My entire body was engulfed in a fiery torrent of agony as I sprinted down the final straightaway. The finish line beckoned me, tempting me to keep sprinting despite the overwhelming pain that consumed me. I lifted my heavy legs and moved them forward, each step bringing me closer to the finish. My arms swung hard at my sides, furiously hammering imaginary nails into a board behind my back. The rhythmic beats of my heart were accelerated, beating faster than they ever have, pumping warm blood that coursed through my aching body. My mouth hung open, gasping for air to meet my industrious lung’s demand for new oxygen. The pressure in my head was intense, threatening to explode with every step. Every part of my body urged me to collapse, begging my brain to shut down.

My peripheral vision had been reduced to a blurry streak of color, limiting me to tunnel vision. The only thing I could see clearly was the gently waving flag that marked the finish. The loud noise of excited screams and cheers from spectators meshed together into a single long, continuous buzz; my mind was unable to process the variety of sounds.

My legs started to tighten, painfully squeezing the muscles together. They pleaded with me, begging me to allow them to rest. Beads of sweat trickled down from my forehead to my open mouth, leaving a salty taste behind. My breathing was strained; each exhalation sounded like a distorted wheeze.

Despite the muscle fatigue, the labored breathing, and the mental exhaustion, I continued down the track. My cramping legs persisted in carrying me forward, breaking through mental barriers and pushing muscles to their limit.
I could tell the other runners were far behind me, but that was no reason to give in to my body’s cries of pain. The biggest competition I faced coming down the straightaway was the clock, and I was winning.