An alarm goes off in the morning darkness, demanding all who hear its call to rise. The runner rolls out of bed, and begins a morning ritual while stretching out muscles and sinews to prepare for the day’s events.
In the predawn silence a shake out is done to wake the legs up and prepare the mind for the competition ahead. After a quick shower and change, it’s on to the bus and off to the meet. The ride over is a quiet one as everyone puts headphones on to psyche themselves up while bags of snacks are passed around. Bagels, and oranges, and bananas, oh my.
The bleachers at the track are a menagerie of color with various teams and spectators crowded in like birds of paradise in a metallic forest. Freshmen set up the popups and athletes break into little groups with some donning headphones to pass the time, some eating snacks to finish breakfast, and some heading out on a warm-up for their race.
Bit by bit parts of the team break off and warm up to prepare for their particular event in their particular specialty. Sprinters and hurdlers depart to check-in for their innumerable heats, jumpers venture into the pits, and distance runners prepare for their varying lengths.
After warm-up and check-in, its time to go onto the field to prepare for the race; spikes are fastened, strides are preformed, and final strategies are formed. Then, the official calls athletes to the line.
In running there is no thing so singularly terrifying as the line. It is the place of sheer possibility where all things are made and broken, where the legends are separated from the mundane. On the track it becomes a simultaneously intimate and public place, so few under the view of so many.
n those moments on the line, before the gun goes off, time seems to stretch into an infinity as every nerve is tensed on a hair trigger, every muscle stretched taut, awaiting the command to go forth and fly. And then, with a sound like a clap of thunder, the gun goes off and the race begins.
The first lap goes by in a blur of jabbing elbows, shoving arms, and stabbing spikes as runners jockey for position like so many racehorses, before the train forms and halts all movement.
The middle goes by, whether two or twenty-three laps, as a game of patience and strategy with moves and countermoves passing up and down the train as runners falloff or move up to claim a new spot before the shift that signals the end. All the while the mind wages its own battle in that most private sanctum between focus and distraction, aggressiveness and caution, desire and defeatism.
Finally, it’s the bell lap, where all caution is thrown to the wind and the last desperate sprint to the finish line takes over. As the final hundred meters loom, kick battles are engaged that will pass into myth as runners try and pour every last ounce of speed and strength into getting across that line before their opponent in a contest of sheer willpower. And then, it’s over.
Runners stand hunched over or leaning on fences, filled with joy or regret, just past the line as officials come over to record places. Once breathing begins to return to normal, it’s the walk back to change shoes, consult coaches, and commence cool down.
After the cool down there is not much to do but wait and pass the time as the meet goes on, one event and race after the other, some with teammates to cheer and some without. It’s a time for chatting with teammates or catching up with class work until the last gun is fired and the last time is recorded.
Now it is the end of the day and time to pack up and board buses back to school. The ride back is quiet, everyone is too worn out to be sociable and drowsy faces feature all around as athletes’ retreat into the comforting lull of their music of choice. The race will soon fade into memory with some secure in the knowledge they will be back next year to try their luck again and others realizing that that was their last hurrah and they shall try no more. And so the track meet passes. Each one unique, yet still very much the same.
