Running
Seven miles is a lot of area to cover, even more so when running, and especially if it is the first time you’ve run over a mile, period. Possessed by some source of unrealistic optimism, I decided to join my high school’s cross country team. In the first few weeks that I was part of the team, I was asked to run in an annual race. The first few miles were strenuous, but not life threatening, yet as I continued to run, I started to feel the extreme pull of the earth on my legs, and it began to seem as though I was breaking through an endless path of stubborn barriers.
During what I believe was the fourth mile of the race, I found myself running through the woody region of the track, which was very steep, with varying ground level and a lot of miniscule obstacles, like randomly placed rocks, the twisted veins and roots of overgrown trees, misshapen holes and other dangerous oddities. At this time, I felt myself weakening, and my lungs were in full-fledged mutiny, viciously stabbing me with pain when I tried desperately to breathe as regularly as I could. I finished my sixth mile, and as I began my seventh, it started to rain. The rain blurred my vision as I felt my foot hit a hard object. Within seconds, I was grounded and I noticed a sharp, acute pain in my right ankle.
Would I continue running, despite the now incapacitating pain that was spreading through my foot, or would I stop and lie in the dirt, completely wasting the six miles I had already slaved through? My decision was made even as I asked myself the question. I pulled myself up and, half blinded by the pain, ran the remaining stretch of the track to the finish line. Because I had finished that race, I knew that from then on that no one, and nothing could stop me from running, except myself.