Finally, the last one.
Thank God.
I’d spent the rest of practice scheming to conserve myself -(mentally, at least), for the last repeat…really the only one that would matter.
Why are my teammates so damn stupid? Letting their bloated egos control every conscious decision. I obstinately refuse to let anybody coerce me to foolishly hammer every last damn repeat (which is quite a turnaround for someone who’s team nick-name used to be “Hammer McHammerstien” ha.) But, hey—live and learn, no?
Rather unfortunately, my mind unconsciously predicts the direction, purpose, and politically incorrect yet messily concealed motive operandi shared by the collective consciousness of a demographic of people.
Everyone is one big fraud. How do they live happily when they’re always putting on a show?
Frustrated exhaustion interrupted my thoughts...
It dripped tingles down to my legs--rattling any blurred-misconception of vitality. A rather giggly verbalism shattered my train of thought. It came from a straw-haired, exuberant teammate with great big sapphire eyes. ‘She reminds me of an awkward-but-gorgeous albino deer’, I thought, watching her eagerly prance around in circles.
She (like most people on this team) was infected with Sophomore Syndrome. *(Sophomore Syndrome is a term I made up for the mania infused into the once-freshmen class to train ridiculously hard during the summer so they can “dominate” the next year. This was stupid, however. The over exhilarated youngsters would end up coming back to school killing workouts --and then when it was time to race---they dropped like flies. (Either on account of nerves, injury, or overtraining.) )
Anyway, we just completed 5 of the 6 eight hundred meter repeats. This would be my umpteenth D1 college training program death-march (or ephinany--depending on the day/workout/mood/time of month.)
The new assistant girl’s coach was gonna run this last one with us. She seemed nice enough and would be forgiving in her judgment of me following that last pathetic excuse of a repeat. Whatever—I know what I’m doing.
With a strange meek firmness, I toe the loose gravel-drawn line in a weak attempt to calm my overactive-pessimistic brain to stop tweaking about an already vulnerable reputation.
I need to hammer again. I need to satiate my ravenous desire to manifest my worth as a fighter—that stubbornness, that thirst to be fierce—to be something more then that weird but quiet smallish-girl, that beautiful disaster.
“Ready?” new coach said.
Umm, I was most certainly NOT ready…hell; I’m not even set.
GO.
Whoaaa..why is my mind so chill? My legs feel floaty. My heartbeat is strong and steady like an 808 beat in my headphones.
Hold up, there it is: that pain--that familiar knawing of quadriceps while incinerated muscle fascia crinkles into an infusion of lead –reminding me of my cumbersome corporealness. That numbing of my frontal lobe as my veins begin to swell in my hands and feet from freshly hyper blood.
Oh perfect, here comes Negative Nancy…
“It’s fine, Leila…just drop back a little more—finishing side by side with your teammates is nothing shameful. Look. You’re not even halfway through this repeat yet—you can’t hold this pace—you’re not even built to do this…in the end selfish hammering can only get you so far…in the end: You are pathetic. You can’t race. You choke on adversity—sputtering valiantly, but sputtering none the less.”
“NO.”
I can hold on for a little longer, I know I can. I’m not a sissy. Ugh. It hurts though!
HURTS….
“NO.” my stubborn-side said again. ( I suspect this bit of me is the only piece of my Viking ancestors I have left.)
“I don’t give up. FIGHT. BE TOUGH. Prove your worth. If you can’t push past this point---you might as well just quit.”
NO. I DON’T QUIT.
I push harder. Dodging rocks, weaving in and out-- eyes instinctually succumb to a feverish scanning of the ground.
Zach was in my direct line of sight (meaning: I’m approaching the “finish line.”) Momentum’s curveball comes back and I whack it.
Eyes.
So many eyes are on my hurdling body. I can feel them and suddenly I start to swell with a sense of self. Zach’s observance of this transformation is oh so sweet. (He thinks I'm not capable of anything.) Actually, no—those obnoxiously elitist and preppy teammates (some of which had already finished their “exclusively custom-made” workout), were the most satiating gazes to absorb. Yeah...
So many eyes are on my hurdling body. I can feel them and suddenly I start to swell with a sense of self. Zach’s observance of this transformation is oh so sweet. (He thinks I'm not capable of anything.) Actually, no—those obnoxiously elitist and preppy teammates (some of which had already finished their “exclusively custom-made” workout), were the most satiating gazes to absorb. Yeah...
My corporeal image is translating one mantra right now: Don’t mess.
I’m unstoppable, yo.
(The funny thing is, I only realized I can do this …like just now.)
Passing the makeshift orange-cone thing that is the finish line, my coldly famished legs quiver as crumple to a stop. All whimpering breath flees my lungs, taking what’s left of that swirling pessimism with it. I need to stop kicking myself to the curb: Nothing was stopping me from doing this all along. NOTE TO SELF: you need to stop being your own worst enemy.
