It’s 2022. Sydney McLaughlin is 22 years old. She crosses the finish line and then sits on the track. There are no wild celebrations or emotional demonstrations. Perhaps she is simply dumbfounded by the reality that she just ran a world 400m hurdles final in a time that would have placed her seventh in the 400m flat final.
Perhaps she is contemplating the mathematical impossibility of decreasing the world record from 52.16 to 50.68 in 13 months. Perhaps she’s considering the lactic acid still searing in her legs.
At the press conference, the focus is not on what she has just accomplished, but rather on what she may achieve in the future. Additional world records? The fifty-second limit? A change of events?
The world has witnessed a miracle but is just interested in her next trick. “The sky is the limit,” she affirms. “I must consult my coach about our next objective. He makes the decisions.” She does not express her desires for herself.
McLaughlin appears small, reticent, and restrained. They refer to her as a robot or machine. They roll their eyes when she discusses her faith and attributes her victories to God’s glory. And you recall an interview she did many years ago when she was still a teenager, a schoolgirl, at the moment when her inner and outside worlds were beginning to collide.
“Whenever I became frustrated,” she explained, “I would go to practice and work it out. Run away from your stress on the track. I make things appear simpler than it is. People are blind to the fight.”
It’s 2016. Sydney is 16 years old. From the moment she learned to run, she was destined to run. Her parents were accomplished athletes. Also, their siblings were her brother and sister. She was transferred to Union Catholic, where the annual tuition is $18,000 and the standards are sky-high. She beat both school and state records and earned a spot in the coveted US trials.
Now, as she cautiously jogs around the warm-up track, she is stopped by something. She has no desire to run. She is experiencing a panic attack. She wishes to return home. She implores her coaches, “I don’t want to do this!” “I don’t belong here.”
Sydney contracted mononucleosis earlier in the year and missed the first six weeks of the season. In April, her mother Mary suffered a heart attack. She was concerned about the impact athletics was having on her social life, as it was transitioning from a pastime to a vocation. And when she crosses the finish line in third place, having been encouraged to race by her father, she can only feel relief that it’s all over and worry about what lies ahead. A reporter then inquires about her plans. “Sleep,” she instructs. “And sleep again.”
It’s 2021. Sydney is 21 years old. She beat the world record at the Olympic trials three days earlier. She is currently sitting in her car outside the stores, fighting back tears. “I have no idea what’s going on,” she says into the camera on her phone. “I accomplished one of my life goals. And the individuals I believed would be the most enthusiastic didn’t even care.”
The tears accumulate into sobs. “No matter how well you do, it will never be enough. There is always something wrong with you.” She sweeps her hair away from her face. “The world is ill,” she spits into the lens with a mixture of disgust and anguish.
It’s 2006. Sydney is six years old. She is about to compete in her maiden 100-meter dash. If she wins, her father Willie promises her she can have an almond chocolate bar. She triumphs. Afterward, she feels depleted, unfulfilled, and uncertain as to what the point was. Her father then delivers her the candy bar. She swirls and crunches the delicious, nutty candy in her mouth before deciding to continue jogging. She swallows the chocolate without ever tasting it again.
That which imprisons you also liberates you. That which liberates you also entraps you. Sydney’s route to the Eugene starting line was not completely her own doing. Her talent is a gift from God. She owes her athletic genes to her parents. She owes her technique and consistency to her coaches.
Her career and mission are owed to them all. That is what she desires. This is what brings her joy. She is also aware that she is a project, a scheme, and a figment of others’ ambitions. She therefore runs. She is the fastest and most flawless runner who has ever lived.
It’s 2022. Sydney is 22 years old. This is the most severe of the sprint competitions, a quarter-mile of intense agony where every step could be disastrous. The blonde ponytail of Femke Bol flops against her back. The hair of Dalilah Muhammad dances and weaves in the breeze. However, Sydney’s hair is so securely braided that not a single strand is out of place.
This is her knowledge. This is her routine. The obstacles vanish effortlessly beneath her. Bol and Muhammad cannot be located. The crowd had already begun to open their mouths in disbelief. However, as she approaches the tape, she appears to slow down slightly. She has won, but with reluctance. It’s almost as if she can see the thing she was fleeing from waiting for her just where she began her journey.
