I am wearing bright purple, ripped, frighteningly short shorts with a stain

of unknown substance on the left side. Just thought I’d throw that out there.
A large man is in front of me, holding an official-looking clipboard. He
also is wearing the Very Shorts, but he is not a runner and therefore should
not be allowed to wear them. They expose hairy, tree trunk-like legs. He
glances at the clipboard, balancing precariously on his small forest. Beady
black eyes race in all directions, up and down, left to right and right to left.
Most people I know, including myself, read in a simple left to right
direction; unless one happens to be Chinese, in which case one’s eyes would
travel right to left.
I am first to the starting line, which I hope will be the case after the race
as well. My legs feel as if I have recently imbibed at least three energy
drinks, but this energy, at least this once, is natural.
When all the runners have arrived, the man speaks.
“Johnson, lane 1. Ferry, lane 2. Lawrence, lane 3. Kahtz, lane 4.”
I consider correcting him, but I can only look at his legs and do not relish
the prospect of him speaking to me, as he looks, from afar, as if he smells.
Someone from Lincoln, he discovers, is not present, so as we wait I practice
starting to keep myself warmed up. I sprint only about 10 meters and jog
back. I hop in place. I look like an idiot, but I am warm.
Finally the girl from Lincoln arrives and we are sent out to our stagger
starts. I crouch, my left leg in front and my right leg balanced on the toes
behind me. No fancy three point starts are needed for the four hundred
meter, which is also known as the quarter mile. Runners, take your mark…I
look down and crouch…get set…Is it just me or is this taking longer than it
does in practice? What exactly is he waiting for?
Finally the gunshot is fired. Again, there won’t be any dramatic starts in
the four hundred meter; it is so long, a fast start would practically kill the
runner. I pace the first two hundred meters, working my arms almost harder
than my legs. My breathing falls into a rhythm. Inhale, step, step, exhale,
step, step, always regular, always timed with my pace. I fall into last place at
about one hundred meters but I don’t mind. I’ll make it up.
I approach the second curve, at the end of two hundred meters. Now it’s
time. I set my sights on the runner in front of me and pass her. The next girl,
the late girl from Lincoln, is passed as easily. With one hundred and fifty
meters left, my breathing becomes faster and shallower, but I try to continue
to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. I pass another girl
and make the turn to the final stretch.
All breathing techniques are forgotten as a burst of adrenaline carries me
higher on my toes. I can hear my tortured lungs as if from very far away.
Each person I pass gives me a little head rush, which may be the exhilaration
of almost winning but also may be the lack of oxygen getting to my brain.
My muscles scream at me but my mind sometimes is selectively deaf and I
push on. I have fifty meters to go, and by now I cannot see anything but the
finish line. I can distantly hear people screaming but my desperate gasping
for air nearly drowns it out. I have to consciously make myself keep going
after I cross the finish line so that I do not hurt myself, but all I want is air,
water, and the soft, soft ground, the grassy, cool, supportive ground.
In time I recover, replenishing my supply of the air my brain so dearly
loves, and retrieve my time from, thankfully, a high school student and not
the Man o’ the Trees. He has moved on. Already I am thinking about my
next race; mostly negative thoughts, like how that was the worst feeling in
the world and how much I do not want to do that again. My lungs burn, my
legs shake and do not feel like they can move, sweat pours down my face,
and my pitiful feet are being squeezed in ways they never thought possible.
But I love this sport.
And I think I may, possibly, grow to accept the concept of runners’
shorts.