My feet are glued to the starting line. My back arched, my arms held stiffly in front of me. I look to both sides and see a long line of people in my pose, like soldiers in form. We are stones, stuck in this position, motionless, but in a few seconds we will explode forward like speeding bullets, a cattle on charge after the same red flag. Before that happens, though, the trigger needs to be pulled.
The gunshot will be quick, loud and deafening. A strong, reverberating signal that commands us to run, to speed forward with all our might. Yet it does not happen immediately. We have to wait, here at the starting line, poised in these stiff positions; our hearts pound slowly and hard, like loud bass drums.
Waiting for the gunshot, the beginning of the race, can be more exhausting than the race itself. While I line up at the starting line, I am both ignorant and meticulous of my surroundings. I try to ignore all distractions and focus on preserving energy for the long journey ahead. Yet at