One step, two step, three. I step onto the crowded bus. As I walk along the aisle, I strategically dodge duffel bags and gatorade bottles. I pick an empty seat and try to clear my head. The silent ride seems to go on forever, the want to feel my spikes sink slowly into the track is building with every passing moment. I close my eyes and see myself crossing the finish line. The bus screeches to a stop; the calm before a storm. One step, two step, three. I step off the bus. It's time to run.
Running is my new beginning. Before running, I had cheerleading; and it was everything to me. I never thought in a million years that it could be taken from me. Sophomore year, I didn't make the team. Heartbroken and lost, I convinced myself there was nothing left out there for someone like me.
Winter wiggled its way past fall, and everything was still the same. I was still miserable, I was still heartbroken, and I still felt a pang of hopelessness when I saw girls stride confidently down the hallway in their uniforms.
Then I decided— I'm done feeling sorry for myself, bowing down to that one failure like it ruled over me. I wanted to run. I started conditioning with the distance runners. They took me in, believed in me, and taught me that failure shouldn't shut me down; it should wake me up.
Track season came and went that year, and I fell completely in love with the sport. I was in love with the sound of my feet pounding steadily on the gravel, in love with the stillness and tranquility of a morning run, and I was in love with the fierce pleasure of a full-out sprint.
Now it's my junior year. I'm roaring and ready to go. A full three months of conditioning under my belt, and a hope that the passion I had felt last season is still there; waiting to break out at the first sound of a starting gun. I've been struggling all season to beat my record time in the mile, and today I feel like a million bucks. I feel like breaking a record.
Usually when I step off the bus at a meet, nervousness sets in, and I’m anxious for the moment they call the runners to the starting line. Today, though, I feel fresh, new. It's the first time I've ran the mile as my first race of the day. It's odd to me, but it's also freeing knowing that I'll have all the energy I'll need to beat this record.
I see coach across the field. He's wearing the bright green visor that follows him to every meet, and a big smile. Talking to him before I race has become as habitual as brushing my teeth. I jog over to him, searching for inspiration.
"It's a perfect day for a personal record, Pepto. All you've got to do today is keep focused and loose along those curves, and that PR's as good as yours,” says Coach.
Those were the words I was searching for; the words I needed.
Pepto is the name the distance crew gave me, after my Pepto Bismol pink tennis shoes. At first, I despised the name, but I've come to embrace it. The nickname alone has brought me closer to my team. All I can do is smile at him, he's been there through it all; pushing and motivating and inspiring.
I start toward our makeshift camp. As I jog along the stiff grass, I take everything in; the smell of hotdogs from the concession stand, the announcer calling runners to their marks, the fans in the stands. People are everywhere, milling around like ants on a summer day. I stop at the track, just as the racers round their last curve; the desperation to finish engraved on their faces. I can feel the adrenaline in the little breeze they create as they flash by.
In the distance, I hear the announcer call the girls' 1600 to the track. As we all gather, we laugh and joke about which one of us is tripping first. They assign us to our lanes, and I'm in lane four. Not the best, but I tell myself that it's not worth the worry. Today I break my record.
I pray, "Lord, I give it all to you," get ready. Set. Go. I find myself close to the front, adrenaline pumping through my entire body. I find the girl I've been dreaming of beating all season, and tell myself, "It might not feel that great now, but after you beat her, the pain won't matter. Look at her feet. Stay loose. Keep going." We round another corner, and I'm getting tired. It's only the second lap but it feels like the fourth. She's going entirely too fast for me to keep up, her feet inching farther and farther away. I start to lose my grip on the once glorious hope of beating this girl, until I hear Coach encouraging and pushing me to stay right where I am.
600 meters left. I'm still uncomfortably trailing the girl, my body aching and searching frantically for oxygen. Fourth lap. I hear my parents in the crowd, I hear times called out loud, I hear myself breathing heavier than I ever have. I decide in that moment that I have absolutely nothing left to lose, and a spark ignites. In a dead sprint, I pass the girl I'd never thought I'd beat, I pass another, and another, and another. I count five in my head. I see coach in the distance, I see his mouth moving but I hear no words. Then his voice finally registers, "Now sprint, Pepto! Don't think! Go catch the next one!"
Surprisingly fast, I gain on the girl ahead of me— and bolt past her. My arms are pumping, my legs and lungs are burning, and my mind is clear of everything— but the finish line. I cross it seconds later, my arms held high in the sky. My time is called out loud, and I stand there, stunned, amid the chaos of the finishing runners. I beat my record; by thirteen seconds.
I realize in those moments, that not making the cheer team made all the difference. I wouldn't be standing here; lungs burning, eyes wild with passion, if I would have become a cheerleader. Failure led me hand in hand to something that I absolutely love. I was knocked down pretty hard, but I got back up, and hit the ground running.
I shake the hand of the girl, smiles spread across both of our faces.