If you showed up to a High Desert Middle School cross country meet this fall, you probably noticed two runners who turned every race into something bigger than a finish time.
Sixth grader runner Kailyn Thorne lives with Retinitis Pigmentosa, which limits her vision to a narrow tunnel that begins about three feet in front of her. This was her first season of cross country.
With a bright yellow tether around her wrist and Coach Rebekah Haverland at her side, Kailyn learned the rhythm of guided running — arms in sync, steps called out, footing described in real time. When the course turned tricky or the sun dipped low, her coach’s voice grew steady: “Toes up… heel down… you’ve got this.”
And when doubt crept in, Kailyn had a mantra: “I am amazing. I can do it.”
She said it out loud, then proved it, again and again.
Seventh-grader Paul Macarambon, who is autistic, ran track last spring and made the leap to cross country this year.
Cross country is chaos — dust, crowds, turns — but Paul met it with heart and humor. He cut nearly four minutes off his time from the first home meet to the last, learning pacing, focus, and determination.
On the tough days, teammates jogged beside him, redirected him with kindness, and stuck close on sidewalks and bus lots.
“Take my hand — we’ve got this together,” one runner told him on a day when everything felt hard.
They meant it. Paul wrote an essay for school about his cross-country experience.
“I really like my cross country team because my coach is very nice to me and the kids were nice to me too,” he said in the conclusion. “I want to be friends with them, but sometimes it’s hard for me because I’m autistic.”
This team became a village. Boys who usually sprint to the front volunteered to stay at the back so Paul wouldn’t be alone. Girls who chase personal records gladly switched to make sure Kailyn had a partner.
They celebrated passes Kailyn could see in the distance and laughed with Paul’s one-liners without ever laughing at him. Rules of the course mattered, but love mattered more: stay safe, stay together, and finish strong.
Coach Haverland won’t take the credit. She says she just planted the idea — then watched middle schoolers turn it into a way of life.
“They ran with it,” she said.
Literally.
In a season full of everyday miracles — tethers that felt like wings, small hands reaching out, and a team that chose people over pace — High Desert learned the best kind of victory. Not a medal, but a mindset: we don’t leave anyone behind.
And that, more than any stopwatch, is the kind of finish that lasts.
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