still hadn’t broken 17 minutes—I was at 17:00.00 as my PR. As the day came around, I began to feel more and more anxious; this was my last chance to break 17. I knew Cross Country in college was not going to happen for me, and I had to end the season breaking 17.
That day, everything seemed so surreal. The Frosh/Soph Boys and JV Girls races went by so quickly, and just before the race, I asked my coach to give me a speech. He just told me to relax and think about where to speed up and where to pass people and that he knows I can do it.
As I stepped up to the starting line, my mind immediately became blank. The gunshot pierced the air, and I was instinctively running. About 100m in, I saw my coach again, and I thought, “Fuck this. This is my senior year. What am I doing? This is my race.” And I ran past at least 10 people before slowing down to a maintainable speed. Of course, some of those same people were bound to pass me again, and about 5 of them did; but had I not kept the pace, I would’ve burned out. The hill quickly came, and it was a real hill—not a little speed-bump hill. This hill is about 600m long at an incline of about 20-25 degrees (This is a rough estimate). I did what I was taught to do: Keep good pace with short, quick strides and crest the hill. As soon as I go to the top, I tried to haul ass but couldn’t; my legs were so tired from what I’ve done so far that I couldn’t even open up my strides. So I ran until I got to the bottom of the hill, and at this point, I heard a coach from the other team cheering someone on. And it seemed like the person was right behind me. I hauled ass. I pushed until my legs cried, and I pushed some more. As I neared the finish line, I saw a clock there, and it read 16:10. It didn’t register my mind though; I had to finish as fast as I can. When I stopped, I went over to a bush and threw up.
That day, I ran 16:19. That’s right: I PR’d by 41 seconds. I ended the season by finally reaching my goal.
You see, some of you might not have anything wrong with you, or some of you might even have some quality that makes you naturally better than others. And as for the rest of you, you have some sort of disadvantage. But that doesn’t mean you can blame it for everything. That’s how life is: we’re not equal. That we are created equal is perhaps the biggest fallacy of all. We are created with different qualities, and we must accept the bad with the good. And we must use our disadvantages to our advantage.
I hate asthma. I really do. There is not a day I wish I was cured. But without it, I probably wouldn’t be as hard working as I am today; I hated asthma so much that I had to prove to myself that I didn’t have asthma, as strange as it may seem. And as you see, despite my not-so-great times in Cross Country, I improved by a lot because of it.
William Blake once said, “Shame is Pride’s cloak.” Well, Weakness is Strength’s cloak, and from our weaknesses comes our strength.
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