For this piece, which is entirely in 2nd person P-O-V, imagine yourself as a runner. My hope is that by reading this piece, and really putting yourself INTO it, you'll feel like you're actually running a cross country race... without the physical strain and months of training. :) This is my personal favorite. Imagine yourself in a field. A field ringed by trees and sectioned off by strings of flags suspended between short posts. The weather, frankly, could be any type or temperature conceivable for the Midwest, and it’s liable to change every five minutes; but for imagery’s sake, it’s early autumn and there’s a brisk wind that seems to be herding clouds from every direction to cover the entire prairie sky, from horizon to horizon. Imagine that your clothes – a simple sleeveless top and lined black shorts – are doing very little to shield you from this wind, but you don’t mind. Anything heavier could impede your progress later. A thin layer of dried sweat lingers on your skin from a short, easy jog you finished not ten minutes before now, and it seems to be keeping any goosebumps from forming – not that you would notice anyway. There are too many other things racing through your mind for you to worry about the cold. You’re just thankful that the 110-degree heat index of this past summer is long gone by now.
Imagine yourself poised at a faint white line painted on the trodden-down grass. Imagine yourself in a crowd of people; people the same gender and generally the same age as you, give or take a few years. The seven closest to you bear the same getup as you; with the exception of the lightweight shoes each is wearing. These shoes, which would amount to nearly sixty pair if you took the time to count them, form somewhat of a rainbow along the white line and leave the slightest imprint of eight tiny metal spikes in the ground. Each and every person who stands at the white line has the same goal in mind: to leave this white line, follow an even fainter one along a path they all know so well, and run their hardest to reach the final white line. Technically speaking, it’s only twenty yards away as the crow flies, but much farther when the course is run in its entirety. When all is said and done, two and a half miles of grass will be pounded into the dark soil by the 120 colorful shoes now toeing the line. Another race is about to be run.
The time is drawing nearer now; you can feel it. Men and women in matching polo shirts traverse the open field. Behind you, and also along the course edge on your right, parents and siblings and teammates of the opposite gender mill about, shouting last minute encouragements and reminders to their friends at the line. Coaches finish scribbling on their clipboards and give last minute motivational speeches over the snapping of the nylon flags. You tighten your shoelaces and jump a few times straight upward, hoping your legs have stayed warm enough after waiting all this time. You and your teammates exchange glances, some nervous, others fiery and determined, and still others smiling at this simple chance to do what they love, and prove that they can do it well. One person near you has their eyes closed and is whispering a quick prayer, and in your heart you join them. Another is hurriedly shedding jewelry they forgot to stow away earlier, and all are slowly getting themselves into position.
Then suddenly, all the noise dies away as one of the Polo-shirted men makes his way to the center of the field with a clipboard and starting gun. He raises his hands and you can see his mouth moving, but the wind carries the sound across the field and into the nearby golf course, which seems worlds away now. Your focus turns inward, and you hear your quickening heart beat, the deep filling and emptying of your lungs, and somewhere deep within, you stumble upon an unexpected fountain of optimism. The weather is right, your condition is right, and all your training has given you all you need for a time such as this. All you need now is focus... and courage.
“Runners set…”
Sixty young bodies tense and freeze in their starting pose…
BANG !
…and with a noise like rolling thunder, the runners race toward the first hill.
* * *
By the time you reach the first hill - and just past that, the first turn – you are already breathing hard. Too hard! you think, starting to panic, but you push down the doubts and remind yourself that every race starts out fast, especially one of this caliber. Your muscles are still cold from standing in the wind so long and you feel like you’re clomping along while everyone else glides smoothly beside you. You’re still trying to push aside your doubts when you realize that you’ve just been boxed in by the pack. The course takes a sharp left hand turn up ahead and you know that, inevitably, you are going to get cut off if you don’t separate yourself from the runners in front and on either side of you, and fast. You’re beginning to fall back, in fear of tripping yourself on the person in front of you, when – as if by divine intervention – your leg muscles remember what they’re supposed to be doing, and suddenly you’re off, speeding around the left side of the pack. You position yourself in front of them and continue your kick… and your coach, who is perched precariously on top of a sandstone rock inside the turn, sees your surge of energy. “Run with it! Run with it! Great start! Pick your feet up!” he yells, and you want to smile at the sight of a high school teacher jumping up and down on a rock waving his arms, but you’re breathing too hard to manage it.
