With the Wind in My Hair

I got myself hyped, nervous, and pulsing with energy. The gym teachers had us right where they wanted us, lined up neatly, side-by-side, awaiting the sound of a starting whistle. Phys. Ed. races were nothing serious, but my reputation as a runner wasn’t going downhill because of one stupid race, so I was determined to sprint across the finish line while the others remained, flushed and and out of breath, behind me. With each passing moment, my heart pumped even faster, until I could hardly contain my craze. Joltingly, the brazen blow of the whistle signaled to my legs. Rubber track on my shoes never felt so resilient as I sprung into motion. Thank god for my spindly-long legs, my hyperactivity, and my stubborn determination, or I may not have been so far ahead of everyone else. Running was like an art to me, I was good at it, and there were techniques to master it. My main technique: win. Though I won so many races before this, the gurgle of the teacher’s barking voice, “First,” as he pointed to me, never made me feel so alive.

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