It’s difficult to explain the joy and satisfaction I get from running because some days I question it myself. One day might hurt more than the next, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still do it. The adrenaline and impatience I feel at the beginning of each race is too much to give up. I stand on the white starting line, with my left pointer finger on the start button of my watch.
The atmosphere around me is silent. There’s a light breeze and the ache in my stomach. The gun goes off. Hundreds of girls fight for that varsity spot. After a minor panic attack, I get into my rhythm and think about my race plan. I hear the sound of spikes across the grass. Nearing the 800-meter mark, I hear my mother. She yells, “Go Gretchen!” That’s me. The runner.
I hear my name a few more times during the race. My sister screams, my dad embarrasses me, and my friends know exactly what to say. I feel a sense of accomplishment and use it to push me further past that new level of pain that comes with every race. The likelihood is low of another Gretchen in the race. Without looking, I know they are cheering just for me. The runner.
My friends and family think I’m crazy, when we go up north together and I come back sweating at 8:30 a.m. they ask me, “how do you do it?” I brush off the question and smile shyly. But in my head I’m thinking, dedication. Years of practice. Running every day. I hit a wall at the two mile mark and I think about how fast all the pain I feel would disappear if I stopped now. But everyone knows I don’t give up that easily. After all, I am Gretchen. The dedicated runner.