The Runner eyed the golden rays of sunlight that slid between the blinds of his hotel room.
He wiggled his toes beneath the warm sheets and stretched his legs to the bottom edge of the bed where they were met with a cool air. For the first time in months his muscles didn't ache in this ritualistic morning stretch beneath the covers. There was no soreness, or fatigue, only energy, restless energy he was ready to release.
He had been up for an hour in fact. His mind was racing well before his body would have to. In four hours he'd been raging across the cross country course, but for now he sat in the silence of his dark hotel room, trying not to wake his roommate.
The runner was ready to get this going, ready to toe the line, ready to explode out and into the abyss of 3.1 miles. He was ready to write his story.
But for now all he could do was wait for the sun to rise a little more and that 6:30 a.m. alarm to to ring so he could brush his teeth, douse his young face in cold water, and head out the door for a shake-out mile.
He curled his toes backed underneath the warm blankets and let his mind wander backwards in time, to the night before. The spaghetti dinner at that nameless Italian joint on the other side of town. Those garlic breadsticks, and the long table with red and white blocked table cloth. There was laughter, lots of refilling of water cups, and bellies full of pasta. Energy.
Then there was the team meeting in Coach's room.
Nine high school boys were scattered around the room. Some lounged on the two queen sized beds, some sat in the chairs that no one sits in at the table that no one eats at in the corner of the room by the window.
Coach paced back and forth with a few semi-folded white pieces of paper creased down the middle as if they were still in the back pocket of his pleated khakis. He was nervous, but that was only evident to those who knew him, and The Runner knew him.
"It's going to be a tight team race," Coach said, addressing the paper in his hands. His words were crisp and precise. "Every point will matter."
The eight boys and The Runner nodded in agreement.
"So this is what it looks like in the team race..." Coach went on, still pacing.
The Runner sat in the corner of the queen sized bed by the wall next to the bathroom, behind everyone, patiently watching his Coach pace back and forth with his eyes glued to the sheet.
"If we can get one to three points from-"
"One." The Runner interrupted.
Coach looked up from his sheet at The Runner, his runner, and nodded gently before going back to his pacing. "One point from..."
And so the meeting went.
Back in his warm bed nearly ten hours later The Runner wondered if he came off cocky for so boldly claiming he'd win - or was it confidence?
He couldn't decide. It was more a matter of decision than opinion, he thought. All he knew is what he intended to do once the gun shot off, sending nearly 250 runners into the open field for battle.
A shiver ripped down his spine at the thought while he lay in bed. It must be close now. He leaned over to check his watch, the one that left a wide gap of whiteness on his right wrist. A watch-tan of pride from days grinding underneath the sun.
6:24.
Close Enough...
The Runner threw the the sheets off his warm body without a hint of fatigue. While it was early, he wasn't tired. Not on this day.
This was the day he had been training for all season, and all summer. This was the day he had blocked out on the calendar in his room with a bright red marker. This was the Day 1.
The State Championship.
His roommate for the night began to stir. Soon they'd meet up with Coach, and the other two runners on the team who had morning shake-out runs in their training schedule. They had run an early shake-out mile before every meet this season to release the pre-race nerves and get the blood flowing, and it was important to keep things as they had been.
Don't do anything new.
The air was crisp and cool, as was common in the middle of Fall. Dried orange leaves blew with a gentle wind while the quartet with Coach in tow jogged lightly along the vacant streets. The soft morning sun was still rising.
The Runner ran sluggishly in the back, something he had no intentions of doing in a few hours, but on this morning run he didn't want to force anything, there would be time for that later. He wanted to flow, and allow his body to find its rhythm.
A few steps ahead his teammates shared light jokes and tried to keep their minds off the battle just a few hours away.
Anything to ease the nerves.
The Runner didn't need any pep talks, nor did his teammates. They knew what was in front of them. They knew this was a business trip. And because their stomachs were already wound so tight in nervousness, Coach allowed their light banter. Besides, he was just as nervous.
Just as they had trained for this day, he had been training them for this day. Every mile, every interval, and every day off - those were rare - were designed with this one day in mind.
State.
Breakfast came in a went with a safe banana and Powerbar. While his teammates devoured a more hearty breakfast, The Runner never strayed from what he had found to work. He had never puked during or after a race, and he had no intentions of doing so on this day. He didn't want to be sprinting down that final hill and into the finishing shoot with dribbles of breakfast on his chin.
Back in his room The Runner continued on with his race-morning rituals. His navy blue singlet lay on his bed without wrinkles. He placed his white race bib an estimated inch beneath the golden lettering on his singlet, and eyed those the bold letters "STATE CHAMPIONSHIPS," and his number, "1104."
The Runner carefully pinned each corner of the bib into his singlet. It was important for the top of the bib to line up perfectly with the edges of the arch of his school name just above it.
Symmetry.
When the ritual of pinning then bib was complete he packed his bag and ran over the list of essentials before zipping it up. Singlet. Spikes. Gatorade.
It was all there.
In one final climactic zip The Runner was off. He knew the next time he'd be in the room he'd be a hero, or a zero.
Or so it felt.
He nabbed the shot-gun seat in Coach's car and held his bag tightly to hide his nerves. The ride to the course was a short 10 minutes, though it was just enough time to listen to music.
