Three hours away, the bus arrives at the meet.
I try to think of anything but the race.
Two hours away, runners that have finished, all of them elite,
Walk around with triumph on their face.
One hour away, it’s time for me to prepare.
Off go the long pants and slippers covered in morning dews,
A tried and true process starting, that ends with a prayer.
And on go the tank-top, the shorts, and the familiar shoes.
Ten minutes away, my blood running cold, I walk to the start.
My teammates, with similar grave expressions, are all preparing;
Stretching, jogging, trying to keep our will from falling apart.
Preparing both mentally and physically, for the hardship vastly approaching.
A man appears with a firearm in his hand, signaling for us to step up to the line.
“Runners on your mark!”
I shake off a chill that runs down my spine.
A quick wish is uttered for safety and haste on the journey about to embark.
*POP*
The gunshot pierces the blank silence, now torn
Disrupting the blissful calm before the storm.
*BRING*
The electronic chime of my watch starting
Its owner leaving the line and quickly departing
*ROAR*
The crowd, last to react, roars and engulfs my fears
Thundered over only by my heartbeat, which is pounding in my ears.