The first step is always the hardest. And procrastination is always the issue. Twelve miles. Forty-three laps around an indoor track at the Pettit National Ice Center. But the dry, ice-less track looks hunky-dory in the dark, dank winter months.

I’m on the line with my black, Nike shorts and a faded purple tank-top. I start out in the inside lane, hoping I'm faster than most of the runners occupying the two-lane track. It may not be a race, but the rush of passing someone gets me through my run.

Pat. Pat. Pat. Footsteps echo in my head. And I'm only halfway done. The sweat gathers momentum, rolling down my back. Pat. Pat. Pat. I memorize every crack and bump on the never-ending, oval lane. My legs fill with molten lava. Pat. Pat. Pat.

My thoughts scatter and focus, bouncing from one thought to another. Test for AP Biology. Track season. Work tomorrow night. The State Meet. Outfit for school tomorrow. Cross Country season. Ten more laps pass as my thoughts consume my hazy mind.

I sense the confused look on the runners’ faces. They think I’m crazy and hope I stop passing them. At the 40th lap, the track whimpers in protest, trying to make me quit before I hit the twelfth mile mark.

There's less than a mile to go. I pick up my pace, knowing the pain will intensify. But it’s twelve miles. It’s supposed to hurt. Two laps to go. It’s like smelling Thanksgiving dinner and having to wait until dinnertime. One lap to go. My legs feel as if they were cut off and sent to the meat grinder.

I hit the starting line. I’m done. I wobble to my water bottle and put on my winter coat and sweatpants. And then walk out the door. Knowing I’ll be back the next week doing it all over again.