Grace, one of my former student-athletes, just sent me an English paper that she wrote about her first few days on my cross country team two years ago.

She’s an incredible writer … grammatically better than most adults that I know and downright hilarious too. Her narrative had me rolling on the floor, remembering a footprint-covered Grace crossing the finish line and the never-ending stories that followed. I really hope that she chooses to use her gift of writing, maybe even as a blogger!

Without further ado, here’s Grace’s story.

The Finish Line
by Grace Reifenberg

Cross Country was the worst decision of my life.

I wearily rubbed my sleep-deprived eyes with a clenched fist and slowly trudged through the empty parking towards my waiting cross country team. The damp grass still glistened with drops from the morning rain shower. The unpleasantly cold morning air chilled me to the bone. Shivering, I huddled in my warm-up even tighter.

At only 8am, I was not looking forward to running, in a mere couple of hours, the 2 mile race. I approached my team still only semi-conscious. My forever-energetic coach enthusiastically slapped me on the back and attempted to pry away the blanket wrapped firmly around me with no luck. Still drowsy, I joined my other teammates huddled together under our team tent. The wind thrashed against the flimsy fabric, threatening to blow it away. The biting air stung our faces as we tried to shelter ourselves from the cold. It was our first cross country meet of the season – my first meet ever.

Under the tent, the oranges and bagels were ignored while the hot chocolate was gone within minutes. As the meet rapidly approached, it soon became time to start our warm-ups. We slowly began our warm-up jog. The cold air nipped at my cheeks, making my eyes water, as we jogged slowly around the soccer field where the course began. As a team, our goal was to keep our muscles warm by leaving our warm-ups on until the very last minute. Even with the thick, water-resistant warm-ups, you could still feel the chill of the frosty air. With rosy cheeks and blue lips, I joined the circle to stretch. My coach began to explain the course’s layout to us. We would start on a soccer field, run around a couple baseball fields, cross a creek, through the woods, along a dirt road, past many cow pastures, and then eventually make it to the chute. As he was describing the course, I began to realize that this race was going to be nothing like practice.

The race official stood up with his winter jacket, earmuffs, and gloves and blew on his whistle. It was time. Dread filled my body. This was it. I had to part with my warm, comforting warm-up and be exposed to the freezing air. Some choose to slowly peel off their cozy pants and jacket, savoring every last bit of their body heat, while I went for more of the shock method. As I tore off my sweats and stood in my skimpy cross country uniform, I was hit with a blast of icy air. Immediately, my entire body shook uncontrollably. Within the couple minutes it takes to get situated on the line, my legs and hands went completely numb.

Once the shock of the cold began to wear off, I felt the nervousness creeping up in me. Standing on the starting line, I slowly began to realize the terrors of the situation I had somehow gotten myself into. After only two practices, somehow I was standing on the starting line of my first cross country race ever. My stomach felt like there was an entire family of butterflies living in it, while my confident swagger quickly vanished and was replaced with trembling knees. Absolute terror was etched upon my face as the official announced,

“Runners, take your marks.”

I gulped and fearfully stepped up to the line.

“Get set.”

Fear clutched my chest as I crouched down. And my legs began to shake uncontrollably. I took one last big breath and braced myself for the single word that would declare my fate.

“Go!”

The deafening blast of the gun made my heart jump in my chest as my legs simultaneously propelled my body forward along with the rest of the pack. I threw myself forward, desperate not to get stuck in the back. When I glanced around, seeing others jostling for position, I was quite surprised to find myself near the front of the pack.

Within the first 100 meters, my legs went completely numb and turned a dark shade of red. After a little while I began to feel the effects of my “not-so-smart” quick start. I settled into a more reasonable pace and tried to focus on the little yellow flags directing me where to go. I was determined not to get lost.

As we turned into the woods, I was met by a raging creek. Its powerful waters demanded respect. The usual trickle of a stream had turned into a rushing, fast-moving creek from the early morning thunderstorm. So much for the new running shoes. Toward the front of the pack, I carefully strode across the creek. As I turned to continue on, I was met by the steepest, muddiest hill I have ever seen. It took up the entire bank of the creek. Already, bodies were scrambling up grabbing onto whatever root they could get a hold of.

Not wanting to miss out, I threw myself into the middle of the pack. Many had made it up the treacherous hill and were continuing on with the race. At the bottom of the pile, I was being crushed by the many bodies attempting to get up the slippery slope. I dug my fingers into the mud, holding on for dear life and managed to pull myself up and hang onto a root. Unfortunately for me, I was stuck like that. Because I had become a barrier, not at the top or bottom of the hill, people began to use me as a replacement for the missing root. Before I knew it, people were grabbing onto my jersey, pulling themselves up by my leg, and even using my shoulder or head as a foot step. I was helpless; lying there in three inch deep mud with my opponents using me as a ladder. Yet, the whole time I was laughing uncontrollably.

My friend and teammate, Sarah, grabbed one of my arms and desperately tried to pull me free. At this point, we were both laughing so hard we had tears in our eyes. Eventually, after just about every runner not only passed me, but used me as a stepstool; I was able to slowly pry myself out of the oozing, bone-chilling mud. I quickly grabbed the root, hoisted myself up, and took off at a dead sprint. As I ran through the woods, I eventually caught up with most of my other teammates. I was just a little more tired, a little bit colder, and a whole lot muddier then anybody else out there.

Eventually, I got back into my stride. With every pounding step, the shock vibrated through my entire body. My lungs began to burn and my throat felt like I swallowed nails. Yet strangely, it wasn’t as nearly as miserable as I had expected.

As my body began to tire, my brain came up with millions of reasons why to stop. My raspy breathing came in gasps and I was positive there was no way I could finish. Yet, my feet keep moving; one step after another. Just one step.

As I rounded the bend towards the finish, my breaths came in short, inadequate gasps. I no longer had any control over my legs. I propelled myself forward towards the finish line. Towards warmth. I gave everything I had that last 200 meter stretch. I didn’t feel anything, I just ran. As I crossed the finish line, my exhausted yet exhilarated body collapsed with relief. I had accomplished my goal.

Cross Country was the worst decision of my life. Yet, it was also one of the best. It challenged me to push myself further than I have ever done before. It took a ton of willpower and perseverance to finish and not stop. But every time I crossed the finish line, I got the greatest satisfaction in knowing that, once again, I had the strength and courage to push myself and finish the race.

Posted to webeldotnet on Tuesday, October 23rd, 2007 at 1:50 pm EST in Sports & Quotes & Education (comment feed). If you refer to this post on your blog, please trackback. Thanks!