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JP Rutledge

Dr. Brown

ENG 312

23 April 2023

My All-American Cross Country Season Told Through Bib Numbers

One season, six races. Six bibs I pinned across by abdomen. Four tiny holes below the

letters of my Missouri Southern jersey. Six pieces of perishable paper tattooed with black,

printed numbers. One season to remember. One season to define my college running career.

***

On November 20, 2021, I became an NCAA Division II All-American at the National

Cross Country Championships in St. Leo, Florida. It was the perfect way to cap off my very first

collegiate cross country career. On the wall beside the dresser in my room hangs six bibs: one bib

from each of the six races I ran in the fall of 2021. These seemingly insignificant pieces of paper

each tell a story. Some tell stories of triumph, others of defeat. But each number on those bibs

means something to me, and I hope that, after hearing my story, they will mean something to

you, too.
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995. Nine plus nine weeks ago, I ran the best conference meet of my life. Nine plus nine

weeks ago, I ran my first ever race over 5k. But that was track, this is cross country. Now, I am

faced with mud, and hills, and sharp turns. Now, everyone on that line is running one race,

simultaneously, with one goal: win. This is my first collegiate cross country race. I know I am

ready. I know I am stronger now than I was nine plus nine weeks ago when I last ran over 5k.

When the gun goes off, the pace feels easy. I wait to separate from the pack. My teammates and I

pick up tempo, leaving our competitors in the dust. We sweep the podium, then wipe the dirt off

our shoulders, focused on what lies ahead.

447. Home meet and the heat is intense. I splash a cup of water on myself to cool off.

Despite the sun beating down on me, I feel good. I look good. Four miles in and it’s me and the

leader. I make my move. My teammate is not far behind. He passes me and we drop the rest of

the field. My teammate and I take the top spots on the podium. Here comes our number four. He

collapses to the ground as he crosses the finish line. But where is the rest of our top seven? Four

fast runners are great, but four great runners do not win meets. We need all seven.
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583. Only five runners finish ahead of me. They are five of the best runners in the nation,

five of the best runners over the 8k distance. We finish before the clock hits 8 on the east coast.

The sun has barely risen over the Smokey Mountains in northern Alabama. The mist has risen

into the sky. My spikes are drenched in the dew left behind. I see my time light up on a digital

screen to my left. A new PR but I hate that I didn’t kick just a little harder, pass one more

competitor before crossing the line. But I won’t complain. We take a bus straight home. I glance

at my watch, noticing the time. Over eight hours left to go and it’s already 3 pm. It’s 3 pm and I

only have three races left to go.

81. The MIAA conference 8k – held on the only hilly course in Nebraska. We are the

defending champions from before the pandemic. Our goal is to defend our title, even without our

best runner. The hills are causing my legs and lungs to burn. I want to give up, settle for less than

my best. Only 800 meters to go and my competitor is still ahead of me. “He’s dying up there!

You can catch him!” I hear from the sidelines. I believe the voice and begin to surge. I pass my

competitor and sprint down the final hill. I take a quick peek to see my competitor falling back. I

pump my fist at the line. My teammate meets me at the finish. My teammate and I take the top

spots in the conference for the first time in school history. But as we leave the meet, it is our

rivals who hoist a number one, and a conference trophy, into the air.

224. To get to Nationals, we must finish top four as a team here at Regionals. The

pressure is palpable. The tension is tantalizing. Two full laps of our home course are all that

separate us from our ticket to Florida. Whistle…breathe…four…focus…two…here we go…

Bang! Four miles later I am losing connection with the top pack. “You feel good! You feel

good!” I do feel good. I repeat this in my head as a new rush of adrenaline washes over me with

two miles to go. I know exactly where to make my move. Use my competition up the final hill,

then break away for home before they see the finishing stretch. My plan works. Second place in
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the region and guaranteed an individual ticket to Florida. But I don’t have to worry about

traveling alone. My team takes second! Better yet, we beat the MIAA conference champions.

And as our rivals jog a cool down, heads hung low in defeat, my team hops on a four wheeler to

celebrate our biggest feat of the season.

219. Two plus one subtracted from nine equals six. Six equals the best finish I could have

asked for at nationals. Six gets you a fancy trophy, a big medal, and an All-American title that

can never be taken away. As I sit in the medicine tent, my body fighting heat exhaustion, I know

I gave everything I had to accomplish my goal. I can’t believe what I have just accomplished. I

am an All-American as a redshirt freshman. I am an NCAA All-American cross country runner.

Me, the runner wearing bib 219.