Nothing else matters. I’m standing in the middle of a grassy field on a chilly fall morning. With my chin on my chest, and my eyes closed, I can feel each deep measured breath throughout my body. Other runners stride around me, warming up for their race; some yell and laugh, others wish me luck. With every breath the noise around me gradually subsides, until, finally, I am alone.
A shrill whistle breaks my reverie. An official calls us to the line. Opening my eyes, I look up, and start to walk slowly towards the wall of runners before me. Two of my teammates make a hole for me at the front of our lane, as the referee begins to recite his directions.
Ignoring the referee, I try to fall back within myself. I’ve heard this same scripted speech hundreds of time, there’s no point in listening to it again. For a brief moment, my thoughts stray to the pain I am about to experience. I quickly focus on my breathing again, the pain doesn’t matter; I’ll deal with it as it comes.
I look down at the grass, fortifying my resolve one final time, as the official concludes his directions. Pushing my right leg behind me, I lean forward and tilt my head up towards a referee holding the starting pistol. As the field grows quiet, I mentally run through my imminent goals, “Relax, get out quick, don’t get boxed in, stay relaxed.”
The referee lifts his arm, suddenly all of my control is gone, my hands shake and my heart thunders, desperately trying to escape the confines of my chest. A sharp crack sunders the morning silence; I bolt forward, frantically trying to hold my position at the front of the field. As if I’m standing still, ten people surge in front of me, forming an impenetrable box. I am ensnared, surrounded.
I press forward, anxious to find an opening. Feet pound around me; I whip my eyes back and forth, struggling to find a way to escape. A scream rips through the air, two runners leap through the air in front of me, clearly enjoying the hectic start. A small voice of reason whispers from somewhere deep inside myself, “Have fun, relax, wait ‘till it spreads out.”
My shoulders are nearly touching my ears; I release the tension, and feel my stride smooth out. Lifting my eyes, I observe the sea of colors surrounding me. Black, blue and green jerseys mix together, forming an impenetrable barrier, but I can already sense gaps starting to open.
One of my heels is stuck to the ground, my head and shoulders lurch forward, falling towards the grass. Suddenly, my foot rockets up, a voice behind me shouts out an apology, as I stumble, trying to stay on my feet. To fall down now would leave me on the prostrate, unprotected from the sharp metal spikes strapped to my competitor’s shoes.
At the last moment, my feet find purchase and realign themselves below my hips. Now more than ever, my heart booms, muffling all the cheers from the sides of the course, the yells of runners, and the feet slapping on the cold ground. Noticing a hole in the crowd of runners before me, I quickly slip into it, glad to be moving forward.
Eventually I begin to move closer to the front of the pack. As we reach the mile mark, I notice large yellow numbers flashing on a digital clock. 5:01, 5:02, 5:03; in my excitement, I’ve run the first third of the race much faster than planned. To avoid any unnecessary jockeying, I navigate to side of the group, which has been whittled down to about twenty runners by the fierce early pace.
Finally free of the confines of the herd of runners, my body relaxes for the first time since the start of the race. My mind however, is caught up in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, “I thought you wanted to win this race? Yeah, but first mile: five minutes? That’s insane, there’s no way you can keep this up for ten more minutes.”
As if my competitors are listening in on my internal conversation, the pace changes perceptibly. I glance at the first few runners, and try to gauge their condition. Good signs; with shoulders heaving, and arms moving in short choppy strokes, my opponents are hurting at least as much as I am, if not more.
I look away from the other runners, and realize where we are on the course. Around a corner, a fiendish pit looms. This ravine is composed of the two steepest hills I have ever run on. Hoping my spikes do their job, I surge forward, quickly creating a gap between myself and the rest of the runners.
My shoes slip on the frosty grass as I fly down the treacherous incline, struggling to grab onto anything. I can practically hear my muscles groaning with each thunderous lunge down the hill, but their discomfort is nothing compared to the excruciating agony of the climb back up the hill. Throwing my elbows back with abandon, I struggle to make progress up the hill.
Behind me, I hear the labored breath of two or three other runners. Determined to maintain my lead, I lock my eyes on a spectator at the summit, and heave myself towards him, grunting with each laborious step.
With a distraught moan, I crest the apex of the monstrous hill. My legs now feel similar to jello, left out in the sun on a hot summer day; a memento from my friend, the hill. I hastily wobble along the course, just trying to stay on my feet long enough to regain some feeling in my legs.
At this point, I begin to notice the multitude of people lining the course, all shouting pieces of advice, and encouragement to their favorite runners. One name stands out in particular, a name I don’t recognize. “Go get him John!” “He’s hurting, John!” “John, you can do this!”
I don’t know who this John character is, but I don’t like him. His fans are annoying me with their incessant screaming. My stomach clenches as I start to run faster, a reminder of my ambitious pace from earlier. Forcing my will to remain strong, I strive on.
Part of me notices tall chain link fences on my left, realizing the fences signifies the race is almost over, I am filled with apprehension. Where are the other runners? Not daring to look back, I push forward.
The back of my neck starts to tighten as the finish line comes into view, anticipating what is to come. Even as my eye lids pinch together, I can make out a distant yellow glow. Tall numbers on a massive clock above the finish line mock me, telling me I won’t be the one to stop the clock.
I gasp, suddenly, as my legs start to move of their own accord. My neck stiffens, and my arms stop moving. The picture before me freezes, and the colors start to blur together, until all I can see is four tall yellow letters, surrounded by an opaque veil. The ground is covered in molasses. I’m stuck, trapped.
Realizing the pain my body is experiencing, my mind starts to question itself. “What am I doing? This hurts, I should stop. Where is everyone? What is that green stuff? It looks nice, I’m just gonna lay down now.”
The green ground rushes up to meet me, faceless hands support me, guide me through a tunnel. Someone shoves a small paper cup in my hands, water spills down my heaving chest. I stumble out of the tunnel, unsure of where I am. A strident voice breaks through the fog, I look around groggily, and notice my mother, waving at me in the distance.
After staggering over to her, she throws a jacket across my slumped shoulders. “Are you alright?” She asks, as her brow pinches with worry. I mumble out something to assure her of my well-being, just to show her I can still talk.
Together, we walk back to my team’s tent. My knees buckle every few steps, still weak from my exertion. My mother casts concerned glances at me every time I stumble. Finally, she asks me a question that I have avoided in the past, “Why do you do this to yourself?”
A lame excuse, well-polished from use, tumbles out of my mouth. Hardly convinced, she throws her arms around me, and congratulates me on my win.