Short Story #1 Step 2
1600M
I take a deep breath, steadying myself as I step up to the line. My pulse thrums in my ears. “Set!” The world narrows to the track in front of me. I hold my breath. Bang! The gun cracks. We’re off. The first 100 meters is chaos—elbows jostling, runners fighting for the inside lane. Feet pound the track, and I focus on not clipping the girl in front of me. It’s a mile, just four laps, but it feels like an eternity. Stay calm. I’ve run this race a hundred times before, but today? Today, the next six minutes will define everything. My entire running career boiled down to this.
Warm-ups have already started by the time Jackson and Max roll in, late again. It’s the third time this week, and my patience is wearing thin. Some of the guys just don’t take practice seriously, and it shows. East Ridge’s track team is known for being competitive—state champs are less than a week away—but they’re slacking off. As one of the captains, it’s on me to set the standard. And right now, the standard is slipping.
We break off for our 45-minute long-distance run. Most of the girls pair up, but I stick with the guys, pushing myself to match their pace as long as I can. My legs burn, but I keep up until the last stretch, when I finally drop back to my own rhythm. The track comes back into view and my breath steadies. But I know it’s not over yet.
Coach has us lined up for striders. “Six 300s, with recovery,” he announced; his voice was firm, but there was a glint of something in his eyes. He knows how much we hate these. I groan internally. I hate striders. I run long distances for a reason—to avoid sprints. But today, we’re doing 300-meter sprints, six of them. Coach’s voice cuts through the exhaustion: “Drive your elbows! Chest up! Power through each stride!” My legs already feel like lead from the earlier run, and 300 meters feels like forever. But I grit my teeth and dig in, focusing on each step, each breath. State champs are coming, and I can’t afford to slack off—not now.
I could feel the tension in my calves, the burn would only get worse, but I forced myself to start strong, powering through each stride as coach instructed. The first 100 meters were manageable, but by the second hundred, my lungs were on fire; my muscles screamed. Every part of me wanted to stop, but the finish line was still too far away. I reminded myself it wasn’t about the pain; the more you focus on the pain, the more intense it will feel, and the more you want to give in to it; it was about pushing past it, making every stride count, every second.
By the time the last sprint was over, my legs trembled, and sweat clung to my skin, but I’d made it. I’d finished.
At home, things are not as easy to push through. The house feels too small, the tension too thick. Dad works late shifts almost every night, and Mom barely has time for anything except keeping things afloat. The roof needs repairs, the car is on its last legs, and college—at least without a scholarship—feels more like a dream than a plan.
Dinner is quiet. I pushed my peas around on my plate, glancing up at my parents across the table. They don’t talk much anymore, just work, and when they do talk, it usually turns into a fight about money; I could feel the weight of it. Any time I bring up track, they change the subject. “I’ve been looking at Stanford, Mom,” I cautiously tell her. “They have a really good track program…” I trail off from the look Mom gives Dad, who doesn’t say anything.
“We’ll see,” Mom sighs, and I know what that means. We don’t have that kind of money for me to go to a big school. Stanford might as well have been on another planet. The thought of tuition made my stomach twist. But I wasn’t going to stay here. This town was suffocating me. Track was my way out—a scholarship is my lifeline. Without it, I’d be stuck here, in this house that seems to shrink more every day, with parents who barely look at each other anymore. Like a fish flopping out of water desperately trying to breathe, I need this scholarship.
Even though I have good grades, school isn’t much of an escape either. Most of the track team are seen as nerds—people who care too much about their grades or are too disciplined to be cool. But I know it’s different. Track isn’t about being nerdy; it’s about control, about discipline. Running is mental. It isn’t just about the body; it’s about the mind. How you approach running, pushing your body further than you thought you could, is the same way you process anything—like solving a problem in class.
While other people might get stuck, we figure it out because there are only two ways to do something: the correct way and again. Track runners have mastered the art of processing information the same way we process pain. When I struggle with an assignment, I remind myself I just have to break it down, piece by piece, and focus on one thing at a time instead of the whole picture. A runner doesn’t win a race by crossing the finish line; a runner wins a race by single step until they cross the finish line.
The night before every meet, we always have a team dinner; the night before the state championship is no different. We go to the Italian restaurant just down the road from the school to load up on carbs. The entire long-distance team is here. Conversations buzz about the race, laughing, and bonding. I take a deep breath from the unsettling feeling in my stomach, which isn’t from the pasta. It feels like the calm before the storm, like the last moment of peace before everything we’ve been working for comes crashing down.
Towards the end of dinner, Coach stands up with a proud but severe look. “Tomorrow’s a big day,” he starts. “We’ve got scouts coming from some of the top programs in the country. This is your chance.” I feel like Coach is talking directly to me now. “All the hard work, all the pain—it’s going to pay off.” My heart leaps. I know what he’s talking about. My school was sending a scout, and this was my shot. I can’t mess it up.
Later, in my room, I’m laying awake in bed, the red light from my digital clock glaring back at me, every minute inching by. My mind is racing, thinking about tomorrow. Just thinking about the intensity of the race and the pressure on me for tomorrow, my heart is beating out of my chest.
As if tossing and turning all night didn’t do it, the nerves hit me full force in the morning to the point of nausea. As we warm up, the air feels electric with anticipation. I can barely breathe through the anxiety, but I force myself to focus on my getting loose. This is it. Leading up to the race is like watching water boil, waiting for them to call my event for check-in. “First call for the women’s 1600 race,” The announcer’s voice booms. My legs shake after they give me my heat and runner number.
