Becoming a Runner

by Kelsey Steele

My heart was hammering in my chest. I could hear my breath echoing from the inside of my mouth. I could hear the rhythm of my feet as they pounded against the dirt path beneath me. My legs and arms seemed to move automatically, as if my limbs were someone else’s. Time did not exist. I wanted it to go on forever: the pleasant pain in my legs, the fire bursting from my lungs, and the calmness of the woods.

Of course, I wasn’t always a runner. I wasn’t one of those kids born with athletic abilities. I was the kid who was always picked last in gym. I was the kid who couldn’t even climb a stupid rope. It wasn’t just sports either. While glittery stickers stuck to my peers' perfect spelling tests, I had to attend extra reading classes. I remember wishing I were a different person. I wished that I could be as strong or as smart as the kids in my class.

After elementary school, my reading improved, but school kept getting harder. Homework was piling up and tests didn’t help either. Gym teachers seemed to live off of volleyballs I could never serve and soccer balls I could never kick.

And then it happened. I started running. I don’t know why I started, but I did. I had watched my mom run every morning of my life and for some reason one chilly fall morning, I decided to go with her. My first real run was one-tenth mile. I know, pretty impressive, huh? But strangely I didn’t give up. There must have been some strange gear loose in my head. It was as if I had to prove to myself that I could do something right for once in my life. From then on, every weekend and every afternoon, I would lace up my sneakers and run with my mom. I would use markers: this week, I’ll run to the white mailbox and the next week I’ll run to the house with the blue shutters.

Eventually, after a month of hard work, I ran my first mile. Then I started two miles, then three, and then four. In eighth grade, for the first time in my thirteen years of life, I went out for a sport: track.

I’m not going to lie. I was not good at track, my average mile was 10 minutes, but I loved it. I loved being able to be part of a team but most of all I loved to run. When I ran I could forget about not knowing all the answers. I could just be myself and enjoy running in the company of others. My middle school track team was lame, in every sense of the word. Our workout consisted of running eight times around our school; we didn’t even have a track. But, running middle school track was the first step in becoming more comfortable with myself.

When I started high school, I discovered the most wonderful sport in the world: Cross Country. I had never heard of the sport before. I didn’t even know anyone on the team. But, it clicked. Everyday after school we would run three to eight miles. We would do hills, eight hundreds, and suicides. I would test my body every day. Every day I would be amazed at what I could do. Was this really the same girl who couldn’t climb a rope in third grade gym? I made friends too, with people I would never have met if it hadn’t been for running. Everyone on the team was different, in every way imaginable, but we came together because of running. We cheered each other on and supported each other with our goals.

Every time I run, I forget about the chemistry test I failed or the big English essay due the next day. I forget about the little problems of my life and enjoy being alive, being able to move, think, and improve. Every cross country season I improve, no exceptions. I no longer think about being someone else. I am happy being who I am: the girl who loves to run.