The Track Meet
Sitting on the ground, I reach for my foot one last time. I hold onto my shoe and wince as my gastrocnemius tightens and then loosens up. I release it and stand up, hopping from one foot to the other. My shorts are a tad uncomfortable, so I adjust their position. Momentarily, I notice the others moving into position. I join them and find my place. The man next to me wishes me luck and I grunt in compliance. A metallic voice booms over the loudspeaker, "On your marks!" Uniformly, we all crouch over and place our feet in the starting blocks. I edge my hands up next to the line beneath my eyes and wait for the next command. "Get set!" I raise my buttocks and shift my weight slightly to the side of my foreword foot. I twitch nervously once before the starter gives the final command. "Go!" In unison, like twelve jack-in-the-boxes, we begin the 400-meter race. I time my jump perfectly and take the first 100 meters in a full sprint. I have a slight lead going around the turn, so I attempt to move toward the inside lane. Unfortunately, one of my opponents blocks my path. Our legs get crossed up and he sprawls out onto the track, badly skinning his knees and upper body. I quickly gain my balance, but the three people who were not taken out by my tripped-up opponent have sped ahead of me. I pump my legs as fast as they will allow and by the time we are approaching the second turn, I am close enough to one of the runners to grab his arm and push him out of the way. One of the others notices my stealthy move and veers out of my way, deciding that his health is more important than getting his name in the newspaper. Now there are only two of us left in the race as we come upon the home stretch. Wisely, my opponent moves to the outside track, avoiding a fate similar to those who departed before him. I must beat him through speed rather than strength. I hate it when that happens. With the screaming crowd as my only inspiration, I gather the last of my energy for the final 50 meters. Teeth clenched, I push myself to the limit, and everything moves into slow motion. Each step sends a thundering pain through my side, and each breath burns in my lungs. I glance to the side as I slowly edge past my opponent. 20 meters. I focus all of my attention on the finish line, knowing that all I need to do is cross that line to win the race. I cut the distance in half before I step on the Shot Put ball and make a mental note to myself that I should get that ankle on ice before it swells up.
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