Sweltering heat swarms my muscles as I catch the first spring whiff of fresh mown grass. Its mid-April on the AU track, timers are set, and I step up for my first middle school time trial. Infused with confidence, my feet anxiously dancing, I prepare to prove my mettle to the coach. “On your mark,” I bend my knees, “get set,” I lean forward, “go!” my adrenalin lifts me off my feet, carrying my through my first 200 meters. My immature mind focuses solely on winning, leaving me constantly aware of the current record holder looming behind me. My feet keep me ahead of my nemesis, but my mind starts to wander, fighting the monotony. The final 200 meters elapses – my last chance to prove I am the best on the team. Anxiety seeps in, my strides shorten, and my mind zones in. As I round the last 100 meters, the boys explode in anticipation of my defeat of the record holder. My confidence elevates, my strength increases, and I drive my knees proudly through the finish line. Uplifted by my victory over the top runner and pleased at gaining my coach’s attention, I recognize my raw talent. Speed, power, and confidence took precedence over mental stamina.
A year later, stair workouts brought on a new set of challenges. The rest of the team, in shape from winter track, threw me off balance. I tore myself apart with dissatisfaction, fearing my loss of the number one spot. My dad noticed my depression, concerned I would let myself fall apart, for he knew I had not lost my edge. “Athletes don’t loose talent, only their minds,” my dad repeated. But his mantra never sank in until the 800 meter time trail returned. As I step off the bus, sweltering heat swarms my muscles and last year’s race floods my memory. Confidence rebuilds, and I unconsciously absorb my father’s words. My muscles begin quivering as my teammates surround me, and I remind myself of last year’s easy defeat against my competitors. I lean forward, the stopwatch starts, and I fly through the first 200 meters, taking the lead. Recalling my coach’s advice, I lift my knees and lean into the turn. As I come out of the bend, I lengthen my stride through the straightaway. With one lap to go, I focus on this strategy until the last 100 meters approaches. Without the boys cheering me on, I remember my talent and muster all my strength to power through the finish line. This success, however, did not last the season. With every practice, with every race, my confidence and mental stamina declined. My winning record vanished, and I was left floundering for tactics.
My aptitude for running reappeared with high school cross-country. Only boys challenged my ability during pre-season practices. I was the first finisher on my team for the first three races, but two unfortunate races followed. During these two races, I allowed five of my teammates to pass me. Confused and unconfident, I collected advise from my dad, my coach, and my brothers, all of whom had experience beyond my years. I conformed to a final strategy, and joined my team for a two-mile time trial. Used to taking lane one, I fell back behind the runners assembled at the start, standing near Ellie, a top runner with three years experience. When the coach announces the start, nervousness creeps in, but I restrain my excitement and continue steadily alongside Ellie. We gradually pass teammates exhausted from an aggressive start. I allow gravity to pull me every downhill with long strides, and I drive my knees up each uphill with short steps. With the last half-mile, pain encroaches, my legs become lethargic, and my motivation of finishing evaporates. Permitting the throbbing to conquer me, I let Ellie inch ahead. Even though I have lost my pace keeper, I ensure a consistent pace. I fly down the pain-easing downhill, furious that I allowed Ellie to drift away. As the finish line comes into view, failure blazes through my endeavor. Wrestling with my mind’s disheartened dissatisfaction, I lean forward and press on towards my ambition.
