It was a beautiful Saturday around 3:30 p.m. Me being an avid runner, I thought the temperature was absolutely perfect for a jaunt through Pilot Knob. I hop out of my vehicle with anticipation of a relaxing jog, and I walk my way to the serene trail. Little did I know I was on my way to the trail of terror. It was about 3:15, and I was set on going for my jog. I grabbed my ipod and blue water bottle, and was set to go! When I arrived in my ‘96 maroon tuck, I had to park in a small gravel area outside the brown wooden gate. It was no big deal except the fact that I had to run the whole loop, which is 4 miles long! I began to prepare myself for the jog I was minutes from enduring. I begin by doing plyometrics, also known as high knees, karaoke, etc. Once I was warmed up I began to run through the panoramic park. There were trees covering nearly every inch of the park. Most of them were leafless, but the trees that did have leaves were beautiful; they were covered in assortments of reds and oranges. The first half of my run to the top of Pilot Knob was full of twists and turns and ma...
Wiping the sweat from my brow I called a halt to the crew. Phil and I dumped our packs and found a comfy boulder to rest on. I looked back to where the last guys were coming from back down the trail. They had stopped talking a while back and marched slowly along the dirt trail. Phil produced an energy-bar he’d saved from breakfast and began to munch on it as I drained another water bottle. After the refreshing drink I laid back against the rock and stared up at the pine trees. But a moment later, hearing grumble about sore legs, I sat up, grinning, “By the map we only have another couple hours.”
I woke up at six to shower and eat breakfast. We were out the door and 6:30 and off to Ashland, Nebraska. We had the hammer down only stopping in Ashland to grab three Red Bulls apiece. We chugged our energy drinks while driving a couple miles out of town to the raceway hoping to get awaken by the rush of the sugar. We parked our truck by our buddy Jacob after getting signed in and paying our entry fees. We made fun of Jacob for awhile for being such a die hard and having to be one of the first ones at the track. Setting up our canopy and unloading our bikes took about 5 minutes because we wanted to hurry up and walk the track. The track was a freaking mud pit. They had overwatered it. I was hoping that it would stay a little muddier after practice until the moto’s because I could out ride three-fourths of the guys in my class in the mud. After the track walk we all walked back to our trucks and got our gear on. The C riders were first to practice. The first kid to start up his bike just revved the piss out of it not letting it warm up like it should. We started shaking our heads because our dads taught us to respect your things and not mistreat them. Leaving our little camp
As I got back on Loopy I felt a sense of relaxation come over me. I heard the announcer say that my time was 10.1 seconds. I knew that this was a good time and could possibly win the short go at the State Finals. I sat through the other fourteen calf ropers to listen to no other times faster than 10.1 seconds. Not only did I win the short go but I showed everyone that I was someone to watch.
Thirteen thousand square feet of machines, weights, ropes, chains, and pain. The fluorescent lamps fill the room with an unnatural light. Sunlight, just like excuses, is not allowed in Satan’s lair. Each horse is paired up with his driver. A seven minute warm-up is prescribed by the trainer, and so it starts. I jump on the stationary bicycle. A light breeze against my bare legs blows gently attempting to cool me, but does little to diminish the internal burn of the quadriceps and hamstrings. Upon completion of the warm up, John Thomas, former Navy S.E.A.L., commands me to join him at the manual neck resistance station.
I prepared myself for the upcoming adventurous day. I set out along a less-traveled path through the woods leading to the shore. I could hear every rustle of the newly fallen leaves covering the ground. The brown ground signaled the changing of seasons and nature's way of preparing for the long winter ahead. Soon these leaves would be covered with a thick layer of snow. The leaves still clinging to the trees above displayed a brilliant array of color, simultaneously showing the differences of each and the beauty of the entire forest.
