Running had been fun for the curly-haired athlete once, a long time ago, and then it had saved her when she needed saving most, and then it had almost destroyed her before she was even an adult. They reeled her in, and she pumped harder, faster and they reeled her in again. They would show this middle-aged mom what racing was all about. They had time, and nature and physics, on their side. What the hell was a Zola? It didn’t matter. “Go, Zola, go!” The young runners closed again. Running brought her international fame and then worldwide scorn and then it brought her something few might suspect. Once she ran to connect with someone she loved. Through all the fragile triumphs and shifting tribulations of Zola Budd’s life-some well known, some known not at all-only one thing remained immutable: running. Was it nostalgia, or a wish for their own faded youth, or a belated and overdue recognition of grit’s enduring majesty? Here she was, doing what she had always done, even when no one was watching. “Go, Zola!” Jacobs yelled and another coach took up the cry, then another. She did suffer stunning setbacks and tragic losses, but much of her misfortune was worse than people knew, the losses more complicated and painful than most imagined.Ī lot of people thought she had disappeared and stopped running for good. She did refrain from speaking out against great and terrible injustice-but so did a lot of other people older and wiser. She did run barefoot-but so did everyone else where she grew up. It is made of half-truths, exaggerations, and outright lies. But the legend of Zola Budd is, like all legends, simple and moving and incomplete. Those were the boldest brush strokes of her narrative, and they continue to be. Mention the name Zola Budd to the casual track fan and you’ll likely get one (or all) of three responses: Barefoot. “Zola?” another coach asked, and stared at the runner. They were on the big hill now, and they had caught up to her and they were going to pass her. They were clear-eyed, long-limbed, remorseless. And the young athletes were tracking the sun-cured, curly-haired rabbit down. And now the giant hill in the middle of the course was looming. No slightly thick, middle-aged jogger could maintain that kind of pace. She ran the first mile of the race in 5:18. She was decimating their college athletes. Now more coaches were looking at her, a curly haired, middle-aged woman, legs like pistons, elbows flying. He had warned her that a gigantic hill sat in the middle of the course, and that if she went out too fast, the hill might swallow her. He had warned her against going out too fast. Her coach had told her to take it easy, that she didn’t have to lead from the beginning. More coaches watched her, and for at least one of them, and maybe more, who beheld her curly hair, and her speed, and the way she had that little hitch in her style-elbows slightly too high, a little too wide-there was something familiar. She kept the lead even after a quarter mile. The coaches could tell that, even if some of the young runners could not. She wasn’t just a weekend jogger out for a laugh. She had a nice stride-there was power to it, and precision. Some of the coaches looked at each other. Maybe she used to lead races, back in her day. Maybe she would quit after a few hundred yards, then limp back to her grandkids and tell them about the day she led some real runners. But what was the runner in front thinking? Maybe she wanted to feel the sensation of leading a race. The young runners knew this was an open race, that oddballs could run if they wanted. When the race started, she jumped in front. ![]() She was 42, brown as a walnut, slightly thick in the middle. They came from North Carolina State and Clemson and Davidson and Miami and other colleges and universities, and it’s a safe bet that no matter what burdens any of them quietly carried-anxiety about grades, boyfriend troubles, or less specific but no less real woes-none had ever faced the combination of worldwide shame and personal loss that had battered the middle-aged woman in their midst. Many were tall and slim, rangy and loose-limbed in the way of college-aged distance runners. ![]() ![]() ![]() L AST AUTUMN, AT A PRETTY CLEARING NESTLED 3,333 FEET ABOVE SEA level in North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains, 194 female collegiate distance runners gathered to run a 5,000-meter cross-country race.
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