My Short of Line of Creative Writing

Two Turns

The bus is crowded with student athletes all wearing Adidas warm ups and Track jerseys.  Many of us stick earbuds in our ears.  Almost everyone focuses on the championship meet ahead.  Those of us in the front of the bus attempt to block out the roar the people in the back of the bus make.  The three coaches huddle together at the front of the bus, talking about the meet.
The nerves settle inside me as I change the song on my phone.  I try to focus on the task in front of me.  When Melody tries to get my attention, it takes several moments for me to notice her.  I press the pause button and pull an earbud out of my ear.  
Melody asks, “Hey, are you okay?”
I lie, “Yeah I’m fine.  Just thinking about the race.”
Today is my last chance to make my goal.  At the last meet of the season I will have to run the four hundred meter relay and the four hundred meter dash back to back.  Four people each run a quarter of the way around the track.  Then, my breath ragged, I will run back to the check in area to receive my hip number for the four hundred meter dash.  In my running career, I have never get a personal record in the four hundred when I also run the four hundred meter relay.  I have to improve my time by at least two seconds in order to reach my season goal.  I worry that my legs will not move like the legs of the cheetah.  I whisper the words my coach has ingrained in my mind, be the cheetah, be the cheetah.
The bus drops all the athletes at the front of the school.  It is nothing special, but as we walk around to the back, the athletic fields are impeccable.  The fake grass of the football field stands out against the six lanes of a field of blue.  We walk  along the track, underneath the bleachers.  When the team reaches the finish line, our traditional spot around every track, we place our belongings underneath the bleachers and run a quick lap around the six lane track.  We have a lifetime before the first event-the 3200 meter relay-hops onto the track, so we go to the bathroom and then walk back to the finish line.  On the way back to my almost empty water bottle, I grab the performance sheet from a table near the entrance to the track and find the heat I am in for the 400 meter dash.
I stare down at the times of seven other girls that are so much faster than I am.  VIsions of crossing in the finish line dead last invade my mind as I study their times.  On top of all that, I see Melody’s name in my heat, the fastest 400 meter runner at our school in my section.  I envision a fall halfway through just because I want to keep up and seven girls almost a hundred meters in front of me.  With a shudder, I study the performance list for about five more minutes and then put it away in my bag before I go up onto the bleachers to watch the running events start, in the hopes that my mind will wander from the race.
I both loved and hated the race.  I hated the feeling that came with sprinting a quarter of a mile.  At the same time, I loved the length.  The other sprinting events were too short for me to get anything done.  I suppose the 200 meter dash is not so bad.  Still, I dread the race
As the four hundred meter dash approaches, the butterflies in my stomach turn to cinder blocks.  I down three water bottles and go to the bathroom at least five times before I warm up for my event.  I do not want to do this.  Melody and I stretch near the check in so we can hear the call easily.  Then the first call comes on over the intercom.  We check in for our event, take our warm ups off, and put our racing spikes on.  The rain begins to beat down onto the track and I imagine the drops of water blinding me and a disqualification for stepping out of my lane.  The cinder blocks become heavier in my stomach as they walk us over to the starting line.
Just as they finish the 400 meter relay, the rain stops, and I say a silent prayer of gratitude.  The official calls out our sections and Melody and I watch as the first heat goes by.  After the last person stumbles over the white line, we get into our own lanes on the six lane track.  The sticker on my left hips says five so I have a long while to go before I am at the staggered start in my lane.  I shake my legs to keep my muscles loose.  My nerves only get worse as I stand at the starting line.  I feel like a medieval criminal on my way to the guillotine.
The starter gives the first command and everyone steps with one foot at the line.  Then he gives the second command and we prepare for the sound of the gun.  It feels like a century goes by as the silence echoes across the entire track, everyone listening for the bang of the gun.  Just when I start to think that the gun will never go off, the sound of the gun going off rings across the stadium.
I start running, not too fast so that I don’t die out in the last one hundred, a mistake I’ve made too many times to count.  My mind starts to race as I look at my position.  I’m practically dead last!  I focus on the position of the girl in lane six.  One hundred fifty meters into the race and she is still ahead of me.  I should be faster than her, I remind myself as I pick up my pace slightly going across the two hundred mark.  My focus on the race starts to betray me as lactic acid fills my calves.  It grows harder to move my legs forward, but I keep on kicking.  With every other stride, I tell myself that I cannot finish the race.  Then I convince myself that I can.
With one hundred fifty meters to go I pick of my stride a little more.  I know I have to beat the girl in lane six or I will not make my season goal, much less PR.  I can tell that the race will be close, but I do not know for sure who is winning.  I focus on the swing of my arms and the length of my stride.  My arms are not crossing my body like they usually do in the last hundred meters.  My stride is like that of a cheetah’s chasing an antelope, long and fast.
A couple of meters before I reach the one hundred meter mark, I shift more so onto my toes and sprint as fast as my legs will carry me.  My face probably shows the extreme discomfort I’m in, shows that all I want to do is lay down on the track and go to sleep.  However I don’t lay down, but instead stride quicker.  When I have only fifty meters to go, I am neck and neck with the runner in lane six.  I check my peripheral, but do not realize at first when she suddenly drops out of it as she gives up.  At the same moment, I feel the very front of my spike skim the track and feel the sensation of falling.
I don’t fall though, I keep sprinting until I finally cross the line, dipping my upper body at the finish line.  I search for the ability to breathe.  After several minutes, I step off the track and find my coach so that he can tell me what time I got.  I have no idea what I expect it to be.  I know that my race was terrible.  I barely beat the girl in the outside lane.  After my coach times our third four hundred runner, he tells me my time.
My coach has a smile on his face as he shows me my time.  At first, I can’t believe it.  I don’t want to believe it until I see the official results.