Aureations http://ambercunningham.posterous.com Most recent posts at Aureations posterous.com Tue, 13 Mar 2012 12:24:52 -0700 5:55 http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/555 http://ambercunningham.posterous.com/555

Those who run are not justly named human; we are more akin to creatures of flight, as the slight bound of toe to the churned rubber or solid pavement or comfortably loose cinder lasts far less than a worldly second. We are creatures of the primitive kind, though our instincts may be attuned to more modern signals of the “fight or flight” response.

            No, these creatures—my kind—are not rightly named human. We lanky, pale-skinned humans, with our manes pulled back into tight elastics and made into aerodynamic tails are not a natural sight to those who sit or walk or even jog, for that matter. The sight of us entices an alien response in those flat on their bottoms or flat on their feet. There is an unnatural flow of adrenaline through us that is almost palpable by those we sprint past—the sort of energy that makes a person nervous. Nevertheless, these creatures are seemingly happy from day to day. Aside from the general insanity that comes with craving a ten-mile run, they are sane. Balanced.

            It was a scorching day in the beginning of June. The air was heavy with moisture and pressure, and a long day of work preceded the very last outdoor track and field meet of the year. The score tables were already set up upon our arrival—timers assumed their positions, checking and double-checking their reflexes, visualizing the passing of blurred feet over the lines of the 100-meter mark. Such adrenaline came from the protruding veins of the coaches’ foreheads and the unloading of the great yellow beasts onto the polyurethane track that it was difficult to keep the head focused on any outside conversation. The vaulters and throwers too were keeping to their vigil; keeping their heads down in silent concentration and determination, appearing as monks during daily prayer; which, after being bred and trained in this mindset of “winner-take-all,” wasn’t abnormal. We would keep our heads down, locked on those feet that carried us to victory and, if need be, our mouths would move along with the same script we memorized each time we stepped up to the record table.

            Amber Cunningham, 1600-meter race, first seed. That is all it took; my nerves spun under my skin and made the muscles squeeze my bones. The same energy that spurred on the throwers also inspired the runners, sending the electric feel in the air into frenzy. We fed off of one another and gave each other fuel, whether we knew it or not; we were unconsciously giving the winner of the race their medal from the very moment we stood on the grass of the football field at the center of the blackened moat of rubber.

Running

(source)            

There were the ones seeded before you, and the ones seeded after you. If you were last, you had to really push your way up—you felt you needed to prove the officials wrong. You felt you needed to soak up every last bit of energy from the sun and hot wind swirling around the infield, and you could not help but stare at those ones ahead of you. One could not help watching them. One was inclined to pick up on every single twinge of their tendons, every weakness in the joints, every extra stretch of a muscle. The possibilities of victory over them seemed very slim, and any medal won seemed a merciful fate. They flew from one boundary to the other, their knees reaching their chests, lunging closer and closer to the ground each time. You could barely stand to witness their flexibility—core strength was everything, and flexibility lengthened a stride and made for muscles that could withstand pound after pound around the corners and down straightaways. Each demonstration of speed and discipline showed a sliver of invincibility. They were nothing short of gods in the eyes of their supporting lower seeds.

            Yet, because they were so agile and had such a clean streak of wins, there was something marvelous as well as pitiable about their lustrous careers. What was left to work toward? The peak of their racing days had to be close, if not at that very moment. Natural talent is satisfying, but without the work and heart wrenching effort that goes into training, what good is winning? It was as if someone plucked these poor souls from what they truly loved and placed them in an inherited wealth. The medals they won and many compliments were overshadowed by a gloom that hung over them, and one could not get over the sadness of it. One is apt to forget about the wealth held in hard work, seeing people’s efforts being shattered and cumbered and lost when another has won or their goal is unachievable. Again, the thought of hard work amounting to nothing while their casual winnings would carry them far caused one to view their efforts in vain—unless they won.

            After a warm up, as my muscles began to relax and my mind became settled, I settled on the metal bleachers alongside the 100-meter stretch that led to the finish line. I closed my eyes; I forgot about the trials of the day, the hardship I had gone through for the past two-and-a-half years. I forgot about him. This was the last day I had, the last chance to reach that seemingly impossible goal I had set my freshman year, and nothing would stand in the way of five minutes and fifty-five seconds and me.

I traveled back to those futile moments in training and racing, where I got so close, but was still impossibly far from the one thing I craved to reach. The year started out with another round of physical therapy; the bursitis in my right hip was acting up for the third time, an injury that lost me an entire season of cross-country. I built back up to six minutes and thirty seconds halfway through the season—another disappointment. 6:15 was closer, but still a far reach for my weakened legs and spirit. After perhaps the eighth attempt was my fortune turning right: 6:05. Not sub-six, but better than being twenty seconds away from what seemed like the speed of sound. The tenacity of my heart seemed to get a rise out of my coaches before, as they had named me female athlete of the week for Southington High School—and athletics weren’t something anyone took lightly. Fall after fall, I would work through the rounds of electrotherapy and slowly, surely, I would get back to where I was. But, as I climbed the ladder toward my 5:55, it came over me that I had never surpassed my time. It came over me that I might fail—that my body might not be able to do it.

