Those five words don’t properly represent the tireless hours spent practicing, those weekends spent at endless meets, and those endless nights spent doing my homework, because of the dreadful practices. The worst feeling in my never-ending world occurs while running in a meet. This could be hard for you to assimilate to, but this is my life. We start out on a long line, all seventy-five of us lined up; staring each other down, and meticulously analyzing who will beat you, and who is too weak to pass you. This happens every time, and then you hear that sound, the one we all hate. The ref. shoots the gun, and the aberration begins. Going down hills, through sand, back up hills, through forests, around lakes, and all over again. You may tell me to quit, but it’s enigmatic for you. Those two laps, through the labyrinth that threatens to consume you with every step; we put everything into them. Passing people who cheer for you gives you a short boost, but it’s not enough to inspire you to finish, and finish well. By the end we feel as though our bodies are going to fold over on themselves, and our legs threaten to give out from under us. Looking at the parents, watching their kids, with the excited and contempt demeanors, I just wish I could be them; standing on the sideline only cheering, and never understanding. We put our blood, our sweat, and our hearts into each race, and by the end, there is nothing left. Even though we all complain, we all get hurt, and we all detest the meets; we still show up everyday to every practice and every meet. It has consumed us, and we can’t escape. Running.
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