Running Time
“Runners take your marks”
Sub sixty. One minute of my life. That’s it. I can run sub sixty and it will all be done. Goal will be achieved. One last chance to run sub sixty.
Track has a way of getting to you unlike any other sport. I was an athlete for my entire life. I excelled in the pool since pre K and found great success on the soccer field time and time again. I could play in a championship game and have tranquil thoughts, but when it came to running in a circle on red rubber ground, my mind transformed into a colony of ants; thoughts going in a million different directions, overlapping, jittering, being anything but placid. The pre race anxiety usually started the minute I got out of bed on meet day. Brushing my teeth and putting on my shoes was overshadowed by a feeling of looming weight hanging above my head. Heading to the meet consisted of getting on the bus and staring out the window trying to focus only on the calming Taylor Swift streaming through my Airpods, not the feeling of my breath being taken right out of my lungs. These feelings heightened upon arrival at the meet. The shakes started; sometimes accompanied by vomiting. Each time I heard an official fire the start gun, it felt like it was shooting a dagger into my side.
The only feeling stronger than pre race anxiety was post race accomplishment. Hunting a girl down on the final stretch and nabbing the win at the finish line was exhilarating. My teammates screaming words of encouragement from the sidelines. My coach yelling out my split at the halfway mark. These things were thrilling, but nothing compared to the moment your coach tells you you just ran your fastest time. The words “new PR, Kwo” made all the mental tormenting worth it. The tangible progress represented by a number was addicting.
The mark of an elite female high school 400 meter runner is whether or not they can complete the race in less than sixty seconds. This was a goal I had been working towards since freshman year. I had come close many times during my senior season, but was unable to surpass the threshold. My last race was my final chance to complete what I had been so determined to do.
Sub sixty. One minute of my life. That’s it. I can run sub sixty and it will all be done. Goal will be achieved. One last chance to run sub sixty.
As the official raised his gun, the pre race anxiety turned into fuel. The thought of today being my last chance left my head, and was replaced by an even scarier one. This was my last time ever doing anything representing my high school. Classes were done. Graduation happened. After my minute race, I was onto bigger and better things. If there's anything more terrifying than failure, it’s change. Getting into my start position, I realized that this race was more than trying to run in a circle in under sixty seconds. It was me running into adulthood. Running away from home and all things comfortable. Running away from the solace of my parents. Change is inevitable and running to beat a time seems insignificant compared to the inability to run against time.
Like most of my races, the time between the bang of the start gun and my arrival at the final straightaway is a blur. Nothing except the standard breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth while I put one foot in front of the other. I remember nothing but passing the large group of my teammates who’s familiar screaming faces all blended together.
Finally I reached the last 100 meters: where the real race began. My legs felt weak and my lungs, shriveled. The one thing keeping me going was the desire to finish my last event as a youth to the best of my ability. I couldn’t control time from passing, but I could control the effort I put into finishing. With the finish line rapidly approaching, I knew that the race wasn’t about beating the girl next to me, or even going sub sixty. The race was about closing a chapter of my life in the best way possible.
Dipping over the line, I collapsed. Between sharp breaths, congratulations were exchanged between myself and the other runners, who were also on all fours. As I sat on the ground with my hands over my head, the post race accomplishment hit stronger than ever before. I had successfully closed a chapter of my life and for the first time, I felt ready to move on.
My coach strolled up to me with a soft smile on his wrinkled face.
“60.3 Kwo. Congratulations on a great track career.”
