"The First Race" by Jack Hildebrand

Photo by Tom Patmore: https://unsplash.com/photos/a-black-and-white-photo-of-two-people-running-y1VV7kG9LU4

I used to hate running. Every time there was a cardio day in soccer practice, I wanted to go home. It would only take a few minutes before my legs burned and I was gasping for air. In cold weather, my cheeks would become red as a tomato. I would always be sweating, even on a short jog. 

But here I was. At a cross country meet. Feeling nauseous. 

It was the fall of eighth grade and my first ever cross country meet. Honestly, the main reason I joined cross country was to get in shape for baseball. Before the race, my team and I walked the course. I noticed every little thing that would be difficult: the wet grass, the long straight paths. However, the worst of all them was the woods. As we entered the damp forest, I felt like a mouse, waltzing right into the home of a cat. I worried about the rough gravel, and the little hills scattered throughout the trail. Even at the end of the woods there were slippery wooden planks. 

The only good part was the “chute,” because it was at the end. It was my favorite stretch of the course—the second you make it through those six parallel stakes connected by streamers you are officially done. 

The girls raced first and I watched them finish. With each racer collecting their position-marking popsicle stick, it became closer and closer to my turn. As I watched the last racer finish, I knew it was time. My team and I walked over to the starting line. We listened carefully as the adjudicator explained the course and the rules. Once she moved out of our paths, we assumed our running positions. 

“Runners set!” she called out loudly for everyone to hear. The next few seconds felt incredibly slow, as if the Earth had stopped spinning and time was brought to a halt. I could feel the wet, sponginess in my shoes, the pounding of my heart against my chest. Then I heard it. “Go!” 

We leaped into action! I was like a bison, stampeding without knowing where I was heading, yet determined to get there. But of course I knew where I was going: the finish line. As the race continued, I watched the slower runners begin to drop behind. I did not drop. As we rounded the very first corner, my out of shape legs began to burn. My calves screamed at me, and my quads begged for a break. But I would not stop. The pain continued as I slowly approached the tall looming trees that marked the beginning of the forest. “You're doing great, champ!” cheered a man who was standing by the entrance to the woods. His words gave me the energy to keep going. I begin to feel energy coursing into my legs, as if I had some new-found strength in me. 

While I was running, I stayed as focused as possible. My feet slipped on the loose gravel and my body ached each time I ascended the small hills. Throughout all the pain I kept going, determined to reach the finish and see my family and coach. I watched as people dropped by me and the trees began to thin. I knew I was about to exit the forest and begin my second lap of the course. The whole time I kept my eyes on the damp, grass trail, barely even taking them off to smile at my family as they encouraged me forward. 

While I rounded the baseball field I noticed one of the runners in front of me started to slow down. I saw that he was gripping his shoulder.

“It hurts,” he said as I passed him.

“Everything hurts man,” I replied over my shoulder. Everything did hurt. But I was going to reach that finish line no matter what. 

I continued on running. When I rounded the corner, I noticed my sister, Kate, running towards me from the spectating area. 

“You’re doing great, almost there!” she said enthusiastically. 

“Thank you!” I responded with exhaustion. Her words gave me more confidence. I felt like the race had just started and my legs felt renewed with strength and purpose. Air flowed smoothly into my lungs. I knew that the race was almost over as I entered the woods. 

Everything was much quieter there. There were no cheering viewers, and no sounds of wind. It was just me and my thoughts. In the next few minutes, I passed a few tired runners who stopped to walk. I felt like I was going to collapse. That's when I heard it: the cheers and shouts from the spectators. 

I came out of the woods smiling, the final stretch of the race in front of me. My team, coach, and family were cheering for me. There was nothing that was going to get between me and the finish line. With the stakes in view, I sped up even more, finishing strong. As I ran through the chute, I glanced happily at the colorful streamers lining the edges, congratulating me. I grabbed my popsicle stick as I walked away. I felt so proud as I watched Kate sprint over to me. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, concerned. 

“I’ll make it through,” I replied, breathing heavily. I walked over to my dad and collapsed into his arms absolutely exhausted. My legs felt like jello. 

“We’re so proud of you, bud,” he said. 

I walked over to my mom and hugged her. She congratulated me, saying how impressed she was with my speed. Despite all of the pain, my family had helped me make it through, and I couldn’t have been more proud of myself. With their support, I felt as if I could do anything. 

I spent the next several minutes watching the race finish up. At the award ceremony, people went up to collect their ribbons. After a little while, it was my turn. I strode up and proudly accepted my ribbon for 14th place, 

There were 33 runners that day, and I finished in the top fifty percent, with a time of 15 minutes and 49 seconds. Last weekend I went running. Voluntarily. 

Jack Hildebrand is 13 years old and lives in Orono, Maine, with his mother, father, sister, and two cats. He is an eighth grader at Orono Middle School. Jack plays Saxophone and Piano, and is on his school’s Baseball, Cross Country, and Nordic Skiing teams. Jack is also on his school’s Chess team, which recently placed first in its league. Jack hopes to travel the world when he’s older, and continue running.