Prologue

My name is Kyle Richter. I was born August 12, 1986 in Midland, Michigan. My dad, Dave, was a chemical engineer and middle manager at Dow Chemical headquarters. My mom, Barbara, had been a school teacher, but retired when Dad got a promotion and she no longer needed to work. I was almost nine at the time, and pretty rambunctious as a kid.

I wasn’t an only child. My sisters Olivia and Shannon were older than I. “Liv” was nearly six years older and “Shan” was two years older. I was outnumbered two-to-one. Luckily, I wasn’t the forgotten kid, thanks to my dad. The girls naturally gravitated toward Mom. They didn’t often give me a hard time or anything like that. For the most part, they just ignored me ... like I wasn’t there. To tell the truth, generally I was grateful for that.

Dad and I had a really good relationship. I guess since we were the only two males in the household, it was natural. But Dad had a special skill that I benefited from. He was really good at teaching me things, especially things mechanical. He was restoring a very old motorcycle and sidecar and I was right there helping him. I learned an amazing amount about mechanical things and how they worked from him. I thought my Dad was the greatest dad ever.

My dad was a pretty busy guy, often flying off to one place or another to solve problems. I was too young to understand what the problems might be, but I know he was always happy to get home to Mom and the family. His two main hobbies were golf and fixing things. Mom played golf as well, and he and mom played each Sunday, weather permitting. He was also a big baseball fan and encouraged me to play the game. I played Little League until I was twelve, then went on to Babe Ruth ball before I played high school ball. I could hit, and my fielding was solid, but my throwing could be a bit erratic. I was left-handed, so I played mainly in the outfield, with occasional emergency duty at first base.

Mom was very insistent that we take piano lessons when we were young. I wasn’t very enthusiastic, but I did like music. I would much rather have spent more time learning to play my guitar. I had found a used one in a pawn shop and bought it for ten bucks. Olivia and Shannon both took piano lessons, but Liv didn’t continue when she went to college. Shan couldn’t escape any more than I could, so she was stuck with the lessons. Once in a while, I would play my guitar while she played the piano and we’d make a duet. It was fun and made the lessons a little easier to get through.

The summer before my thirteenth birthday, I had a growth spurt. At first I didn’t notice it, but when Mom wanted to see what I had to wear when I went to Middle School that fall, I could see that all my pants were too short ... by a lot. My long sleeve shirts were too. I had to get all new clothes or be labeled a total dork when I showed up on the first day.

Thirteen turned out to be a difficult age for me. After my growth spurt that summer, I was six feet tall and skinny. When we lined up to enter class that first day, I was taller than just about any kid in my class by quite a bit. Wouldn’t you know it, when I went to my first PE class, they announced that we would be taking dance lessons once a week. Oh brother, just what I needed. It was bad enough that I had to take piano lessons, now I had to take dance lessons.

I wasn’t looking forward to it, but every other kid, including my buddies, had to take dance lessons too, so it wasn’t like I was being picked on. If I was taller than my pals, I was taller than almost every girl; by at least a foot. It came to a head on the first day of PE when we were told who would be our dance partners that fall. How they picked Bonnie Thurman I do not know, but she wasn’t even five foot tall. She took one look at me and in a voice that could be heard all over the gym, announced,

“I’m not dancing with him. He’s too tall.”

That’s how kids get nicknames. By lunch time, I was known as “Too Tall” Richter. Apparently, there was a Dallas Cowboy lineman with the same nickname. I looked him up in a NFL magazine one day and discovered he was six-foot-nine. Wow. I hoped I wasn’t going to end up that tall.

It wasn’t long before my size and nickname brought about some changes. First of all, thanks to Bonnie’s complaint, I had been given another girl as a dance partner. It was a dark day for me when I learned my new partner was Gloria Castleman. Gloria was almost as tall as me and probably fifty pounds heavier. She was about as dainty as a hippo and just as pretty. She was no happier being paired with me than I was with her.

We didn’t have a choice, it seemed. Gloria and I were just going to have to live with it, regardless of how improbable a couple we were. My sister Shan thought it was hilarious and made sure every one of her girlfriends knew about my embarrassment. She went to great lengths to ridicule me at home as well, making sure Olivia knew of my shame. It took my mother to intervene and give them both a stern lecture about picking on their “little brother.”

I was grateful to Mom for sticking up for me, but it didn’t make any difference. Out of her earshot, I knew they were laughing their heads off over my predicament. If I even had remote thoughts of dating some of the girls in my class, I could forget them, probably for several years to come. I pretty much withdrew from any hopes of finding a girlfriend and sought out other avenues of relief.

