Personal Narrative-Racism

I stood waiting patiently like a lion waiting ready to pounce on its prey. The white freshly painted starting line is the only thing separating me and the 3.1 miles of open air trails and rolling hills. The sound of runners simultaneously slapping their thighs and calves is like being in a thunder storm in the midst of summer. The suns warmth beating down on me is counteracted by the gentle breeze whistling softy through the open air of the wide starting area. My heart rate was starting to increase as if a drummer was increasing his tempo. Then there was the sound, the crack of the starter’s gun signaling us that the race was underway. I immediately start to feel the muscles in my leg’s flex and push me onward into the race along with over

About 500 yards from the starting line there is the trail I will soon be running on and it seems as if it disappears into the thick trees. When I entered the shaded canopy of the deciduous trees, the crunching noise of the athletes running over the dull red and bright yellow leaves was almost deafening. We were running on a gravel trail that was surrounded by tall multi-colored trees and bushes. Then it came upon me, the first mountain of a hill. This course has many steep and long hills that seem to go on forever. Going up the first hill I could feel my muscles working on the double, my knees and arms pumping in unison giving me a great driving force that propelled me up the hill. My feet were acting as if they were claws digging into the finely crushed gravel. When I pass people I notice the look of fatigue on each and every one of the runners faces, I know that I most likely have the same look covering my face also. Once you are at the top of the hill it’s the part everyone likes, the downhill run. Going downhill I have the swiftness of a gazelle and the quickness of a speeding bullet, using every bit of this wonderful world’s gravity to help me down the hill. Coming up on the

But in the last two kilometers’s there is a hill that feels like you are climbing the steepest and most difficult mountain in the world. It is the most painful part of the race. When I come up face to face with it, I dig my feet down into the loose rock trying to find a hold so they do not give way beneath me, I power myself up the nearly ninety-degree incline. My quadriceps and calves start to burn as if someone had just lit my muscles on fire. After I conquered the mountain of a hill I knew I only had one kilometer left of my race. Now I can feel the sweat beading down my face and neck, that has over time drenched the top of my uniform, like I had been running in rain the entire race. I know the rest of the race has no uphill, so I intensify my rate of speed and work on reeling in as many runners as I can before the finish line. The swiftness of my pumping arms is of a speeding jet, I feel as if I no longer have control of my legs because they are moving at top speed. The earlier felt breeze now feels like the winds of a tornado ripping through my uniform top and my hair. I am like a cheetah and the finish line is my gazelle. I can no longer feel any part of my body because of the strenuous pace I have been running at. I pass people who are there for a second then, like a magician vanished them, gone. When I cross the finish my legs give way and turn