francopazv
10-02-2011, 02:15 AM
You hear your name being chanted from the stands as you turn the last corner and find yourself in the straightaway, no one in front of you and no one behind you either. You can smell victory already, taste it in your mouth and feel it in your fingertips. Your bloodied feet continue beating the asphalt as children try to keep up with you from the sidewalk and stray dogs bark incessantly. You look over to the side of the street where you see thousands looking at you with awe. In their minds, you are different. You are a specimen, capable of superhuman feats of endurance and speed. You were made for running. You are as light as a feather, your heart pumps twice the amount of blood of a normal human being and your bones are as tough as steel. People think you can do what they can’t, and that is why they adore you. That is why they come to see you run. That is why they are here now, to watch you race and break the world record. They see the you that appears in pictures, the you that always looks on with a look of grim determination in his face, beads of sweat running down his nose, bloodied and victorious. The you that you don’t recognize when you read magazines or the newspaper.
The you that doesn’t exist.
You are a scrawny kid from blue-collar Massachusetts. Your parents never bought you running shoes, but you don’t resent them for it because they always managed to put food on the table. No one ever taught you how to run, but one day you woke up and realized that it was a hell of a lot easier to run from your bullies than to actually fight back. You are not particularly fast, or particularly strong; but if there is one thing you have to spare it is guts, and in this sport where guts are everything and the runner who wins is the one who is willing to endure the most pain, you are king.
These people are wrong about you. You accelerate as you run down the last few hundred meters to the finish line, the tip of your shoes grazing the concrete ever-so-slightly with each stride. You stalk the finish line and the yells grow louder with each passing second, a beautiful crescendo of voices that ends in a roar as your body crosses the finish line and every cell of your body screams in jubilation and pain. Cameras go off and you’re momentarily blinded by the sudden flashes of light. You fall to the ground and stay there, numb and victorious; and life in the ground is lifeless and perfect because you can’t feel your legs and you can’t think and you don’t feel any pain. You stay there for years, but it is only half a minute before an official kneels next to you and gently taps your shoulder. He shakes your hand and the only thing you manage to do is look him in the eye and laugh a little bit, laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. You have no pretenses, or at least not many. You know the people still chanting your name from the sidewalk will have forgotten all about you in a few hours. You know you don’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. But you know that in this particular moment, you are at the top.
You are at the top.
That is what you think as you turn the last corner and find yourself in the straightaway, no one in front of you and no one behind you either. Your bloodied feet still beat the asphalt but this time there is no one in the sidewalk because night is falling and everyone is long gone. You see the finish line about a block away and it feels as if it’s in a different world, but you know you will make it, because what age took in speed and strength it gave back in experience. You stagger down the street, yet you tell yourself you still got it, you tell yourself that you may be slow and weak but you can’t lose guts because that’s something you’re born with and not even age can take away, and it’s guts that will carry you through the finish line because your muscles have turned to mush and life is about to kill you but you refuse to go gently into that good night, and you know you will die fighting, raging against the dying of the light.
You shuffle through the finish line at a quarter past nine, almost a full five hours slower than you ran the same course sixty years ago. You close your eyes, and you hear people chanting your name once again. You raise your arms in triumph and look up to the skies. There is redemption in the roar of the crowd. You open your eyes again and realize there are tears in your face. There is not one official around and not one flash going off in the street, but you fall to your knees and then flat on your back and you stay there, numb and victorious, in the place where life is lifeless because you feel no pain.
The you that doesn’t exist.
You are a scrawny kid from blue-collar Massachusetts. Your parents never bought you running shoes, but you don’t resent them for it because they always managed to put food on the table. No one ever taught you how to run, but one day you woke up and realized that it was a hell of a lot easier to run from your bullies than to actually fight back. You are not particularly fast, or particularly strong; but if there is one thing you have to spare it is guts, and in this sport where guts are everything and the runner who wins is the one who is willing to endure the most pain, you are king.
These people are wrong about you. You accelerate as you run down the last few hundred meters to the finish line, the tip of your shoes grazing the concrete ever-so-slightly with each stride. You stalk the finish line and the yells grow louder with each passing second, a beautiful crescendo of voices that ends in a roar as your body crosses the finish line and every cell of your body screams in jubilation and pain. Cameras go off and you’re momentarily blinded by the sudden flashes of light. You fall to the ground and stay there, numb and victorious; and life in the ground is lifeless and perfect because you can’t feel your legs and you can’t think and you don’t feel any pain. You stay there for years, but it is only half a minute before an official kneels next to you and gently taps your shoulder. He shakes your hand and the only thing you manage to do is look him in the eye and laugh a little bit, laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. You have no pretenses, or at least not many. You know the people still chanting your name from the sidewalk will have forgotten all about you in a few hours. You know you don’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. But you know that in this particular moment, you are at the top.
You are at the top.
That is what you think as you turn the last corner and find yourself in the straightaway, no one in front of you and no one behind you either. Your bloodied feet still beat the asphalt but this time there is no one in the sidewalk because night is falling and everyone is long gone. You see the finish line about a block away and it feels as if it’s in a different world, but you know you will make it, because what age took in speed and strength it gave back in experience. You stagger down the street, yet you tell yourself you still got it, you tell yourself that you may be slow and weak but you can’t lose guts because that’s something you’re born with and not even age can take away, and it’s guts that will carry you through the finish line because your muscles have turned to mush and life is about to kill you but you refuse to go gently into that good night, and you know you will die fighting, raging against the dying of the light.
You shuffle through the finish line at a quarter past nine, almost a full five hours slower than you ran the same course sixty years ago. You close your eyes, and you hear people chanting your name once again. You raise your arms in triumph and look up to the skies. There is redemption in the roar of the crowd. You open your eyes again and realize there are tears in your face. There is not one official around and not one flash going off in the street, but you fall to your knees and then flat on your back and you stay there, numb and victorious, in the place where life is lifeless because you feel no pain.