The bus rolled into the parking lot. Then it parked and the doors cranked open. One by one in a single file we exited the vehicle. We had arrived-we had arrived at Thompson Park. On any other day Thompson Park isn’t that big of a deal to me usually. But today Thompson Park was the place where the Central Jersey State Sectional Meet was being held, and that was a huge deal. The Central Jersey State Sectional Meet is a Cross Country meet is the first of two qualifying meets to get into the State Championship Meet. When I stepped off of the bus the sound of cheering and cow bells erupted into my ears. This was a very large meet so the races had already begun. Along with the noise came the smell of the fresh and crisp fall air, as well as the food from the food vendors. You could smell french fries, hotdogs, and other fatty foods, all of which we couldn’t eat before our race because it would slow
To a seven year old me, the looming grey monolith before me wasn’t intimidating, it was downright nightmarish. Maybe I had traumatized myself by watching “Why Airplanes Crash” the night before, or maybe I was scared of leaving everything I knew behind, but the site of the glass encased, dull concrete Airport made me want to turn around and run. And thinking back to that day in 2009, I probably could have. My Aunt and Grandma had stayed up the whole night packing and cleaning and reassuring me and my Sister that yes, Florida was fun, and no, the Airplane wasn’t going to crash and burn and consequently turn into a steaming pile of ash and dismembered corpses. They were both exhausted, and if me or my sister tried to turn back and ran around the parking lot, they would’ve surrendered and let us be. Regardless of what
So after waiting line forever they open up the gates and everyone takes off to their favorite rides. My group dashes for the indoor roller coaster. So considering it’s indoor I’m thinking its nothing to crazy. Well I was wrong. The flight of fear goes 0 to 60 in a matter of just a couple of seconds and does 4 loops and 3 corkscrews. We get into line and we are one of the first to aboard this death machine. After hearing the death screeches from the other people in front of us I was officially petrified.
Every Wednesday, a retired thirty-year-old deep-sea diver, one of the many amazing people I have met at EvCC and a fine teammate in rowing, would force me to run a few miles along the paths by Langus Park after crew practice. Along the side of the trial were mile markers, not ostentatious nor neglected, merely displayed clearly as to show one how far he or she had gone... they never told us how much further we had to go.
Eventually, a majority of my rides started to get lengthier, and I started to feel like I was starting to get the hang of it. I finally got the self-confidence that I knew I needed if I was going to be able to do overcome this challenge. I hopped on the bike, getting a feeling that this was going to be my lucky run. As usual, my dad gave me a little push start, and I was on my way. I rode through the grass like it was a breeze, and I didn’t fall off at all. I could hear my dad in the distance shouting, “Good job! You got it!” It was at this moment when I knew that I had finally learned how to ride a bike.
Seventy-seven men waddled gracefully down the track, their hips gyrated to and fro; in an instant I was hooked. Like most human beings whose minds have ascended beyond hunting and gathering, I have a dream that reaches far past what I can see. I dream of the Olympics, multicolored rings, displays of aggressive flag bearing patriotism, and of course, the fabled medals. I dream of being an Olympic race walker. My fascination with the Olympics, and it’s most highly prized event, began two years ago, when Brazil was allowed to light the torch in her city of Rio de Janeiro. Whilst casually perusing my television set I absentmindedly turned to the games, only to see my destiny before me, the men’s 20 kilometer race walk. Up until that point I had been like the majority of my fellow Americans, vigorously and energetically cheering on my nations handball or canoe team before tuning them out for the next four years. But with a sport that I could seemingly do with little to no effort, I began dreaming of gold. Like George Sheldon (look him up) I dived headfirst into the pools of the Olympics, researching their history top to bottom, from every last minute miracle, to every heart breaking blunder. But as I peeled away
The Varsity group was supposed to run 5 miles, the Junior Varsity group was supposed to run 4 miles, and I, along with the rest of my group, was supposed to run a measly 2 miles. Because my group was so slow and inexperienced, everyone had to walk at least once during the run. I didn’t give up so easily. I ran at a relatively easy pace as I thought about how I could prove my coach wrong. As I ran, I felt the air blow against both my face and my body. I saw cars going back and forth on the road, and bikers pedaling along the path smoothly. I smelled the fresh air that was laced with the smell of my sweat, which had developed due to the heat. I heard my soft, even breaths and my pounding feet hitting the gravel path. Before I knew it, I was ahead of everyone else in my group. Then it hit me. “Maybe this is it,” I thought. “This is how I can make the coach reconsider her decision. I can run faster than everyone else, and then she’ll see that I’m not what she thought I was.” This simple verdict made me push my legs to run even faster, as I was elated to prove my coach wrong. I kept
The aching screams of my legs and feet as I speed down the dusty path. I think to myself, push through it, and don’t give up. I bounce down the path hoping to be done soon. The finish line is calling my name as I race down the chute with the audience cheering me on in the background.
In the distance, the trail along which I had been walking wound through a thick velvet fog. Lining the path were tall trees that stoo...
The miles increased each week and before I knew it, the last long run before the marathon was only twenty miles. Then came the marathon, 26.2 miles of runners’ high, pain, agony, and unstable weather.