I wrung my hands together as I shuffled anxiously from foot to foot, my worn sneakers scuffing the track below me. My fingers smoothed over the number that was pasted on my left hip. Only four laps. My thoughts were cut off as the referee motioned hastily for the runners to approach the starting line. An odd mix of nerves and adrenaline rushed through my bloodstream as I stepped forward. But even though I was worried, I didn’t dread the race like I dread taking tests or getting shots at the hospital. Beneath it all, I loved the race.

On your mark, the referee shouted over the clamor of the crowd behind us. I stepped up to the line like it was the edge of a cliff. My heart beat like a drum against my chest as a moment of still silence filled everyone with anticipation. Crack! My body leapt forward at the sound of the gun as I strode the first lap. I fell into place beside the other runners and kept pace with them around the first turn. As a slow burn spread through my legs, I wondered why I ever signed up for track in the first place. But the cheers of the crowd reminded me that I had to push onward. Going down the final stretch was all or nothing. My legs screamed at me to stop and my lungs felt like they were about to collapse, but when I crossed the finish line I knew was I was running for.