McC’ed Last in Gym Class

Have you even suffered today, bro?

I am no athlete, but I was born with a target on my back.

My sister Sadie, who is less than two years older than me, is naturally exceptional. She set athletic precedence in our family, carving a sinkhole of disappointment for my flat-footed shortcomings. 

To this day, Sadie’s track times are on placards, adorning the loogie-stained hallways of Centennial Middle School. 

When I got to got to Centennial, two years after Sadie, her reputation preceded me.

On the first day of gym class, reading out the attendance, the Lady Keeper of Rec paused on my last name, “McClure...Any relation to Sadie?”. 

“Yeah, she’s my sister,” I said, not grasping the implication.

The gym keeper’s crossed arms loosened.

“Another McClure! We look forward to seeing what you can do”, she said offering a tight smile.

“Finally, people who get me!”, I thought—I learned at a young age to never question being on the receiving end of special treatment. 

Throughout class, I could feel the aura of being liked. There was a shoulder pat, reassuring nod, and eye contact from the closeted lesbian in residency.

Since we hadn’t broken into sport, my sub-par abilities remained in the dark. My knock knees hadn’t failed me yet.

Note: Around this time, my knock knees avec flat feet led parents and armchair experts to believe I had childhood scoliosis. While I was *eventually* medically cleared, my physical disadvantage was markedly apparent and unsettling to some.

The next day, the gym keeper was ready to see her new track darling perform. She singled me out, asking me to demonstrate “suicides” in front of the entire class.

Note: In the early 2000s—when mental health was still a poo-poo, funny, “you crazy”—“suicides” were the name for a standardized running test to measure fitness. The high-intensity drill has runners attempt to make it progressively farther distances before hearing a “beep” over a tinny boombox.

As the beeps get faster and faster, your year-long likability is graded by a clip-boarded, whistle-wearing dodgeball enthusiast.

In essence, it’s a drill so inhumane and sadistic that it could turn any pillar of wellness into erm…a suicide risk? Today, it’s just called “the beep test, “line drill” or “it’s a safe space—do what you can”.

Typically, for this type of athletic abuse, I’d fane injury or—if kindly scheduled in advance—stay at home for a Mom-approved Mental Health Day.

But in this instance, I was caught off guard. I had no choice but to perform.

For a moment, I thought there was a chance that I’d become “good at sport” over the summer. After all, a few rocket popsicles and lake swims never hurt nobody.

Perhaps, the gym keeper had prophesied my own ability? Seen something in me that I didn’t even know was there. Sometimes all it takes is one Belieber to triumph over years of mediocrity.

I took position at the starting line with hope that I’d blossomed into something special. After all, in the land of puberty, transforming into an unrecognizable beast between July and September wasn’t unheard of.

My heart was thumping. This was my chance to become the McClure I’d always hoped to be. 

The first beep went off. I charged towards the line, hitting my mark with seconds to spare. 

“Maybe I do have this?”, I thought.

The beeps got faster.

I continued to cross the line in time, but understood why flat feet would have deemed me unfit for WW2 enlistment.

Note: I was acutely aware that in the event of an army draft at Centennial Middle School, they’d see my orthotic inserts (and disappointing legs), and agree it’d be best if I sat this one out—literally, LOL. I’d stay back in my hometown, bonneted and widowed, knitting socks and canning bologna with other rejects and seniors.

Within the minute, I began to crumble. I tried to feign composure, aware of my onlookers—or as I liked to call them, my fans.

I kept running but no longer had the energy to mitigate my pathetic posture.

I could feel my feet shuffling outward at 3 and 9 o’clock. They were settling into their “home” position, but I was in no place to modify. Uncorrected, my natural gait resembled a wind-up penguin’s waddle toward sea shore (or a coffee table’s edge). 

I sprinted on.

Approaching the line, I knew it’d be close. I dipped my head forward and flapped my arms like I’d seen in the movies. I was preparing for a photo finish.

Sadly, the beep won out. I fell short, but could rest easy knowing I’d laid it all out on the literal line. 

I rested my hands on the back of my head, and huffed deeply—again, like I’d seen in the movies. I took a few steps, shaking out my calves, then glanced up at my fans.

I made eye contact with the gym keeper. Her response was lukewarm at best.

“Five”, she said emotionlessly.

“Like out of five?”, I puffed back.

“No, 12. You’re below average. You scored poor!”

Me, poor?

What hurt the most was that I’d blown any shot at being liked by the gym keeper. This meant that I would never be selected for the role of lunchtime chip salesman—a hat that my sister wore proudly.

The chip salesman gig was an unpaid power position given to all of the gym all-stars. These jocks got to sell Frito-Lays out of a dutch-doored janitor’s closet at recess. With the job came prestige, free chips, and the almighty “get out of class 10 minutes early” card. 

But judging by the clipboard’s face, I’d pooched it.

I’d never get to sell Munchos for an undisclosed charity, or earn a key to the janitor’s room like the many greats before me. I was a keyless commoner, left to join the snaking chip line with the other pot-bellied, knock kneed chumps. 

I wouldn’t run again *by choice* until adulthood, where I used jogging as a means for self-inflicted suffering.

Doing something physically hard offers mental refuge. The same exhaustive thoughts can’t roll through when you’re struggling for air and trying not to trip over your penguin flippers.

As a tool for good suffering—regardless of how unfit, hungover, and off-brand it is—I force myself to go on a gruelling Thanksgiving Day run.

It’s a hilly as fuck 10km country loop around my parent’s farm that leaves me belting out at least five “go on without me(s)”. And it’s sometimes my only real run of the year.

But the holiday run offers a clean slate, birthing the possibility that if I go running again the next day, I could become “good at sport”. I could emerge as someone who jogs, wearing one of those belt things with a dozen mini water bottles. 

Overcoming good suffering makes you feel able. It pays off mental debts that must be cleared. It grows confidence for facing other hard things that you may not be able to choose. It also helps to rewrite the old stories like, “I can’t”, “I suck”, or “I am living in my sister’s shadow”.

When determining whether or not to inflict suffering, perform a gut check. Is doing the hard thing the right thing? What would our fully-realized, best self V 2.0 do? Will this make us fitter or fatter?

To get further ahead, or closer to our ideal, we have to suffer. And sometimes, this means getting sweaty.