Holding On

The Beginning

Running. Out of breath and I force my legs onward. I am so far from the finish line yet I am already dying. The group of runners is slightly ahead of me, and they don't seem at all tired. They run as one, their steps syncing together.
Okay, only a 400 to go. One lap around the track and then we can rest. I start to speed up, my legs burning beneath the pressure but following my commands anyways. My shin splints start to attack my shins but they quickly disperse. This is what I like to call the Runner's Breaking Point. Once you run so fast and so hard, instantly all the pain goes away and you're locked in a numb running dream. You feel no pain, just the desire to run more and more. This can be a good thing: it will let you finish the task at hand without pain at the moment (you'll feel it later that night, trust me), but it is also dangerous. If you don't feel pain, you won't know when to stop. You could run yourself to extreme injuries that could take you out of an entire track season.
I pass the group of runners who don't speed up at all, and sprint my way through the last 200. A gust of wind speeds up and is determined to stop me, but I am determined more. Much more. I push against it and take the straightaway as quick as possible, sprinting as hard as my legs will allow me.
I'm probably a fifty ahead of the group which is beginning to disperse along the other lanes, trying to outrun the other competitors. I don't look behind me—typical running strategy—but I only allow myself the sense of hearing to determine their placement.
Five more steps and I'm done.
Three more.
One.
As my foot clomps over the finish line, I instantly slow my pace. I jog half of the curve of the track and then come to a walk. Placing my hand atop my head, I watch as the other runners are just now crossing the finish line. They were further behind than I thought. Probably a whole straightaway. I grin at the thought and try to breathe more evenly, slowly. Sucking in air, I watch the group slow to a jog and then walk.
"Great work everyone," Coach Gyre praises. She writes some stuff on her clipboard and then looks at her watch. She looks amongst the students and then finds me. "Nicely done, Raven. Your time was a full thirty seconds faster than yesterday. I want to speak with you after practice, alright?"
I nod, sweat falling from my face as I do. I retie my ponytail, which is long and damp from sweat, just to have something to do. Some people start to sit down—which is A, a sign of weakness and B, a bad running habit—and are quickly told otherwise by the smarter runners.
"Alright everyone," Coach Gyre says, clapping her hands together. "You can go work on field events now." As people start to head off to do their field events, Coach says, "Not you, Raven. I would like a word with you."
One of my friends—Felix who is a bad runner but tries her hardest anyways—shoots me a concerned and mischievous look. I smile and wave it off and she goes to practice her high jump.
Coach Gyre is a scary woman. With dark beady eyes, dark black skin, and heavy weight, she is anything but not intimidating. She licks her lips and looks at me for a straight minute and a half.
"Raven, you already know what I'm going to say," she starts. And then I know.
"Coach..." My body starts to tremble, my eyes start to water. I do know what she's going to say but I'd rather her not. Saying it will only make it more true.
"I'm going to have to take you out of track," she says. She sighs and rubs her eyes. "It's the right thing to do for you. You're going to seriously injure yourself with the way you run."
I shake my head, plead her with my eyes and my words. "Coach Gyre, please. I'm not doing anything wrong."
"You're pushing yourself too hard, Raven. Your body will only thank you if you get some time off. Work on your core, go to the weight room. You can start back up next year. If anything, you'll have a stronger upper body."
"Gyre, you don't mean this. You can't take me out. I'm perfectly fine. Shouldn't I have a doctor's note or something, saying that I'm fine?"
"No because a doctor only tells you the present, not the future. In your future, I see injuries, pulled muscles, torn legs. It just isn't safe. I'd be a horrible person to let you continue on."
"It should be my decision."
"No, it shouldn't. You'd pick what you want to do. Not what's best for you. How about I let you participate in field events? You can pick three of your best."
I actually consider it. It's just a vague idea but I quickly brush it away. She can't just take me out because I push myself, can she? And I'm not just going to stop pushing myself. That's what you're supposed to do. Just because I'm better than the other runners doesn't mean I'm pushing too hard.
"Coa—"
I'm cut off by a hair raising scream. Coach and I both turn around. The discus field is quickly being deserted, kids streaming out and jumping the fence, trying to get away as quick as possible.
A girl is squatted down in the field, watching the crowd run away. Her hair is matted and ratty, her eyes are huge and bloodshot, her skin is growing dark, the color of black oil.
"What the—" Coach Gyre pulls out her phone and starts dialing away.