The race goes on, past a small gravel parking lot and a stagnant pond and through a more heavily wooded area than the field you started in. The “first K” mark comes, and then goes, as does the small open area that always seems to be full of Canada Geese. Then it’s up and down more hills, some short and steep that make your quads burn and others long and gradual that slowly and painfully sap the quick energy from your lower body. You’ve moved up some in the ranks now, and the only sounds that register in your ears are the thump of spikes in dry earth, the gasping breaths of the people behind you, and the overwhelming pounding of blood vessels in your ears as your lungs grab for as much air as possible.
Then, suddenly, you become aware of another sound: a faint whisper at first, but it grows steadily louder and peaks just as you emerge from a thicket of pine trees. Pressing in on both sides of the course are lines of people waving flags and sporting team gear: some with cameras, some with stopwatches, some with thermoses to keep their hands warm, and others with small cups of water held out at arm’s length for the racers to grab. You spot the nearest cup-bearing familiar person and swipe the small paper cup deftly from their fingers, holding it out for a split second before trying to take a sip. When the attempt fails and you spill half of its icy contents down your front, you get fed up with drinking it and splash the rest over your head, letting the stinging cold liquid mingle with sweat as it runs down your face and neck.
As you sprint along past the cheering bystanders, you hear your name up ahead and see your teammates – the ones who race at different times than you – standing at the end of the line, yelling out encouragement (and in many cases, challenges to push harder and “Get ‘em! Get ‘em! Get ‘em!”). Even people you hardly know are screaming their heads off for you, and that pushes you to kick even harder.
Then, as abruptly as it hit when you entered it, the wall of noise cuts out, and you know from past experiences that you’re now in the last half of your race. The pace you set for yourself has now become grueling, and as the course stops pointing downhill and turns off along a small lake, a small number of people edge past you. It’s quiet again, in the shade of the trees, and you try to drink in the coolness of the trees’ shadows because you know what’s ahead. Just the thought of it makes your stomach lurch… but still you take that familiar hairpin turn and there it is, stretched out in front of you as far as the eye can see: the valley. The valley they call ‘Death Valley.’ Once you’re past the old baseball diamond, there’s absolutely nothing around you except for your competition. It’s even more of a mental game now. One moment of lost focus could cost you precious seconds later on, but the valley’s dead yellow grass just keeps rolling out in front of you like the footboard of a treadmill, and no matter how hard you push, you feel as if you’re going nowhere. But just as you’re beginning to wish you had some variety…
A sharp right turn is all it takes, and immediately the time to prove yourself begins. You’ve finally reached the end of valley, only to find yourself looking up the steepest hill you’ve seen since you went sledding as a little kid – and there’s a reason. It IS the hill you went sledding on as a kid, only this time, you’ll have to climb the steepest side. For those lacking in experience, it is a death sentence; it’s the course’s final blow in an attempt to beat back those who foolishly ran far beyond their ability during the first half. Many have learned to loathe it, but you know better. You know you can beat it.
Head up, shoulders forward, arms bent and pumping hard. Knees high, quads working even through the burn, feet sending up puffs of dust. Pedal, legs, pedal! Your coach is halfway up the hill, yelling advice now, knowing that only you can force yourself to do your best. You remember his words from your very first season with the team: First two-thirds of the race, stay focused mentally. Run smart. Then, once you’re in position…”
“Run from your heart,” you whisper to yourself. Digging deep into your soul, you finally find what you’ve been looking for: that hidden spring of hope that will do miracles if you follow it. And follow it you will. Your surge of strength is beginning to pay off already, carrying you past one runner… then another… then another. You hardly notice them as your body powers itself up the rest of the way, topping the hill that once beat you down and placing you just behind an opposing runner. The crowd at the top is even more deafening than the one at the halfway mark, even though they are, in all actuality, the same people who cheered for you earlier. Your coach is there again – goodness, he’s getting a workout! – speaking normally now, feeding you strategy for the last eight hundred meters. “Top the hill – that’s it – now get up there! Get up there!”
As you leave the crowd’s presence once again, you start to ease up on your opponent’s right side, hoping to pull steadily away - but their right elbow flies back unnecessarily far and hits you square in the collarbone. You stumble a little, surprised at the hit and a little peeved as well, but then your forehead creases and you pick up your pace again. No runner that gets away with throwing elbows is going to get off THAT easy, you think to yourself, and that thought alone compels you to stride out, almost sprinting even though by all rights it’s too early for the final kick. Adrenaline courses through your body, pushing you past the offending competition and (to your surprise) into a position that’ll bring you home – right behind a pair of runners that are already battling one another for the higher position. You slowly close in behind them just as the path ahead of you takes a sudden u-turn, and once again you face the wide-open starting field, only this time from the opposite direction: and the finish line is on the other side.
