Short Story #1 Step 3 (Workshop Draft)
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. 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 not today. 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 are trembling, sweat clinging to my skin, but I’d made it. I’d finished.
At home, things are more challenging 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 at my parents across the table. They don’t talk much anymore, just work, and when they do speak, 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. Dad didn’t even look up from his plate when I mentioned Stanford. Mom looks at me with that tired, empty look she always has.
“We’ll see,” Mom sighs. I don’t push it. What was the point? I knew how the conversation would end. That’s her response, like every other time, but we both know what that means. We don’t have that kind of money for me to go to a big school. I’m on my own with this. 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 is 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. In the classroom, just like on the track, it’s about breaking down the distance—step by step, problem by problem. When I struggle with an assignment, I remind myself I just have to break it down and focus on one thing at a time. Don’t think about the whole picture. When the pain of not understanding hits, you lean into it. Keep going. A runner doesn’t win a race by crossing the finish line; a runner wins with every single step they take until they cross the finish line.
The night before every meet, we always have a team dinner. This time is no different. The Italian restaurant down the road from the school is packed tonight, buzzing with the team’s energy. The smell of garlic bread, tomato sauce, and fresh basil fills the air, mixing with the laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls. The place is nothing fancy—worn wooden tables and dim lighting with soft Italian music in the background—but it feels like home before the big race. We’re gathered around a long table, squeezed in shoulder to shoulder, with plates of pasta and bread scattered in front of us.
“Pass the breadsticks,” Jackson says from the end of the table, already halfway through his plate of fettuccine Alfredo. His voice is casual, but there’s tension in his eyes. It’s the same look we’re all wearing tonight.
“You’ve already had, like, four,” Max jokes, throwing a breadstick across the table. It lands on Jackson’s plate with a soft thud. “Save some for the rest of us.”
Jackson grins. “Carb-loading, man. Gotta fuel up for tomorrow. Plus, I’m a growing boy.”
The table erupts in laughter, and I can’t help but join in, though my stomach is too knotted to eat much. I absentmindedly twirl the spaghetti on my plate, pushing it around more than actually eating it. The familiar sounds of forks clinking against plates, the hum of conversations about tomorrow’s race, and the occasional burst of laughter should be comforting. But I can’t shake the weight pressing down on me.
Next to me, Sarah nudges my arm. “You okay?” She asks quietly, her eyes searching mine. “You’ve barely touched your food.”
I force a smile. “Yeah, just…thinking about tomorrow. You know how it is.”
She nods, her own face tightening. “Tell me about it. My stomach’s been in knots all day. I hate this part. The waiting.”
“I know,” I reply, finally taking a bite of my spaghetti, though it feels like I’m forcing it down. “It’s the calm before the storm.”
The room around us feels like a different world—everyone else seems to be laughing and enjoying themselves. But I know the tension is simmering just beneath the surface for all of us. Coach sits at the head of the table, his arms crossed, as he watches us with a small smile. His presence is reassuring, steady. He knows what tomorrow means.
As the plates start to clear, Coach stands up to get our attention. The table falls quiet, the energy shifting immediately. All eyes are on him. “Alright, team,” he begins, his voice carrying a weight that makes my heart skip. “Tomorrow’s a big day—state championships. You’ve worked your butts off to get here, and I couldn’t be prouder of each one of you. But this is it. This is what we’ve been training for.”
He pauses, letting his words sink in. I can feel the air thicken with anticipation, the gravity of what he’s saying pressing down on us—my pulse quickens. I glance around the table and see the same nervous energy reflected in everyone’s faces.
“We’ve got scouts coming from some top schools,” Coach continues. “This is your chance to show them what you’ve got. Everything you’ve worked for, every practice, every sprint, every mile will pay off. But you have to leave it all on the track tomorrow. No holding back.”
My chest tightens. This is what I’ve been waiting for—my shot. I can feel everyone’s eyes flicker in my direction as if they know what this means to me. My stomach flips, and I feel a mix of excitement and dread knotting together. This is my chance, my way out of this town. I can’t mess it up.
Coach’s voice softens, but it carries a weight that keeps us all locked in. “You’ve got this. You’re ready. Tomorrow, you’re going to show everyone what East Ridge is made of.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Jackson raises his glass of water. “To state champs!” he calls out, breaking the tension.
“To state champs!” we all echo, clinking our glasses together. The nervous energy is replaced—if only for a moment—by the team’s camaraderie. The sound of glass hitting glass rings out, and for a second, I feel the pride of having been a part of this team for the last four years.
As we start to gather our things and head out, Sarah pulls me aside. You’ve got this, you know?” she says, her voice quiet but steady. “Tomorrow. I mean, you’re the best runner here. Just…don’t let it get in your head.”
I nod, though my mind is already racing ahead to tomorrow. “Yeah, I know. Thanks, Sarah.” She smiles, but there’s a flicker of understanding in her eyes. She knows the pressure, just like we all do. We say goodnight, and I step out into the cool night air, feeling the weight of tomorrow pressing down harder than ever.
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.
The air is thick with tension, the kind that clings to your skin and makes your pulse beat faster. The stadium is alive with the roar of the crowd, banners flapping in the wind. I take a deep breath, steadying myself as I step up to the line. The official raises the gun. My pulse thrums in my ears. “Set!” The world narrows to the track in front of me. I hold my breath. Bang! The gun fires and the race begins. The race begins, just as I’ve imagined it a hundred times before. The first 100 meters are all about positioning, finding my spot, and settling into my pace. The top runner is just ahead of me, her strides smooth and effortless. I stay on her heels, matching her stride, fighting to keep up as the laps tick by. By the time we hit the third lap: the most challenging part of the race, my body is begging to quit. My legs feel heavy, and my lungs burn. I think about all the brutal practices and races I’ve done before this. I had survived those, and this is no different.
With 300 meters left, something snaps inside me. Coach’s voice echoes in my head—’Drive, drive!’—I push myself to dig deeper and focus on my form again. Everything hurts. My legs, my lungs, my heart—all screaming. My mind says stop, but I push harder. Harder. My arms pump like pistons. I stretch my legs just a little more with each stride, pushing myself through the lactic acid building in my legs, each step a battle. The girl in front still holds the lead, but she wavers, her stride faltering. I’m not. This is my moment.
Coming around the bend of the last 150 meters, my vision tunnels. Everything narrows down to this last straight away. A new surge of energy rises in me: the final kick. The metallic taste if adrenaline fills my mouth as I power down the backstretch. Sweat trickles down the side of my face, stinging my eyes, but I blink it away. My legs feel like lead, but I push harder than I ever have before. The wind whips past my ears—a roaring white noise drowns out everything but my heartbeat. My eyes locked straight ahead; it’s just me and the finish line. I start to pull ahead, inch by inch, my body screaming, my mind on fire. My arms pump. Legs stretch. Everything a blur. One more step. Another. Almost there. Push. Push. Push. And then it was over.
The world comes crashing back to me after I cross the finish line. I’m gasping for air, collapsing into myself. My legs wobble beneath me. All I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears. I had done it! All I knew was one thing: I hadn’t held back. Whatever happens next, I had given everything I had.
