Where My Past Lives

The track is where my past lives. I can feel the adrenaline flowing through my veins like an electric shock filling my body with lethal energy. Every muscle in my body tenses as the starter’s arm rises with gun aimed to the sky. “READY!”… “SET!”…BANG!

The gun goes explodes, and I’m flying around the curve. The crowd goes wild with anticipation, screaming names as they begin to fade; the track is all I see. I am alone. My arms move in time with my legs stride-by-stride. The rhythm becomes natural. Right arm, left leg…left arm, right leg. I shift my wrinkled hands flat cutting through the air as I round to the home stretch. Concentrating on each swift movement, I manage to haul my aged body down the track. Arms pulled back, head leaned forward, I dodge through the finish line.

“FIRST, WOO!” I shout, stuttering to a drunken stop. My head leans back as I force the cool air through my gapping mouth and wheeze back misty clouds into the morning frost. Feeling accomplished, I let my body fall onto the turf waiting for my coach and family to come congratulate me. I lay there for awhile letting the autumn breeze brush against my heated face. No one comes. The track is where my past lives.





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