The starting gun went off for the 800-meter relay, stirring myself from negative thought. Negativity had never helped me before, and there was no use in trying different methods now. I stood, realizing that the visualization process took the life out of my legs. What had happened in my head to drive my legs further? The heat, the tiring sunlight—on any normal occasion, I would be awakened and rejuvenated by the light. As I stood there, I realized that nature was in opposition of me. It wasn’t natural to run from nothing; it wasn’t natural to build up one’s own adrenaline. One could only hope that, by some chance, today was the day they were going to make a brush with death; one could only pray that their extraordinary efforts would spur them on to victory.

 I began to panic. I looked for an enemy to spur me on; to give me the energy and stimulation needed for my adrenaline to start pumping through me once again. I had no desire to think of him, but it was the only way; such a pitiful source of inspiration, but I knew it would send my body into survival mode through deep hatred. Looking up toward the field, my eye was caught by him. He returned a friendly smile, as if nothing had transpired two weeks before.

            A hand reached out in front of my face, holding a metal Thermos before my eyes. I absent-mindedly grabbed it from my mother’s hand, beginning to down the cool water. A vile taste of bad oranges and dirt sent me reeling, forcing myself to swallow the bitter concoction. I could taste the heavy amounts of taurine, and knew that this would awaken my legs further. Chugging the entire bottle, nose plugged, I absorbed every bit of energy that nature and chemicals could give me.

Nothing, I knew, had any chance against an end. I began to dread the race, and if they made me run it, I craved to run it forever. Every single second was pivotal, and there were so many past seconds that I had let go to waste. I had hoped for this day every day of my high school career, and now that I was running toward my own end—leading into a new beginning—I was frightened. What if I failed? I cursed myself for making the mistake of letting my goal be known to others.

My nails cut into the palms of my hands as my body trembled from the extreme amounts of energy drink and adrenaline. Last call for the 1600-meter race. Shouts and cheers of support from my teammates and family rang in my ears and somehow seemed a foreign language. I cradled the watch on my wrist, repeating the split times in my mind over and over again, all leading up to fives across the board.

My toes grazed the white curved line of the third lane. I wasn’t last, but I was very far from first. This day wasn’t about place—my coach ensured me of that. Time. Time was the sole goal.

I looked down at my wrist, then looked up to my father, his face blank. I could feel the stirring of his stomach from a mile away, and just before the official walked over to his position, I flung the watch toward him. No distractions, I mouthed. If I was going to run, I was going to run.

I wished “good luck” to the girls surrounding me, my voice shaky with anticipation and hyperactivity.

The official raised his gun, settling his index finger on the trigger.

Here it goes.

First lap: fast. Much too fast; about ten seconds faster than my split time. I could hear my coach screaming Too fast, too fast! but his voice was overpowered by my father’s cheers and excitement.

Second lap: still fast, by five seconds. The crowd was incredibly involved, and one could not even hear themselves think, if the time called for it. There was no thinking for me, except to keep my eyes straight ahead and head in the race where, at that very moment, I belonged more than anywhere.

Third lap: a bit slow. The hardest lap by far, but I had extra time. I did not let that enter my mind, though; my legs felt agitated and wanted rest, but I did not let that enter my mind, either. My lungs pleaded for death, but I would not give it to them. The struggle would be over soon enough.

Last lap. I was finally able to look up at the scoreboard, watching the seconds tick by. I couldn’t do it. It was impossible to get below six. 5:25 at the middle of the last 100-meter bend. I could hear my mother screaming her throat hoarse, my father cupping his mouth in an effort to reach my ears, and all of my teammates who knew exactly what I wanted going wild in the stands.

I saw him. I saw the one thing that made me weak, and I could feel my spirit breaking. Just as it began to crack, my legs ignited with the pleasure and pain of runner’s high, and I trampled every horrible thought, every lonely and heartbroken feeling into the rubber of the straightaway. 5:51. 5:52. The line was at my toes.

            I crossed the line at fifth place out of seven. Crouching over my knees, I went blind and deaf at the same time; all that was audible was my breathing. Suddenly, though, the roar of my distance runners overpowered the silence. I hadn’t looked at the clock during the last few seconds. Slowly, I turned to face my father, who emphatically shouted 5:53! 5:53! from behind the wire fencing. My eyes welled up in sheer happiness and relief as I wiped the sweat from my face, barely conscious enough to walk to the side.

            Nothing, I knew, had any chance against an end. Nevertheless, after a long pause of exhaustion, my legs carried me back to the friends I had grown with for four years. They carried me to friends and family, past lost love, and toward a new beginning. My sympathies, of course, were always on the side of everlasting love and the bright picture of forever. But even as I craved this so, the life of friendships and loves had often gone from alive and well to wilted and faded. But as these ends were met, a new sensation was created. These legs now knew a mile run faster than six minutes. As life had been a race before, so an end was now a finishing line, an achieved time, a part of the season of conscious living.  

 

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http://files.posterous.com/user_profile_pics/2255842/602656_249884811807313_655565613_n.jpg http://posterous.com/users/el4VjO6eaWaq6 Amber Cunningham amberleec Amber Cunningham