A gunshot breaks the hushed tension in the thick air

and I know what will happen.

Shouts and chants from all directions

and after the seven laps needed to determine a winner

of the boy’s mile

the girl’s 40 yard dash,

my 40 yard dash,

will begin.

Cheers erupt like a volcano as

the winner collapses sideways off the track

wheezing and flopping like a

dying

fish.

“First and second call for the girl’s 40 yard dash.

First and second call.

Report to the starting line.”

To me, it’s a death sentence.

Girls buzz down the bleachers.

“When I call your name, stand in your lane.

Any questions?”

There never are.

Sprinters lined up obediently like cattle.

My turn is next.

I spend precious seconds

cursing my block,

coaxing my block,

kicking my block,

until finally it is ready to cooperate.

“Runners take your marks.”

I wipe my hands on my shorts

again,

flip my ponytail out of my eyes,

and position my hands on the starting line,

ignoring the grit on the floor from the previous race.

“Set.”

Come on,

focus,

you’ve got this.

BANG!

I explode out of the blocks.

The finish line is too far away.

The red string at the end is taunting me

until finally,

finally!

I break through it.

I wait at the end with the other girls,

my feet dancing nervously,

toe to heel,

toe to heel,

feeling helpless.

Best two of eight in a heat makes it to the finals

and I feel like I’m in an old western movie.

You and you over here. Boys,

kill the rest.

Best two of eight in a heat makes it to the finals.

“Numbers 369 and 45 are in the finals.

Congratulations ladies.”

I skip over to my team and greedily chug Gatorade.

Lips stained purple,

teeth fuzzy from the sugar,

yet I still smile wide

because I’ve made it to the finals.

In the race, I’m the only purple fish

in a sea of reds, blues, and greens.

The finish line seems eternities away.

One one-hundredth of a second decides

who comes in first

and who comes in last.

That cruel red string looms in front of us,

until the herd of runners I’m in rips it apart.

All I can do is stand helplessly

after the race

staring at the scoreboard

waiting for the blank screen to flash its

condemning

or rewarding

yellow letters.

1. Riley 5.23

My mom jumping up and down,

my dad standing beside her, clapping,

a proud smile on his face.

I stand not on top of a podium

but on the peak of a mountain,

cameras flashing in my eyes.

I look at the trophy in my hands.

It’s hideous.

Its brown 3-D squares clash

with the gold unisex runner

perched at the top,

but it’s really something to be proud of.

It hits me why Coach pushes us

beyond what we can do.

I should have been pitying,

not envying,

the girls who didn’t show up

to the optional practices

because it is those torturous workouts

in the early morning

that separate me,

here,

on the podium,

smiling,

from them,

there,

in the stands,

watching.

I think back to the first days of practice.

Memories of the past two months,

of running to the end of the hall and back,

of my coach screaming that my time

isn’t fast enough

and that it better improve next sprint,

of dragging myself up and down stairs

until my thighs felt like jelly in the sun,

all flood my mind and make me realize

the hard work really did pay off in the end.

I step down from the podium and

wonder if I’ll enjoy next season

better now that I understand the reasoning

behind them.

I smile,

doubting it,

and sit down with my ecstatic teammates,

knowing a part of me will always remember

why we kill ourselves

running

at

practice.