I walk up to the white chalk line. My knees quiver. I hear my heart beating. I question my ability— am I strong enough to do this? What have I gotten myself into?

The gun goes off. The first 400 meters I run at a 6 minute pace— much faster than my normal pace. My coach yells off in the distance, “You’re going too fast. Slow down your pace.”

The next 1200 meters torture me. I lose my breath, and the pain in my calves and shins follow. The pain burns like somebody torching my legs with a flamethrower. The evil voice in my head tells me to quit. But I can’t quit now.

I enter the boonies, or as I call it, the dead zone. My surroundings quiet. The cheering from the spectators diminishes as I run further into the woods. The constant patter of my shoes hits the dirt. This is where I struggle mentally.

After a mile in the boonies, I make out cheering in the distance. Gazing ahead, I spot the finish line. The crowd motivates me to finish strong.
Sprinting, I cross the finish line. I could have quit. I could have slowed down. But I didn’t. I was determined to finish.