true grit.

 

I was never good at track (long jump, high jump, 100-meter races). But what I was good at were cross country races. When I was 11 my mother had bought me a pair blue Nikes, with spikes for soles. I loved them, and I wear them so much they’d molded to the shape of my feet. That morning of a 13-kilometer race, I donned them on for the umpteenth time and made sure I tied the laces tightly enough.

I waited for the sound of the starter’s pistol, my knees feeling like they were about to buckle from the tension. I was surrounded by a hundred other runners flocked like sardines to my left and right. To my front was the starting line; uneager to be trampled over. When the gun goes off, my heart stopped for a full second before I regained control of the muscles in my legs. While everyone else ran as fast as they can, I held back at merely a jogger’s pace on a lazy Sunday. Nothing in motion lets you know I am in a competition.  

It is at this point where I felt anxious, my eyes telling me I should probably run faster because everyone else is ahead of me. Nervous, I closed my eyes and my mind, retaining the same speed. Slowly I became undaunted, shut off from reality, fantasizing my own finale.5 kilometers into the competition, I saw those who were way ahead of me at the beginning of the competition starting to tire, their faces fraught with salty sweat. This encouraged me; every step I pounce started to feel lighter. 

Around the 7-kilometer mark I started to feel slightly drained, and the only thing that kept me going was being closer to the finish line. Having lost a large amount of water, my body was thirsty. I felt blood pumping to every vein, my heart muscles worked doubly hard. During the last kilometer it started to pour. I had noticed the clouds darkening but did not anticipate heavy rain. I could not see what was in front of me; everything seemed like looking through a prism. I started to develop a blister at the back of my ankle, and I knew I had to take off my shoes and run if I wanted to win. 

And so I took off my beloved blue Nike, carried it my hands and ran barefoot across the tartar road not caring the pain searing through my ankles. Only a few runners were ahead of me by now. I started to sprint at the smell of victory.

11 years later, whenever I feel drained and exhausted with nothing left to give, I think of that little girl who so nimbly paced herself for that cross country run. I then strap on my blue Nike and just get my grit going. With God's help of course.

*Photo by mundaex, DevArt