You’re now up with the two you singled out seconds before; they’ve acknowledged your presence and are drastically picking up the pace. Your face is twisted with determination and you’re closing in on them, but your legs are starting to burn and your chest is getting tighter. Another teammate of yours is hanging on the flags that once again follow the course on either side. “Finish strong!! FINISH STRONG!! PASS THEM!! PASS THEM!!! GO!! GO!! GO!!!” You scrunch your face harder and pump your arms as fast as you can, struggling to keep your position as you run past the largest crowd yet - and the noise is deafening. You’re pushing with all your might, forgetting any doubts you might have had earlier in the race. One of the runners drops back; the pressure is incredible, almost too much for you to handle. But you can’t give up now. The hundreds of miles you pounded out this summer – on bike paths, on sidewalks, on dirt roads and even vacation beaches – flash before your eyes now like a slideshow in fast forward. Another picture comes to mind too, and this one surprises you: freshman orientation, all those years ago, when you stood in front of the same man that screamed and cheered for you today. You had been trying to tell him that you were sorry, but you weren’t going to run for him until track season in the spring… a moment passed, though, and a slow smile crossed his face as he said, “Oh, you’re going to run for me. And you’re gonna love it.”
And he was right.
One hundred meters left, and still you’re neck-in-neck. Fifty meters now, still pushing. The crowd’s roar intensifies. Forty meters left. And now thirty. Now twenty. Ten meters left…
Gathering every last ounce of energy you can find, you propel yourself towards your goal, ‘leaving nothing out on the course,’ as they say. You pitch forward just as you cross the line, nearly taking out a race official standing near the chute. You hear your school name and you’re thrust in front of the other girl, who is bent over gasping just like you are. “Through the chute, through the chute, walk it off,” says the official, moving past you as the more runners approach the finish. You start making your way through the chute, practically pulling yourself hand-over-hand along the flag line. Two more officials pull the tag from your race number so they can document your place, and as you stumble past them you look up and see your teammates waiting for you, each holding up fingers: one-three. Do they mean four, or thirteen? You’re trying to make the number register, but you’re too exhausted. You can’t seem to feel your legs anymore (which, you figure, is better than that burning feeling the last sprint gave you), but you can tell they’re giving out on you since the ground very nearly blocks out your vision. The cool tips of the grass barely graze your face as your teammates catch you mid-fall, and they hoist you upright, dabbing your forehead with an icy wet towel. You’re still blinking sweat and water from your eyes when two of your friends throw your arms over their shoulders and start walking you away from the finish. Runners are still coming in: some just breathing heavily, others totally spent. You immediately think of your teammates still out on the course, wanting to go cheer for them, but your tired body quickly stifles that notion. Your teammates set you down by the picnic table full of snacks and hand you a bottle of cool water, and as the other runners walk – or are carried – up next to you, exhausted but sincere congratulations circulate through the group. You can think of nothing else but just laying there, exhausted, muscles still burning from the lactic acid built up in them.
Time flies by in a blur: people come up to shake your hand; give you a high five; pat you on the back. Then suddenly you feel a hand on your shoulder – your coach. He smiles (somewhat mischievously) and bobs his head like he always does, and then asks, “Do you know what place you got?” You manage to smile up at him from where you’re still sprawled in the dry grass, but the question doesn’t register for a moment. But then you realize: the number they held up as you came across the finish, that must be my place…
“You came in thirteenth,” your coach says. “Feeling good enough for the awards ceremony? You’ll want to be there when they announce the top fifteen so you can get your medal.”
You nod weakly, and he helps you off the ground. Your legs still shake a little, but at least you can stand on your own two feet once again. Your whole body is so exhausted that it takes your mind a while to comprehend your coach’s words, but slowly, you realize you’re one of the top fifteen finishers. At most meets, that means you get a medal, and while you’ll still get one here, being thirteenth means something else. This was your District Cross Country meet, and it could have been your last one of the season, but now you know you have one more race to run: State. And you know that no matter where it will be or what the weather will do, you’ll run it with everything you’ve got. You silently thank the One who gave you legs to run and hobble off to catch up with your teammates and celebrate today’s successes. No wonder you love this sport so much.
