Winning Starts Here

I clench my jaw.  The anxiety slowly curls into my stomach and I feel my blood pumping to every muscle in my body, as am I filled with adrenaline.  A drop of sweat from my beaded forehead trickles down my face.  I’m frozen behind the starting line, my eyes unfocused, imaging the race.  

“Runners take your marks.  Set.”

Bang!
The gunshot brings me back to reality as I regain my senses.  I leap out of the starting blocks, keeping my head down and driving my knees up, just like I had practiced many times before.  
I knew the time I had to beat, and I knew achieving it would require an exceptional performance.  It was the regional finals for the 400-meter sprint, and Danny and I were the only two athletes from our school who had made it to this level.  In order to qualify for the state championship, we would have to run it in less than 50 seconds.  Danny consistently runs it in 50 seconds, while my personal best is around 51.

I had met Danny last year on the track team, but I had heard about him for a long time before that.  Everyone knew Danny.  In the past couple of years, he had been a school superstar, winning all the local competitions.  The first time I saw him race, I was taken aback by how he made everything look easy, and did it with a class that was unmatched.  I would never be able to keep up with him, I had thought to myself.  However, over the course of the last year, I had become friends with him through the school track team.  We had spent a lot of time in the last couple months training together, which had also greatly improved my running.

At around 60 meters into the race I begin opening up my stride and beginning settling into the pace I would have to keep for the rest of the race.  I keep my arms loose and my chin forward, remembering to stay as efficient as possible.

100 meters in, my time reads 13 seconds.  

Dang, I thought to myself as I quickly calculated that if I kept this pace for the rest of the race, I would get a 52, a big 2 seconds shy from 50.  I’m gonna have to run faster. I can do this.

After the first 100 meters, I start comparing myself to the other sprinters and evaluate how well I am doing.  Already, I see Danny a couple strides ahead of me.  He is effortlessly prancing down the track, and yet he still has a solid gap on everyone else.  On the other hand, I am struggling to keep up with the insane pace of the race, and find myself amongst all the other runners, whom I feel creeping up on both sides of me.  Just keep taking big, long strides and stay relaxed.  Come on.

I pass the 200 meter line.  25 seconds.  I’m halfway through the race.  Despite my slow start, it’s still possible.  

50 meters later, my legs start to burn.  My joyful stride is replaced with heavy footsteps, pounding down onto the track.  My rhythmic breathing becomes gasps, as I wheeze for air that seems to be escaping away from me.  At this point, the race is pretty even, with Danny still a couple meters ahead.   What if I’m still running too slow?  What if I won’t be able to keep this pace?  What if I don’t qualify?

I force myself to snap out of this mindset.  Getting a good time in this race does not only require physical strength, it also requires mental toughness.  I let my mind drift towards more assuring thoughts, as I try to ignore the increasing pain in my legs.  

I remember one of the many workouts Danny and I had done a couple weeks ago.  We had been preparing for this exact race, and had just finished our second-to-last rep.  We still had one more 400 to run.  My legs were shaking, my entire body was exhausted.  My head was throbbing as I felt my stomach all the way up my throat, demanding me to throw up in order to be relieved.  Everything in me was telling me to stop and quit.  

“One minute left of rest,” Danny announced.  He understood my pain, but was unrelentless.  “Start getting ready for the last rep. This one’s the one that will make you stronger.”  

Every last bit of courage inside of me was crushed. I still ran.  And I ran with more desire than I ever thought was possible.  I ran right alongside Danny too.  As soon as we reached the finish line, we both fell to the ground.  My eyes closed as a sharp pain pierced through my head.  It was finally over.

I opened my eyes and smiled, looking at Danny.  He returned the smile.  He then looked at me with respect, passion, and delight in his eyes, like a father looking at his son.  “Winning starts here, buddy.”  I slowly nodded, studying his face and looked back into his eyes, with the same appreciation.  Then I proceeded to finding the nearest trash can, and threw up.

300 meters mark.  38 seconds.  I am no longer thinking about bringing my knees up or keeping my head forward.  The last 100 meters of the 400 is the section coaches call “uncoachable.”  Whatever you do in here is pure grit, strength, and toughness or lack there of.  I am now in second place, a good distance ahead of everyone else, but still behind Danny, who seems to be perfectly on track to break 50 seconds.  I ignore the burning sensations in my legs, that could collapse any second.  I continue heaving for more breath.  I’m not going hard enough.  The aches become even worse.  I push myself to go even harder.

With every step I take, my legs become heavier.  I am fighting to ignore the agonizing pain of my whole body.  I stay determined and keep my eyes fixed on the finish line.  The timer in front of us seems to be going faster and faster, as each second is fleeting away.  Around me, the world goes out of focus.  I do not slow down.  Instead, I use every last bit of energy I have to speed up.  I glance forward at Danny, and realize that I am slowly catching up to him.  40 meters left, Danny is now only a meter ahead of me.  30 meters left. 20, 10, 0.

I cross the finish line with Danny at my side. The time read 49.7. We made it; our times had just qualified us into the State Championship. I cannot believe what had just happened. I am overwhelmed with excitement and amazement. I quickly hug Danny. "Winning starts here," I whisper.