There weren’t many options open for me. I was hopeless at basketball. As an uncoordinated thirteen-year-old, I couldn’t shoot worth a damn, and my dribbling was equally pathetic. I didn’t even try out for the freshman team, despite my height advantage. I didn’t know much about soccer, but it didn’t look too difficult, so I tried out for that. My lack of leg strength made my shooting and passing ability pretty weak. The coach suggested I do some exercises to strengthen my legs and try out again next year.

Meanwhile, back in PE class, we were subjected to some fitness tests. They amounted to running, jumping, and lifting weights. It was there I discovered my one talent. I could run. I wasn’t a sprinter, but the longer the distance the better I was. My leg and upper body strength weren’t great, but my wind and endurance were better than most other kids. When they asked us to run a half-mile, I was first in my group by quite a bit, and I wasn’t that tired at the end.

“You should try out for the track team next year,” Mr. Reid, the PE instructor said. “You’ve got a nice long stride and you are in pretty good shape. Some endurance training and you’d be a good middle distance runner.”

Wow! Something I could do besides baseball that might allow me to be a success. I decided that I would begin to train immediately. The running track around our football-soccer field was exactly a quarter mile, and I began to time myself as I ran. The only time I could have the track to myself was in the morning before school I told my mother about my ambition, and while she didn’t exactly encourage me, she agreed to provide breakfast earlier ... namely when my father was up and heading for the office at six-thirty each morning.

My running shoes were conventional canvas tennis style, but they would have to do for now. A visit to our local sporting goods outlet introduced me to what real runners wore. Nike, Adidas, Asics, Saucony, and others, took up a good part of the wall of the store. They were horribly expensive (to my inexperienced eye) but I only had to lift one of these shoes to know what they represented. They were feather-light; far lighter than my shoes, and far more flexible. In addition, the sales representative told me that they all had hi-tech foam in the sole to cushion heel-strike. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I would soon.

I announced my choice of a main Christmas wish that year should be new running shoes. My mother thought that was a very modest request ... and besides ... what was wrong with the ones I had? I explained the difference and the benefits, making sure she understood this was no ordinary request. My father nodded and said he knew what I was referring to and would guide my mother accordingly. That pleased me no end. But Christmas was still almost three months away.

It wasn’t long before my training plan proved unworkable. First, by early October it was dark at six in the morning and there were no lights on the field. Second, it got cold ... very cold that fall. Central Michigan was known for its winters and I could see I would have to find an alternative if I was to continue my training. It was months later that I learned I wasn’t really training. I was just running and building up some lung capacity and leg strength. But I had no plan that would lead to my goal of being a good distance runner.

I found a couple of books in the library on the subject and discovered a training plan for someone with my ambitions. It was very complicated, but it had been written by some guy in Oregon who had coached some very famous runners to success. A couple of them had won medals at the Olympic Games. That was good enough for me.

The problem I faced was the weather, but my father came up with a solution I hadn’t known about. A fitness center had opened in our community and it was equipped with a running track on the second level of a very big building. It wouldn’t matter when you were there, there would be light and it would be room temperature. Since it was on his way to work, he could drop me off and I could catch the bus to school from there.

My dad must have wanted me to find something that suited me and that I could succeed at, and if that was running, he would support me. In fact, he went one step further. He enrolled both of us at the fitness place and he would get in a workout while I was running. Then we would shower, change into our work or school clothes, and head off from there. I was really happy that he would support me in my ambition.

Christmas came and I got the usual gifts from my parents and grandparents, along with a couple of minor items from my sisters. There were no shoes under the tree, so I guessed I missed out on that gift. My last present was an envelope marked “to Kyle from Santa” and the notation, “push hard.”

I didn’t know what to expect when I opened the envelope, but out fell a card from the sporting goods store I frequented. It was a gift certificate for enough money to buy the shoes of my choice. I couldn’t believe it. I not only got what I truly wanted, but it would be my choice which brand and color and style. I made sure my parents knew how happy I was with this gift.

I remember slipping on my new Asics Tigers for the first time, lacing them up and walking gingerly toward the track. I could barely feel them on my feet, they were so light. Five minutes into my run I knew they were the answer to my prayers. Now I realized how much more comfortable they were when I ran. I was no longer “ground pounding” but slipping along the track with ease.

When spring arrived, I was out on the outdoor track at school in my white and blue shoes. Very few other kids in our school had shoes like mine. Dad was still going to his workouts every morning, but I was only there when the weather was bad.

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