Cross Country Glory

Here I am, again torturing my body as I continue to run in agony in yet another 5K race. My breathing is fast and heavy, lungs sucking in air as if I were about to drown on dry land.

Greensburg is my favorite course, I remind myself; no hills, just a flat 3.1 miles to the finish.  By no means am I a cross-country star, but today I was looking to improve my personal best time.

           

As my vision bounces up and down with every stride, I spot the royal blue jersey in front of me.  Focus on picking off one person at a time, as my coach had always told us.

           

This blue jersey was my target.

           

I speed up, passing my adversary with just over three-fourths of the race behind me.  After making my pass, I cross back over to the right, into his running lane.  For whatever reason, I still do not know why to this day, I slowed down.  

           

The runner, from Batesville High School, smacked into the back of me, his feet tripping over my gray New Balances.  He almost fell, and I took off faster, avoiding further confrontation.

He was not happy with me, to say the least.

Further down the stretch, I hear footsteps behind me.  In a flash, my blue-clad foe ticks my feet as he runs pass me, causing me to stumble.  He offers me a new name as he runs ahead in his self-declared triumph, a word I would never say in front of my mother.

           

This is not over, I tell myself.  Body screaming for an end, jersey drenched in sweat, one thing was persistent in my mind; I will not lose to him.

           

We enter the final turn, and I see the blue jersey about ten paces ahead of me.

           

Despite every muscle in my body aching, side splitting with a cramp, sweat blurring my vision, I take off; I sprint as hard as my legs will carry me, numbness beginning to set in.

           

I pass the enemy five strides before the finish line.

           

I am overcome with accomplishment, the adrenaline coursing through my weeping muscles.  I bend over just a few feet past the finish line, and release a healthy amount of vomit onto the green grass as the crowd watches.

           

Ironically, I do not mind the puke.  I always throw-up at the end of a hard race; it is assurance to me that I had run as hard as my body could endure.

           

The Batesville runner walks past me to take his ribbon, acting as though he is the victor.

           

“Hold on,” I hear the race official tell him, “he beat you.”

           

The runner who had cursed my name, who had bested me, whom I had triumphantly conquered, stood there next to me, waiting as I threw up to watch me receive the number in front of his.

           

I continued to heave up my insides, while he can only stand there and wait.

           

But I don’t care; this is the most satisfying puke of my life.