Personal Narrative: My Race

I used to gag at the thought of running eight hundred meters. There I stood with my heart racing, ready to run five kilometers. To everyone else, this was an unimportant meet that even the coach said he did not care about. It was for me, however, more terrifying than losing my mom in the grocery store when I was a child. My first meet and all I could think of was my speed or lack thereof. I did not have distance spikes. I did not have a muscle roller. All I had was my heart in my throat paired with running shoes. Since the day before, my blood pressure had been rising and continued to do so.
The race had begun and soon the first-mile marker made its way into my vision. Heaving, my breaths seemed like they would be directed towards the
burning wax of a five-year-old's birthday cake. My feet moved in sync over obstacles and even though each root felt like a hurdle, I dodged obtrusive branches and with my comfort found in the familiarity with our home course, out of the woods, I continued. I willed my legs to push harder. Pain is temporary, I thought to myself.
“Eight thirty-seven!” my father yelled at the sign protruding from the grass, with a substantial number one protruding from its façade. The numbers stood out to me like a green light. I kept going.
On the blades of grass, sharply cut, my feet fell.
I kept my eyes trained on my feet. Heat clouded my brain. I felt a strong pull over me to stop, to slow down or even take a short cut. More than anything, I wanted to wander into a ditch, curl up and pity myself. I thought about my goal- thirty minutes or under- which, to other girls on our team would be an easy feat. I thought about how proud I would be if I finished. The lactic acid in my thighs overcame me, and I began to walk. My feet dragged on the ground in protest, feeling like my grandmother's needlepoint. I cursed myself continuously. Girls who were behind me started to pass. The many ahead became specks of dust in my line of vision. A tsunami washed over me and gathered behind my eyes. The mysterious tidal wave overcame me as I sunk into the seabed, drowning in
sorrow. My surroundings rushed past me and became a massive blur. Wind rushed through my hair, sweat trailing my jawline. The blue-grey rocks met the outsole of my shoe. I flowed down the gravel hill. Breeze flew through my tied hair, and I felt the reassurance of my hard work when I began to pass those who previously passed me. Salty sweat fell down my face, and I neared the end of my second mile. I exited Creek loop trail with ease, with extensive knowledge of every turn I came across.
I kept myself on pace, past the sidewalk, and down the small hill. My feet shuffled faster, my breathing became heavier. I lowered my arms, lengthened my strides and prayed to God that he would give me strength. My lungs began to scream obscenities, my heart threatened to leave my chest, and I was sure my legs were planning my murder. I started to embrace the pain exploding through my body. I began work among the strains of physical feeling and pushing myself against my mental limitations. Each leaden step burnt my tired muscles and bore into my brain. An undesirable battle presented itself to me. Demands made themselves prevalent in my mind. The ground under my feet transitioned from smooth concrete to rugged track. Three hundred meters. The instance of my feet hitting the ground became few and in between. My name rang into my ears from boys clad in bright green. Shouts and screeches for the last Weddington girl to cross the finish line echoed in the air. Two hundred meters and I began to sprint. I slowed to a stop and leaned on my knees. My emotions overcame me and my mouth formed an elongated “O” and tears rushed and spilled over. My heart continued to beat a mile a minute while the adrenaline coursed through my veins. It was my poison. It was my
anecdote.