Those were the days
I miss my days of running track. The eager waiting for class to be over, for training to start. The chatting with my teammates and coach. The dread on everyone’s faces when we heard the workout, or the occasional cheers of joy.
I miss the feeling looking down the lane, filled with confidence, skipping back to your blocks for the race. I miss the nerves before every competition, the growing heartbeat when I’m in “Set” position, the wild thoughts in mind my running down the last curve, and the hopeful prayers on the last straight. The fear of someone else breathing down my neck, or the ecstasy of running someone else down.
I miss running relays with my team, the pride of running for more than myself, to do the team and the school and the coach proud. I miss playing with the baton, waiting for the previous leg to pass on the baton, and the desperate want to hand it over in the the last 20m of the lap.
I miss taking the crowded trains and buses to training day in and out, holidays or not. I miss tough trainings when my legs were sore with lactic acid, when I collapsed immediately to the ground still with 2 more 500s to go. When it was so painful to breathe I would rather not, when I was too tired to stand but it hurt too much to lie down. I miss the acidity of vomit, the feeling of a dry mouth in the midst of a set and the smell of the rubber track on a scorching day.
I miss the click of the stopwatch when I pass the line, when I did mental calculations of my splits constantly. When I dived for the line every set to get a PB, scraping my arms and legs on the track.
I miss crashing into hurdles, and clearing them. I miss circuit training with my team on a rainy day.
I miss team outings and lunches together, talking about ambitions and goals and poking fun at each other. I miss cheering my teammates on during their races. I miss waiting eagerly for the results to be out. I really miss track.