Personal Narrative-Country Runner

I step aboard the school bus glancing at my sleeping teammates as I make my way down the aisle. The green illumination of my watch is the only thing lighting the way to my seat. My headphones slip from my ears as I kick a freshman out of my spot. “Front of the bus,” I whisper, careful not to wake the motionless sleeping bodies around me. I set my bag down and readjust my earbuds, but my eyes wander to the time displayed on my phone’s screen. 4:32 A.M. I love being a cross country runner, I think to myself sarcastically. As the bus breaks the morning silence and roars alive, I adjust my bag as a pillow and settle in for the ride. Beginning almost immediately, I am tossed from side to side as we make our journey to the meet. About an hour into the ride I feel a drop of water trickle from my forehead to my chin. Then, two more land on my cheek as I groggily open my eyes. The darkness surrounding the bus is engulfed in a downpour. I reach up and slide the rusty bus window shut. Great, I think, the course is going to be so muddy. The crackle of the bus’s speakers break the silence for my coach to alert us that we will still be racing as planned, queuing a symphony of disappointed groans. Shortly after, we arrive with a jolt as the bus
screeches to a stop. “Alright ladies, we know what we are here to do. It’s time to beat some girls,” Coach Carter instructs as we trudge through the aisle. While stepping off, I peer into the distance and see obnoxious red letters sprawled across the finishers tent “Atascocita High School,” they read. As we enter the team camp area, we navigate through muscle rollers, banana peels, and ice bags before we find our designated spot. Coach Carter throws dozens of race maps haphazardly across the campsite as we rush to put on our racing shoes. “Box number seventeen,” He instructs. After lacing my shoe laces snugly to my feet, I grab pieces of tape and wrap them around my shoes to prevent them from slipping off in the muddy conditions. As we make our way to the start line I rub my foot across the fresh paint that marks the three mile course. The sharp smell fades away as we attempt to decipher the box numbers on the starting line. They are hardly visible anymore due to the three races prior to ours, and the few that are readable have chunks of grass missing from them. “I think this one is it,” Kendra says, looking inquisitively at the faded one and seven. I sidestep, barely avoiding the bony knee of an athlete doing high kicks, then jog to where Kendra is pointing. As we begin to perform our pre-race stretches, I glance nervously at my planned mile times written in sharpie just above my watch. Then, the starter motions for us to assume our starting positions on the line. I think to myself, Relax. It’s time to beat some girls. In unison, two hundred deep breaths suck the oxygen from the air as the starter raises his arm to indicate the “set” command. I lock my eyes on the freshly trimmed course ahead of me as the pop of the gun sounds. From the first step of the race, I begin sizing up the other runners. There are familiar faces, seasoned veterans, and newbies, each as easy to identify as the latter. However, each race is a free for all, and the chosen winner is not obvious when mixed with two hundred other girls. I feel a sharp jab in my stomach as I step around a girl to get a better position for the upcoming U-turn. As I round the corner, I see two girls succumb to the fresh mud. Amateurs, I determine. Immediately, fresh sweat begins to trickle from my forehead.
It moves into my eyes and I squint to mask the sting. I feel a sharp twinge in my foot as one of my competitors digs her spikes into it as we round the mile marker. Nervously, I wipe the condensation from my watch face and check my mile time. Fourteen seconds ahead, I discover happily. As I drive my legs up a hill, the mud proves difficult to navigate uphill. The girl ahead of me kicks dirt at my face, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth as I try to spit it out. Surging ahead, I pass her as we crest the hilltop. A raindrop plops onto my nose as I open my stride to go downhill. “Come on, Katie! Make some ground up here!” I interpret amongst the dozens of other yelling
coaches. My watch dimly dings, indicating the second mile has passed. My legs begin to slow as the effects of the last two miles catch up with them. Fight through it, I tell myself, It is your day to win. Gritting my teeth, I muster my last bit of energy into propelling myself up the final hill. The annoying sting of the blisters rubbing on my feet begins to fade away as I spot the finish line. I hear the roar of the crowd as I begin to descend the hill. Electric blue letters mark the last half mile of the race. My breathing slows as my body allows the adrenaline to take control, and soon I can no longer feel any sign of fatigue. The melody of the music playing at the finishers tent gains strength as I near the final stretch of the race. When I round the final corner, the large clock above the finish line is ticking away the seconds. Through panicked breaths, I raise my head and look desperately at the numbers trying to decode them in my head. My stomach wrenches as I pour every ounce of desperation left in my body towards the finish line. One hundred meters before finish all of the pain returns, but there is no stopping me. I hear the clapping of feet through the mud behind me and use the taste of sweat in my mouth as fuel to finish. I cross the finish line and stagger to the side. “Our first finisher is Katie Deakins with a time of 19:02” the race announcer yells into the raspy microphone. I lay back in absolute euphoria and soak in what I had just done. I pushed my body to it’s limits and obtained a new personal best by over twenty seconds. When my mind told me I should slow down, I took control of my body and said “no.” I conquered myself.