The nervous, shortened breaths of others around me cause my heart to beat faster.  I look ahead at the course around me, the trees, but a blurred display of red, orange, and yellow lined my field of vision.  I took in a deep breath of the crisp, autumn air and let out a cloud of warm foggy exhaust. “Why do I do I keep doing this to myself?”, I ponder.  “This is a choice. I do not have to be here.” The surrounding teams line up in their boxes receiving a last minute pep talk from their coaches.  The official saunters onto the field.   He knows in his mind that this is the moment we have been anticipating since the moment we awoke from our slumber.  Slowly, he raises his gun. All eyes watch attentively as his pointer finger prepares to fire. I nervously shake my hands out, take a deep breath, and close my eyes,  trying to rid the voices of doubt and failure from my mind. The official finally pulls the trigger. The race begins.

I arrive at Munson Park on a pretty average, October Saturday morning.  My parents pull into the gravel parking lot and drop me off, only to leave a cloud of dust as they proceed to find a parking spot.  I continue onward, walking across the bumpy, rocky surface. The calm pond to my left wafted an atrocious smell so putrid it made a landfill seem appealing.  As I breathe in the dense, cold air I am at peace and ready to take on the challenges that today has to offer.  That is until I saw it.  It being the monstrous hill in the middle of the course.   Just eyeballing the height of the large landmass was enough to create goosebumps upon my skin.  Hill, would be an understatement to the prominence standing before me. The mountain stretched so high, you could see the whole park just standing atop it.  I went from peaceful to panicky in less than two seconds. I took a step onto the wet, dewy grass that, in return, moistened my socks. Wet socks are one of the worst possible case scenarios when running.

I continued onward and started to make my way over to the bright red Temperance, Bedford tent.  My running buddy, Abby, sat on the wrinkled grey tarp. Her cheeks had a rosy complexion from the wind burning her face.  Abby’s wispy curls wrapped around her Under Armour headband. She had a perturbed look on her face as she scanned her surroundings.  She noticed me walking toward the tent and gave a slight nod. I tossed my cross country bag on the ground and plopped down right next to her.  “Sup Abs” I muttered. Abby opened her mouth and let out a “HeEy!” Her voice cracked ever so slightly, it does that sometimes. “Going through puberty?” I ask in a sarcastic tone. “No!” Abby exclaimed. As her face reddened from embarrassment, she raised her fist behind her ear and punched me in the arm.  The joke was worth it. My coach gave me a menacing glare. He thinks I bully Abby, and has confronted me on several occasions to be nicer to her. He doesn’t understand that it is the foundation of our relationship. Abby does something, I laugh at her, then we both laugh together.

Coach Davis signals at us to start our warmup.  I raise my right arm up to my face.  I twist my wrist over to expose a chunky, block-shaped white object.  The sun reflects a blinding light off the surface of my Garmin Forerunner 15 watch. The teal band looked filthy from years of pencil smudges and muddy trails.  I pressed the top right blue button to start my watch for the run. The numbers seem to move in slow motion, making the run seem twice as long. No run has ever felt short.  We make our way back to the tent to commence our preparation for the race.  My friends and I giggle and talk about our school week while we stretch in the open field next to the playground. On the outside I seem like my warm, bubbly self, cracking jokes and laughing like normal.  Underneath the shiney exterior I am a ball of stress just waiting to burst at any moment. I lace up my spikes and lather on Icy Hot to numb the pain in back and down through my legs. My team and I jog over to the start line and get ready to dominate on the course. Within a few minutes we are off.

I weave my way through the army of girls.  Dodging wads of spit shooting from numerous mouths.  An individual race suddenly transformed into a war between elbows and spikes.  Pain is inevitable. A burning sensation begins to radiate down my spine and through to  my legs. My stomach recalls what I ate for breakfast, and consequently, it is not happy with my choice.  I feel my meal rise up my esophagus ready to escape it’s prison. I bend over expecting a volcanic eruption of eggs and toast to spew out of my mouth at any moment, but the gods have sided in my favor and the volcano stays dormant. My pace begins to slow as I struggle to fight the excruciating affliction my body forces upon me.  

Tears prepare to flood my eyes as I struggle to ascend the hill.  I can hear my legs crying for help, begging me to stop and drop to the ground.  My brain gives me the facts about my situation, and concludes that my legs are right.  I need to stop. The season is almost over, I have not obtained a personal record in weeks.  What is all this pain and suffering worth? All of the sudden my heart snaps me out of it! I ignore my body’s plea of surrender and continue on.  My legs agree to give it their all, but my brain is not ecstatic with my choice. I zoom down the hill, whizzing past the girls who at one time thought they had me beat.  I continue to regain my spot back in the race.

As the last leg of the race draws to end, the only thing on my mind is crossing the finish line.  Nearly four hundred meters away, the clock shows a promising time. My coach waves his arms frantically signaling me to move up.  My strides begin to lengthen as my arms move higher and closer to my face. My eyes, like magnets, are drawn to the ponytail on the girl ahead of me. My mouth is coated with a thick, sticky layer of saliva that I struggle to swallow.  My calves and quadriceps ripple as the muscles contract and expand. I prepare to take my final step over the finish line and look over at the clock. It reads “24:50.6”.  I stumble over the line and smile as the cold medallion is placed in my hand, an indication of a race well ran.

My watch seems to connect to multiple aspects of my life.  My friendships are the main reason I carry my watch. Most girls have friendship bracelets, but we all have watch that are almost, if not all the same.  I feel a strong bond whenever we all press that blue button to start our run. We are all in this sport together to love and support one another. Another reason  carry around my watch is for the memories. There is an option to save your run after you are finished. If I was asked to go down the list of runs and name each one and the emotions I felt, the pain I endured, and the people I ran with.  Some of those people are long gone now, and in college. Saving runs makes me feel connected to the upperclassman and my friends. My trusty, worn down watch is the most important thing I carry.