Cold. So very cold. Sweat builds on my hands, palms damp with the perspiration building in the canyons of my palm lines. The ground moves beneath me, and I step up to the white line marked in the asphalt. Breathing speeds, heart pumps faster, faster – I take my position, eyes on the horizon. Eyes on the prize.
I always have to win, always. It makes my stomach swoop, eyes eager, smile sparkle. The nervous smile on my lips shapes itself into a competitive grimace as I eye up my rivals. Their body language mirrors my own. My eyes flip to the track, just in time to be jumpstarted by the gun. My heart leaps, startled by the adrenaline rush that sets my legs on fire, racing round that track. I take fast glances at my competitors – they are far behind as I glide across the finish line, smiling weakly with exhaustion, and pride.
