My legs tensed, my hands twitched, and my head shook as if some invisible cold had made it shiver. I stared intensely at the stretch of land before me, knowing that in only moments I would be passing the trees at the far reach of my vision. I continued my gaze, knowing that I would perceive more detail now than I would once it had begun, for, when it started, I would be thrown into a deep trance, a trance that could only be broken by crossing the finish line. Suddenly I heard a "BANG!" It had started.
I took off at the sight of the smoke, thinking that the extra thousandths of a second might somehow affect the outcome, somehow give me a slight advantage in contending with the overwhelming skill of my numerous competitors. In fact, the first one hundred meters are only a blur to me, for, through some means, sprinting must dim one's memory. Nevertheless, after this momentary lapse in consciousness, I felt the first real feelings come through: my heart beating, seemingly through my chest, my stomach gurgling with the remembrance of breakfast, and the tightness of every one of the muscles throughout my body. All of these sensations must have been hidden by the numbness caused by the pre-race nervousness that always seemed to engulf me.
During this beginning period, people were constantly passing me, or I was passing them. I was part of a huge swarm of runners. To anyone looking at us from above, we must have looked much like a beehive after a rebellious child hits it with a rock. Racers were passing me on both the left and the right, and many stray elbows and knees struck me. One of the harriers who overtook me was a fellow teammate of mine, and, as he raced by, another cross-country runner tripped him. He immediately fell to the ground, and I lost him in the enormous crowd.
Because of this incident, I became furious, for I thought the runner had tripped him on purpose, and I ran up to the kid and elbowed him fairly hard in the gut, trying to make it look like an accident to anyone who might be looking. I did, however, make sure he knew I had done it on purpose by yelling a nasty remark to him and then daring him to try to keep up with me. After this encounter, I took off and, at the mile mark, was the leader of the race. Of course, I didn't expect my position to last since this particular race had some exceptional competition in it, but being the lead runner did help to relieve some of my anger.
By the second mile, the ruffian, who had tripped my teammate was well ahead of me, but, nevertheless, I was still having one of my best races in past remembrance. After only a short while, I was able to close the gap between us, and he was looking at my back disappearing in front of him, instead of me having to stare at his posterior. While reveling in this transformation, a dull pain started forming in my abdomen, upsetting my stomach. Because I was determined to make this race all that it could be, I continued on without slowing, but, after awhile, the extreme discomfort became too much for me to bear.
A half mile later, I had started to hunch over because my stomach pains were beginning to throb more intensely, and I had to stay in that position for fear I might otherwise throw up. Of course, my pace slowed a great deal because of my affliction, but I was, for the most part, by myself which prevented me from losing any places during this segment of the race.
Finally, the last six hundred meters in the race came into view, but I was still feeling rather awful, and I was beginning to wonder how I was going to finish the race. At that moment, the inspiration I needed appeared. The jerk who had tripped my friend, came up behind me and tried to pass me. This was the only incentive I needed. I took off into a crazy all-out sprint, as I was determined not to let something as small as a stomach pain prevent me from having my most spectacular performance ever.
The closer I drove towards the finish, the quicker my pace became, and, in the process, I flew by four people. I had, by far, the best kick I have ever had or have fantasized having. My stride was long and true, and my breathing had the rhythm of a drum. It was the very essence of every runner's dream.
Therefore, when I entered the chute at the finish line, I knew I had surpassed every previous personal record of mine, and a huge smile, that stretched completely across my face, emerged. While walking through this line of champions and being awarded my golden trophy, the sickness that had plagued me earlier in the race showed itself, and I barely stumbled through without throwing up. In fact, when I finally lurched out of the chute, I collapsed on the cold, dew-covered ground and started to vomit in the mud in which I lay. Much time passed before I even imagined rising to my feet, but all I could think of during this meditative state was of how the rewards of this race had been worth the intense struggle.
During these moments, I first realized what running means to me, not what it means to the millions who run for exercise or for sport, but what it means to me and the few others who comprehend what I believe to be the real meaning of the activity. Before this day, it had always been something I just did. Now, it was something that I actually was, deep down in the heart of me. For all practical purposes, this "sport" and I were synonymous.
