Senior runner focuses on final year, hopes to finish strong

Trying to finish an interview with anyone, cross country pretty boy or not, is difficult when you're staring at the undigested chunks of your breakfast floating around in a dirty toilet bowl.

In order to fit into his hectic schedule, I had the opportunity to go on an early morning run with senior runner Austin Vande Berg last Thursday, an accomplice to what he called "a light warm-up jog."

As we stretched out before the run, my audio recorder in hand to catch every word the decorated athlete had to say, he explained how we'd do "a little run around Augie's campus, get up around USF a bit, maybe head down to Kiwanis and then over to 41^st Street."  I expected him to then go on with something like, "and then we'll head on down to Louise Avenue, make our way onto I-29 and then pull a quick couple of laps around the town of Harrisburg."

Follow the story, I guess, even if that means following it into the next county.

We take off at a steady clip that he calls a slow jog, and the way he says "slow jog" makes me try to play it cool, like I don't already feel my food creeping up my esophagus.   He's not a big guy, and really none of the cross country team members are hulking spectacles of humanity.  They don't have big muscles because they don't need them.  They're just the type that can run you into the ground.  Even though he boasts a personal best of a 4:16 mile time, he's modest to the bone.  During our run, I ask him about the most fantastic part of his running career at Augie, and he furrows his forehead and tries to think of something to say.

"Something fantastic?" He thinks for a while.  "Well I made some really good eggs yesterday.  Running-wise though?  I guess I'm just glad to be back for another season.  This is my last one here so I've got to make it the best one I can."

By about mile number two, I'm sucking air, and the sound on my recorder is mainly of me trying to gather enough composure to ask questions about his time on the cross country team.  Vande Berg's well conditioned lungs allow him not only to answer my questions like he's standing still, but also do so while running backwards so he can face me while he talks.  Last year, Vande Berg helped the men's cross country team to a 10^th place finish at the Division II National Championships.

He explains that every Wednesday, he and his team go and run MERs (Medium Endurance Runs) at Tomar Park, where they scurry through five to seven one mile laps at a six-minute pace.

"It's not super hard," he explains, "but it's good to improve fitness.  Tuesdays are normal workout days, we go run the hills at Great Bear or Big Sioux Rec area.  Wednesdays it's circuits at 7 a.m., then MERs in the afternoon.  Thursdays are recovery days," he pauses to explain that on recovery days they run miles at a 6:30 pace instead of six minute pace.  Basically a cakewalk.  He continues, "We workout on Fridays, have a run on Sunday afternoon, then we work out on Monday."

This is great and all, listening to stories of him running 60-80 miles a week just for the sake of running, but trying to keep up with the guy is ludicrous.  By mile three, he's the one asking the questions, the most common of which is, "Do you want to slow down?  You're not looking so well."

No, no.  I'm fine.  I'm only trying to keep up with a guy who sprints around Sioux Falls' sidewalks like a fat kid chasing an army of retreating ice cream trucks down the street.

Always positive, Vande Berg's hardly ever seen walking around campus without a smile, and gives me words of encouragement and coaching on the home stretch back to Augie. 

"Run from your hips! Not from your calves or arms.  Try to keep a straight upper body.  Think gazelle.  Gazelle!"

Be the gazelle.  Got it. 

By now I'm dizzy and I have no clue how long we've been running, I can only see that I've been recording our little run conversation for 35 minutes and seven seconds running at a godlessly fast pace.

He asks me what part of my body hurts the most and I respond with a half-wheezing reply of, "Br…brea…breakfast."

We turn east on 37^th Street, and face a gigantic hill that seems to be the threatening type that promises to end the interview early. 

"Alright, buddy, push it!" he exclaims, fooled into believing that I have any energy left to expend on this asphalted mountain.  He bounds ahead of me on his way up the hill and turns to cheer me on as I limp along in a pathetic sort of shuffle step type of movement that makes me feel like a cross between the way I'll probably feel when I'm an 85-year-old hunchback and getting kicked in the sack.

We make the corner down Grange and I stumble into the Elmen's closest bathroom and start spewing whole Cheerios and bile and mushy banana. 

"Hey man, you did great," I hear from the other side of the door.  He stops and sounds surprised, "Oh, look at that!  I'm even sweating a little bit!"

There are two things I think about as I see my cereal-flake garbled toilet water.  One is that I've found a new respect for anyone that can sprint for  half an hour and then be flabbergasted at the fact they've actually exerted energy.  The other, of course, is that I really need to learn to chew my food.