Anything to ease the nerves.
Coach twisted the dial with his tan fingers to a station the four in the car agreed upon.
"Wake up! Grab a brush and put a little makeup..."
The Runner and his teammates curved their energy, not wanting to release anything too early, but the song was just too much not to sing along to.
"Hide the scars to fade away the shakeup..."
Blood raced through their veins as the beat picked up. The Runner could feel it now. The music, and the tension, was elevating the closer they got to the course. It was here, it was now.
Or soon to be.
Colors in every hue were scattered across the landscape. There were team tents in all directions. The only consistency was the beige grass that was waging a battle of its own to remain green.
The two back-ups set up the tent for the squad that would soon be racing while The Runner and remaining six went out for their warm-up. It was close now.
The Runner replicated his shake-out run from a few hours earlier and lagged in the back, letting his teammates lead the way. He wanted to conserve as much as energy as possible. Whether it be drafting or not even thinking about where to run for the warm up, it all mattered. These were times to conserve as much energy as possible.
After a quiet mile run, his six teammates peeled off and headed back to the tent while he went for another mile. A solo mile to calm his mind even more, to sink into his rhythm. The one that had gotten him here. The one that he found over the countless summer miles, or those 25 quarters in 70 seconds each with a minute rest, or that six mile tempo where he nearly cracked 10 minutes over the final two miles.
He had been to the edge and back, and now he had to do it one more time.
One. More Time.
The second mile felt more sluggish than the first, and for a moment The Runner's nerves were getting the best of him.
Had he trained too hard? Had he peaked at the wrong time? What if he didn't have what it took to win? What if he failed?
His heart beat even harder now and he could feel it pulsing out of his chest. He could see it through the thin white t-shirt he wore. While he had once been so confident he worried more now than he ever had before. Or perhaps it was all on display now.
Near the end of his warm-up he stopped to regain his composure. He ran a quick stride on the wood-chipped path that ran just down the hill from all the team tents, all that color. He ran another one, desperately trying to wake up his legs. Then another one. He needed to find his stride. His rhythm. So he ran another one.
There it was.
He slowed to a run, then a jog. All the puzzle pieces were falling into place now. The jolt to the system had worked, and now he jogged back to his tent. It was time to spike up.
His six teammates were all sitting, scattered throughout the tent, quickly knotting their spikes. All those neon colors and bright laces, topped by those silver spikes on the bottoms.
The Runner pulled his white Zoom Kennedys, the ones he had worn all the season, the ones that took him to his personal best two weeks earlier, and began the ritual of lacing them up - right foot first, then left, and a double-knot.
When he got up he quickly leapt into the air and raised his knees high towards his chest. He wanted to feel elastic and explosive.
It was time now.
The Runner followed his six teammates, and Coach, as they walked towards the starting line in silence, mentally preparing for battle. His mind raced over his body like a machine checking for missing bolts and screws.
Everything was in place.
As they neared the white-chalked line that stretched nearly 150 meters wide Coach slowed to match pace with The Runner, his runner.
"Ready?" He asked, eyes locked on The Runner.
"Ready." The Runner responded.
On the line The Runner and his team took a few stride-outs into the field where hundreds of spectators were gathering on each side. All those colors. The Runner eyed the sides and all those faces.
How did I get here?
His mind was puzzled for a moment. But the starter brought him back.
"Three minutes gentlemen," he said in a commanding voice.
The Runner waited for nearly everyone else to head back to the line so he could have a brief moment of solitude in the field, alone. He watched the backs of everyone's spikes as they quickly sprinted off.
Despite being in a field of a few hundred runners, racing was always a lonely experience for The Runner. It was like training, full of mind games with the The Self. One only ran as fast as one believed. It didn't matter how much anyone screamed for you along the way.
Running well into the realm of pain was a choice.
It was a decision he had long ago packed away as the way things were. Pain was part of the process. It simply was, and he was comfortable with that.
The Runner walked slowly, then picked up to a jog as everyone was back on the line with their eyes on the starter. He listened to his breathing and tried to yawn.
He had made a tradition out of yawning on the starting line, something he heard would help relax his lungs, the same ones he'd soon be setting fire to.
Oh, the irony.
The Runner stood just behind the white line, in front of his team now. The race was on, and now was the time he had been waiting for and waiting for and waiting for.
Anxiety out the window, it was time to release it all now. The waiting was over.
The starter held the gun high in to the air and The Runner's eyes scanned the open field in front of him while the sun's golden rays stretched from high above now. He intended to keep a clear space in front of him for most of this race, particularly the end, just as he had in the thousands of times he ran this race in his dreams.
All those miles, all those intervals, were for this. For a brief moment the world stood still and nothing moved. It was the epitome of that age old saying "the calm before the storm."
But The Runner was ready for the storm.
He was ready for anything.
The Runner eyed the golden rays of sunlight that slid between the blinds of his hotel room.
He wiggled his toes beneath the warm sheets and stretched his legs to the bottom edge of the bed where they were met with a cool air. For the first time in months his muscles didn't ache in this ritualistic morning stretch beneath the covers. There was no soreness, or fatigue, only energy, restless energy he was ready to release.